Hodson is quite a fine writer. He captures modern urban Japan--well, Japan of the early 1990's, when it was still at the peak of it's financial power. Yet I was reminded, of all things, by that Seinfeld line . . ."it's about nothing." Hodson describes a period of time where he was some kind of stock broker, dropped into an office in Tokyo by an order from the London office, viewed as an intruder, with little concrete responsibility. He meanders through his job, through visits and conversations with friends. There is absolutely no drama, almost no story beyond his almost aimless life in brief chapters, almost diary entries.. Just a man musing on his place as an outsider, claiming that the separation between Japanese and foreigners (really himself) can never be bridged. He captures the claustrophobic atmosphere of Tokyo, both physical and the people, to such a degree that I, who lived there a decade earlier, found myself tempted to tear the book up just to get free of my more unpleasant memories of that same environment.
Yet I really did not take to the book, because I did not take to the writer. He writes about kokoro (a Japanese word that can mean mind/spirit/heart all at once), but at this point in his life, he describes himself as a man without. There is one scene where he wakes before a lover and finds one of her long hairs in the drain and falls out of love with her because that hair somehow exemplifies how different they, a Japanese woman and an English man, must be. This is a man who sees the world as an assemblage of 'signifiers' - the meaning he takes from this sign, and many like it, makes him seem a man preoccupied solely with his internal world. The world he lives in is vague, and the meanings he derives from it seem almost arbitrary, imposed from a stance of ennui and distance.