Three clinically precise stories of scarcity, pride, and resentment rooted in the afterlife of empire.
Dunderhead is the book-length English-language debut of Tomoko Yoshida, age 92: a brutal, lucid triptych—of poverty, resentment, the body's last defences—written between 1967 and 1977.
A bored grocery store employee drowns a neighbor's kitten in sewage, nudging a pram downhill until it meets a telephone pole. A man visits his dying enemy—and only friend—in a final attempt at dominance. A poor, shame-ridden woman named “Crab” observes the violence surrounding her home.
Yoshida's work is rooted in the afterlife—and trauma—of empire. Her father, a military colonel, led her through six schools across mainland Japan and Manchuria, then to Sakhalin in 1945, where Soviet soldiers took him from their home, and he was never seen again. In the years that followed, still a teenager, she wrote to Yukio Mishima, asking to stage one of his plays. He agreed, and her career began. Years later, when she received the Akutagawa Prize, Mishima served on the jury. She would go on to found the literary magazine Gomu, alongside her husband, in 1963, and later Baru, a publication she started and edited into her late eighties. She still writes every day. A cult figure of the highest order, closely read by the generation of writers who came after her—Yoko Ogawa, Hiroko Oyamada, Hiromi Kawakami. Though often describing it, Yoshida’s writing hardly lingers on tragedy, attending instead to the landscapes that emerge in its wake. Beneath the starkness of her world, there is a deep empathy for the “dunderheads” who carry it.
A collection of down-BAD stories that make me think, 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘎𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘉𝘶𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘴𝘬𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? Terrible people, terrible circumstances, but there’s this brimming buzz throughout the lines that make this easy to digest, feels like digging into your sick uncle’s drawer of porn mags and seeing a naked lady for the first time, but the print and color is so good and your fascination so peaked that you can’t help but delve in, with precautioned curiosity.
Yoshida’s characters are not happy people; they are selfish, passive-aggressive, cowardly, and impotent. They exist as prisoners in a world without warmth, where the only motivations appear to be appearance’s sake and bitterness. It might be someone’s idea of a good time.
Fascinating short stories featuring a mix of outcasts and self-deprecating characters in one-of-a-kind situations. The narratives are heavily centered around everyday life, making you feel as if you are observing their consciousness at play. Somehow, their weirdness is completely lovable. Ms Kani and the whole crab thing was my favorite.
The translation is impeccable: funny, witty and sharp. Even the most daring stylistic choices (words, short sentences, insults) worked out perfectly, keeping the prose lyrical and universally human.
Three haunting short stories about societal outsiders, ‘misfits’, and their perspectives on the world around them, the people they meet, their inner turmoil. At turns macabre and humorous. Written (and artfully translated) with deep humanity and flowing prose. A real treasure in a tiny volume.
I bought this in the bookstore and wish there had been a content warning. All three stories contain violence, but the first contains violence against a kitten and a baby. It’s brutal and I found it genuinely traumatising. The stories are progressively more human-feeling but the first I think is only worthwhile if you enjoy those films of say Haneke or von Trier that are filled with motiveless, cruel, disturbing psychopathy. The writing is otherwise beautiful, but I regret reading it.
Bleak. These stories are damned bleak. Welcome to the hellscape of modern loneliness. I liked the first and the last stories well enough. They were tough and unpleasant, but they were good. The middle story, Dunderhead, was inscrutable. I had no idea what I read. I am glad to discover a new writer, just that her work presented was not for me.