Almost all the stories in this book have several things in common. They are written by Japanese women, deal with Japanese women, and are written in the first person by a Japanese narrator (except for the last one, which is of higher literary quality, although it makes extensive use of the free indirect style). According to the accounts in this volume, the society that the Japanese woman faces - each account shows a different stage of life - limits her social and expressive world in such a way that the only escape is through her own mental experiences. Therefore, the best way to express that inner female world is through inner monologues, whose differences from the dialogues used by her characters reach a paroxysm in stories like "My son's lips" or "Her room", where social formalities cause communicative schizophrenia in her characters, who end up falling into depression. "The unfertilized egg" uses "capitalized" allegories to describe the different states of mind of the protagonist, already in her thirties, distancing her from the reader and splitting her, as if she were different people, and making use of dream symbolism and philosophical reflections. It is my favorite. Although what all the stories really show is the female view of their place in Japanese society and the difficulties in being able to develop as people in it; also, the vital difficulties and the baseness to which they are subjected by men, who end up using them for sex or money, as seen in "Piss", the most explicitly sexual story of all, where a 20-year-old prostitute copes creatively with many of her perverse clients and a freeloading boyfriend. Just like in the novel "Grotesque" by Natsuo Kirino, the male characters stand out for their absence or have such a flat characterization that it is as if they did not exist, did not understand or did not want to understand women, who strive to try to understand themselves. A very recommendable book for its sociological value, although its literary quality is a bit debatable.
I mean, why do Tokyo taxi drivers just take it for granted that their fares will give them directions? It's quite a curious phenomenon. Maybe it's a cultural thing, or perhaps they assume that the passengers know the way better. But it does seem a bit odd.
Recently I saw Molly Ringwald in a movie. The young star of Pretty in Pink had transformed into a frumpy, middle-aged actress playing some desperate femme fatale. I was so excited that I cried out, 'Molly! How've you been? Look what we've come to, huh?' and right away put the movie on our order list. I could overhear my coworkers mumbling that I'm out of touch, old-fashioned, trying to restore my virginity, or whatever. But you know what? I really didn't care. Their opinions didn't matter to me. I was just happy to see Molly Ringwald on the screen again, no matter how she looked or what role she was playing.