A funny story attached to this book: on completion (in only two sessions, given 140 pages and large font), I read some online reviews and realised I had previously encountered this work as The Last Children of Tokyo, in November 2018. At the time, I had enjoyed and stated “I will revisit”. Revisiting it unintentionally this time, it was notably less memorable. I blame this effect partly on COVID — images of shattered cities and deserted airports are now sadly commonplace; ditto mystery diseases. What I liked (again) about Tawada were the dreamlike sequences, the merging of the quotidian and the surreal. This work is a product of a vivid imagination. On rereading I found the novel less about the great-grandfather-child relationship and more a general meditation on reclaiming (the past, language, things individually important to us all). Tawada’s conception was excellent, but I was left a little dissatisfied by the conclusion (and large leap in time that had occurred in the child’s life). 7/10 (last time, 8/10).
By Yoko Tawada