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แมวเก้าชีวิตกับร้านหนังสือโฮคุโตโด
สุภาษิตกล่าวว่าแมวมีเก้าชีวิต ใช้สามชีวิตเพื่อเล่นสนุก สามชีวิตเพื่อการพเนจร และสามชีวิตสุดท้ายเพื่ออยู่ร่วมกับมนุษย์ และนี่คือเรื่องราวของแมวดำที่กำลังใช้ชีวิตที่เก้าซึ่งเป็นชีวิตสุดท้าย
แม้จะเลือกใช้ชีวิตโดดเดี่ยวเพราะความทรงจำอันเจ็บปวดจากอดีตชาติ แต่วันหนึ่งแมวดำตัวนี้ได้หลงเข้าไปในร้านหนังสือเก่า "โฮคุโตโด" ที่เจ้าของร้านอ้างตัวว่าเป็น "แม่มด" และมีแมวอาศัยอยู่มากมาย อบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับเรื่องราวที่เชื่อมโยงระหว่างแมวของนักประพันธ์และเวทมนตร์แห่งการสร้างสรรค์วรรณกรรม
แม้จะเลือกใช้ชีวิตโดดเดี่ยวเพราะความทรงจำอันเจ็บปวดจากอดีตชาติ แต่วันหนึ่งแมวดำตัวนี้ได้หลงเข้าไปในร้านหนังสือเก่า "โฮคุโตโด" ที่เจ้าของร้านอ้างตัวว่าเป็น "แม่มด" และมีแมวอาศัยอยู่มากมาย อบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับเรื่องราวที่เชื่อมโยงระหว่างแมวของนักประพันธ์และเวทมนตร์แห่งการสร้างสรรค์วรรณกรรม
264 pages, Paperback
First published June 19, 2024
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
January 13, 2026
I must admit, the experience of reading this book is incredibly smooth—so smooth, in fact, that it borders on slick. Kentaro Utsugi is undoubtedly a skilled perfumer; he knows exactly how to balance the ratio of "regret" to "warmth," crafting this book into the perfect weekend read. However, it is precisely this impeccable "readability" that constitutes the work's greatest tragedy. It should have been a masterpiece regarding memory and samsara; instead, it willingly shrank itself into a piece of candy—exquisite, yet all too easily dissolved.
As a non-owner who can only exchange fleeting glances with cats on street corners, I am often awestruck by that feline gaze which seems to perceive everything. I expected this book, through its "nine lives of memory" setup, to allow me to peek into a loneliness that transcends the human scale of time. The author did indeed build the stage with increasing depth, and the initial setup was stunning—the lingering scent of a Showa-era used bookstore and the world seen through a cat's eyes, simultaneously familiar and strange, truly demonstrated a high degree of literary completion. But heartbreakingly, just when the story should have dived into deeper philosophical waters, the author chose to make an emergency ascent, retreating to the safest clichés of "a ghost story between human and cat."
The book's greatest sin lies in its squandering of "profundity." The premise that the cat, Kuro, holds fragmented memories of the beloved cats of past literary giants is an incredibly ambitious setting. Imagine: a cat carrying the perspective of Natsume Soseki or Dazai Osamu—how absurd and intriguing would modern society appear in its eyes? This should have been a sharp dissection of human civilization through a feline lens. Yet, the author took this razor-sharp scalpel and used it to carve a youthful bas-relief about "a girl reclaiming her dream of writing." Those grand historical memories and literary souls were ultimately reduced to mere tools used to advance the emotional progress of the male and female protagonists (or one human and one cat). This style of "using a sledgehammer to crack a nut" is not so much restraint as it is cowardice toward the subject matter.
This cowardice is equally reflected in the handling of emotion. The title hints at a Dostoevsky-esque heaviness, implying that possessing memory is, in itself, a form of punishment. But the author clearly cannot bear to let the reader (or perhaps himself) endure genuine pain. Every parting of ways is wrapped in a thick, soft-focus filter; every painful struggle is eventually patched up forcibly by the universal adhesive known as "love." It is like a tragedy that could have shaken the soul, only to be rewritten at the last minute into a Disney-style family reunion. For a reader like me, who views cats as unfathomable creatures, this treatment of "sanitizing" and "pet-ifying" the feline soul may bring momentary movement, but it leaves a hollow emptiness after closing the book.
I do not deny that this is a good-looking book. The author’s technique is mature, the pacing is precise, and even the tear-jerking bridges are designed perfectly, making one’s nose tingle while reading. But this is exactly why I am angry—it clearly possesses the skeleton to become a classic, yet it is content to be filled with cheap flesh. It is like a cat that has been declawed, leaving only soft paw pads; while adorable, it has lost the wildness and danger that make a predator so fascinating.
If this were merely a mediocre light novel, I could laugh it off. But the potential shown in this book makes it impossible not to feel pained by its self-imposed limitations. It could have explored the curse of the immortal, the limits of cross-species communication, and how memory reshapes the soul. But in the end, it chose a path paved with flowers, using the most exquisite prose to tell the safest of stories.
Having finished the book, I still love cats, and I will still stare blankly at stray cats by the roadside. But I regret that this book failed to make the cats in my eyes any more profound. It is a finely crafted artifact—beautiful, yes, but lacking the visceral vitality that stings the soul and keeps one awake at night. It is a "good book," but it stops there; and for a subject like this, merely being "good" is, in itself, a monumental pity.
As a non-owner who can only exchange fleeting glances with cats on street corners, I am often awestruck by that feline gaze which seems to perceive everything. I expected this book, through its "nine lives of memory" setup, to allow me to peek into a loneliness that transcends the human scale of time. The author did indeed build the stage with increasing depth, and the initial setup was stunning—the lingering scent of a Showa-era used bookstore and the world seen through a cat's eyes, simultaneously familiar and strange, truly demonstrated a high degree of literary completion. But heartbreakingly, just when the story should have dived into deeper philosophical waters, the author chose to make an emergency ascent, retreating to the safest clichés of "a ghost story between human and cat."
The book's greatest sin lies in its squandering of "profundity." The premise that the cat, Kuro, holds fragmented memories of the beloved cats of past literary giants is an incredibly ambitious setting. Imagine: a cat carrying the perspective of Natsume Soseki or Dazai Osamu—how absurd and intriguing would modern society appear in its eyes? This should have been a sharp dissection of human civilization through a feline lens. Yet, the author took this razor-sharp scalpel and used it to carve a youthful bas-relief about "a girl reclaiming her dream of writing." Those grand historical memories and literary souls were ultimately reduced to mere tools used to advance the emotional progress of the male and female protagonists (or one human and one cat). This style of "using a sledgehammer to crack a nut" is not so much restraint as it is cowardice toward the subject matter.
This cowardice is equally reflected in the handling of emotion. The title hints at a Dostoevsky-esque heaviness, implying that possessing memory is, in itself, a form of punishment. But the author clearly cannot bear to let the reader (or perhaps himself) endure genuine pain. Every parting of ways is wrapped in a thick, soft-focus filter; every painful struggle is eventually patched up forcibly by the universal adhesive known as "love." It is like a tragedy that could have shaken the soul, only to be rewritten at the last minute into a Disney-style family reunion. For a reader like me, who views cats as unfathomable creatures, this treatment of "sanitizing" and "pet-ifying" the feline soul may bring momentary movement, but it leaves a hollow emptiness after closing the book.
I do not deny that this is a good-looking book. The author’s technique is mature, the pacing is precise, and even the tear-jerking bridges are designed perfectly, making one’s nose tingle while reading. But this is exactly why I am angry—it clearly possesses the skeleton to become a classic, yet it is content to be filled with cheap flesh. It is like a cat that has been declawed, leaving only soft paw pads; while adorable, it has lost the wildness and danger that make a predator so fascinating.
If this were merely a mediocre light novel, I could laugh it off. But the potential shown in this book makes it impossible not to feel pained by its self-imposed limitations. It could have explored the curse of the immortal, the limits of cross-species communication, and how memory reshapes the soul. But in the end, it chose a path paved with flowers, using the most exquisite prose to tell the safest of stories.
Having finished the book, I still love cats, and I will still stare blankly at stray cats by the roadside. But I regret that this book failed to make the cats in my eyes any more profound. It is a finely crafted artifact—beautiful, yes, but lacking the visceral vitality that stings the soul and keeps one awake at night. It is a "good book," but it stops there; and for a subject like this, merely being "good" is, in itself, a monumental pity.
December 9, 2025
เรื่องราวของแมวดำที่ใช้มาแล้ว 8 ชีวิต ไม่เชื่อใจมนุษย์เพราะโดนหักหลังมาครั้งไม่ถ้วน ที่มาเจอกับร้านหนังสือประหลาดที่เจ้าของคุยกับแมวรู้เรื่อง
ไม่ได้ฟิลกู๊ด ออกแนวขมๆ ด้วยซ้ำ แต่เล่าเรื่องความเปลี่ยนแปลงอันแสบอบอุ่นได้ดี มีสะดุดบ้าง บางอย่างก็ไม่ต้องเปลี่ยนบ้าง ค่อยๆ ไป ช่วงแรกเฉยๆ แต่หลังๆ น้ำตาคลอเลย
ไม่ได้ฟิลกู๊ด ออกแนวขมๆ ด้วยซ้ำ แต่เล่าเรื่องความเปลี่ยนแปลงอันแสบอบอุ่นได้ดี มีสะดุดบ้าง บางอย่างก็ไม่ต้องเปลี่ยนบ้าง ค่อยๆ ไป ช่วงแรกเฉยๆ แต่หลังๆ น้ำตาคลอเลย
January 30, 2026
Story with an interesting perspective - how author’s cats interpret writing and the meaning of creative art.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews