Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto (1988)

Two stories of love, loss, and lament.

Book Review: Kitchen is a novella, paired here with a short story (or short novella), "Moonlight Shadow." The two stories are related in theme and have a warm, naive, engaging tone. Both stories are reminiscent of Murakami, with a heightened sense of drama and dream-like reality, though the similarity ended there. Kitchen was enjoyable, but seemed written by a young author for a young audience (Yoshimoto was 24 when this was published). The story veers easily into cliche, stereotype, and romanticized death; being an orphan is not romantic. An entire class of cooking students are portrayed as exactly the same person: "their smiling faces like flowers, learning to cook, absorbed in their little troubles and perplexities, they fall in love and marry." This writing is condescending, dismissive, painted with a broad brush, a young person squeezing the infinity of each class member's human experience into a single slot. Later the same character says, "My tone was angry, but my eyes betrayed tenderness." She may have felt tenderness, but unless she was staring into a mirror instead of at her friend, she has no idea how her eyes appeared. At another point washing dishes, she "cried and cried. Of course it wasn't having to wash all those dishes; I was crying for having been left behind in the night, paralyzed with loneliness." Paralyzed? Or crying and washing dishes? Another: "When you're traveling, every night the air is clear and crisp, the mind serene." Japan is still in the world: when you're traveling, every night is foggy, rainy, or snowing, the mind is exhausted and fretting about the next connection. Have you been on a Japanese train? One last example (of many): of course a transgender character not only is the most beautiful woman in the world (hello Murakami!), but must dramatically pay for her transgression. My point is not to bash a story I enjoyed, but simply to observe that this is an early effort for youthful readers. "Moonlight Shadow," on the other hand, exhibits all the touching maturity and insight of which Yoshimoto is capable, and was lacking in Kitchen. Here again she seems to stumble into cliche: "I loved Hitoshi more than life itself." But in the context of this story, I wondered just what may be meant by that soap opera line. Life isn't worth living without the loved one? She only felt alive when with him? That any sacrifice was worth being with him? Yoshimoto invests that well-worn line with more weight than it can normally carry. She investigates and relives the soul ripping sorrow of loss, letting the reader feel it also. That visceral, stomach-turning moment when waking and realizing that the loved one's loss is is still horribly real, and life comes crashing down: "Worse than that was the shock of awakening. I dreaded the deep gloom that would fall when I remembered he was gone ... so I tried not to wake up." Sleep is escape. Yoshimoto captures that feeling of new love, first love: "When we were in each other's arms, I knew something that was beyond words. It was the mystery of being close to someone who was not family." And she knows the weariness of grief, of wrenching thoughts that refuse release: "I was so tired that I couldn't bear to think about it. I was truly exhausted. But still ... more than anything, I wanted to evade those thoughts." Both stories are entertaining, but "Moonlight Shadow" is the more mature, fulfilled work, that shows the potential and promise every young writer dreams of achieving.  [3½★]