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Solo Dance
An important queer voice from East Asia’s millennial generation
Cho Norie, twenty-seven and originally from Taiwan, is working an office job in Tokyo. While her colleagues worry about the economy, life-insurance policies, marriage, and children, she is forced to keep her unconventional life hidden—including her sexuality and the violent attack that prompted her move to Japan. There is also her unusual fascination with death: she knows from personal experience how devastating death can be, but for her it is also creative fuel. Solo Dance depicts the painful coming of age of a gay person in Taiwan and corporate Japan. This striking debut is an intimate and powerful account of a search for hope after trauma.
Cho Norie, twenty-seven and originally from Taiwan, is working an office job in Tokyo. While her colleagues worry about the economy, life-insurance policies, marriage, and children, she is forced to keep her unconventional life hidden—including her sexuality and the violent attack that prompted her move to Japan. There is also her unusual fascination with death: she knows from personal experience how devastating death can be, but for her it is also creative fuel. Solo Dance depicts the painful coming of age of a gay person in Taiwan and corporate Japan. This striking debut is an intimate and powerful account of a search for hope after trauma.
256 pages, Paperback
First published March 29, 2017
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 309 reviews
July 31, 2025
I only noticed that this book is an LGBT love story when I started reading it.
I understand more about LGBT now.
A bit depressed when reading this book.
I understand more about LGBT now.
A bit depressed when reading this book.
January 28, 2022
In 2021, Li Kotomi’s most recent book won Japan’s prestigious Akutagawa Prize, and now her debut Solo Dance’s been made available in English. Born in Taiwan, Li lives in Japan and writes in Japanese, although her work straddles aspects of Japanese and Taiwanese culture, reflecting her fascination with both countries’ literary history. And Solo Dance’s filled with references to Japanese and Taiwanese fiction, in particular the work of Osamu Dazai and Qiu Maiojin. In many ways Solo Dance reads like a homage to Qiu Miaojin’s haunting, now-classic, depictions of her existence as a Taiwanese lesbian - although the intense feelings of estrangement documented by Li’s central character also conjure up Dazai’s solitary, isolated outsiders.
Li’s novel, although it’s closer in scale to a novella, isn’t strictly autobiographical but draws extensively on her personal experiences, and many features of her main character’s life history line up with Li’s own. Solo Dance’s told from the perspective of Zhao Yingmei who’s reinvented herself, leaving her home in Taiwan for Japan, and changing her name to Cho Norie. Now 27, Cho works in a prestigious, mainstream corporation based in Tokyo but despite her outwardly enviable lifestyle, she’s struggling to stay afloat. As her story unfolds Li gradually reveals fragments of Cho’s past in Taiwan, and the lingering impact of the brutal, homophobic attack that led to her flight.
Woven into Cho’s narrative are intriguing glimpses of the evolving gay and lesbian cultures of Taiwan and Japan, from local online forums to Taiwan’s Pride parades and Shinjuku’s legendary Ni-Chōme quarter. Its thriving clubs and bars an oasis in Japan’s "queer desert". Closeted at work, and at home in Taiwan, it’s only here, in the company of other lesbians, that Cho’s able to express herself but even so there’s some part of her that remains in the shadows. Like Qiu Miaojin, Li deals with painful territory, violence, trauma, loss and alienation, but she also holds out the possibility of community and reconciliation. Like so many first novels, this often seemed overly packed, and sometimes too compressed, there are even moments that come a little too close to the realm of melodrama. The final section’s slightly awkwardly structured and viewed from some angles the ending’s not entirely credible but from another it’s an interesting reworking of concepts of fate and connection drawn from traditional Taiwanese belief systems. This is by no means a perfect piece but at its strongest I found it incredibly moving, with passages of beautifully-composed prose, and flashes of powerful imagery. Arthur Reiji Morris’s translation’s fluid and convincing.
Thanks to Netgalley UK and publisher World Editions for an arc
Li’s novel, although it’s closer in scale to a novella, isn’t strictly autobiographical but draws extensively on her personal experiences, and many features of her main character’s life history line up with Li’s own. Solo Dance’s told from the perspective of Zhao Yingmei who’s reinvented herself, leaving her home in Taiwan for Japan, and changing her name to Cho Norie. Now 27, Cho works in a prestigious, mainstream corporation based in Tokyo but despite her outwardly enviable lifestyle, she’s struggling to stay afloat. As her story unfolds Li gradually reveals fragments of Cho’s past in Taiwan, and the lingering impact of the brutal, homophobic attack that led to her flight.
Woven into Cho’s narrative are intriguing glimpses of the evolving gay and lesbian cultures of Taiwan and Japan, from local online forums to Taiwan’s Pride parades and Shinjuku’s legendary Ni-Chōme quarter. Its thriving clubs and bars an oasis in Japan’s "queer desert". Closeted at work, and at home in Taiwan, it’s only here, in the company of other lesbians, that Cho’s able to express herself but even so there’s some part of her that remains in the shadows. Like Qiu Miaojin, Li deals with painful territory, violence, trauma, loss and alienation, but she also holds out the possibility of community and reconciliation. Like so many first novels, this often seemed overly packed, and sometimes too compressed, there are even moments that come a little too close to the realm of melodrama. The final section’s slightly awkwardly structured and viewed from some angles the ending’s not entirely credible but from another it’s an interesting reworking of concepts of fate and connection drawn from traditional Taiwanese belief systems. This is by no means a perfect piece but at its strongest I found it incredibly moving, with passages of beautifully-composed prose, and flashes of powerful imagery. Arthur Reiji Morris’s translation’s fluid and convincing.
Thanks to Netgalley UK and publisher World Editions for an arc
June 23, 2022
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2 ½ stars (rounded up)
Solo Dance follows a millennial woman from Taiwan working an office job in Tokyo who feels alienated from her colleagues and their daily conversations about marriage, the economy, and children. Chō, our protagonist, is a lesbian, something she keeps ‘hidden’ from her coworkers. While Chō does hang out with other queer women in lgbtq+ spaces, a traumatic experience causes her to be self-doubting, distrustful of others, and perpetually ashamed. When she opens up to a woman she’s sort of seeing, the latter brutally rejects her, not only blaming Chō for having been attacked but accusing her of having been deceitful (by not having spoken about this before). This leads Chō to spiral further into depression and suicidal ideation, her disconnection further exacerbated by an ‘accident’ that occurs at her workplace. Chō’s arc brought to mind that of Esther Greenwood in The Bell Jar, that is to say, things seem to just get worse and worse for her.
As we read of her experiences working and living in Japan as a gay woman, we are also given insight into her teenage years in Taiwan, her slow recognition of her sexuality, her first encounter(s) with women, and that devasting night that resulted in an irrevocable self-disintegration. Chō blames herself for her attack, and not only does she sabotages her relationship with her girlfriend but pushes away one of the few people actively trying to help her. Chō’s uneasy relationship with her sexuality and the physical and emotional violence she experiences over the course of the narrative make for an unrelentingly depressing read.
Throughout the course of her novel, the author links Chō's experiences to those of Qiu Miaojin and of her fictionalised counterpart, Lazi. Both tonally and thematically Solo Dance shares a lot of similarities with Miaojin’s Notes of a Crocodile: both works interrogate notions of normalcy and alterity by exploring the experiences of women whose sexuality does not conform to societal norms.
Whereas Miaojin’s writing has a more cynical and satirical edge to it, Solo Dance is mostly just depressing. Immeasurably depressing. I knew going into it that the novel would not be a happy read, but, dio mio, for such a short read this book sure is brimming with queer pain & suffering. Because of this, I’m afraid I found Solo Dance to be a very one-note read. Sure, the realities it explores are sadly realistic, but, the storytelling has this flat quality to it that made it hard for me to become immersed in what I was reading. I can’t pinpoint whether it is the author’s style or the translation at fault, but while reading this I felt not so much transported into the story as merely…well, as if I was ‘just’ reading a text that didn’t quite elicit any strong responses beyond finding r*pe, lesbophobia, and suicidal ideation upsetting to read of. The story never reeled me in, which is a pity as the topics it explores are ones close to my heart (i am a lesbian and grew up in a very catholic and not particularly lgbtq+ friendly country).
The dialogues were a mixture of clumsy and dry and some of Chō’s internal monologues struck me as trying too hard to mimic Lazi’s brand of nihilistic angst. Other times it just sounded off, stilted ("is the stigmatization of my sexuality the source of all my misfortune? This illogical question had plagued her for a long time", "her rational thoughts returned to life and began to talk to her")…this read like something that has not been translated very well.
The narrative also seemed to go way out of its way in order to make Chō suffer, and while I can sometimes buy into the type of story where one character experiences trauma after trauma (a little life), here I didn't. A lot of the interactions she has with others either struck me as unlikely or just plain unbelievable (from the words spoken by the woman who 'rejects' her to her encounter with another suicidal queer woman).
If you are interested in reading this book I still recommend you give it a shot (just bear in mind ‘tis dreary affair).
2 ½ stars (rounded up)
“There’s a limit to how much misogyny and heteronomrative bullshit a story can have.”
Solo Dance follows a millennial woman from Taiwan working an office job in Tokyo who feels alienated from her colleagues and their daily conversations about marriage, the economy, and children. Chō, our protagonist, is a lesbian, something she keeps ‘hidden’ from her coworkers. While Chō does hang out with other queer women in lgbtq+ spaces, a traumatic experience causes her to be self-doubting, distrustful of others, and perpetually ashamed. When she opens up to a woman she’s sort of seeing, the latter brutally rejects her, not only blaming Chō for having been attacked but accusing her of having been deceitful (by not having spoken about this before). This leads Chō to spiral further into depression and suicidal ideation, her disconnection further exacerbated by an ‘accident’ that occurs at her workplace. Chō’s arc brought to mind that of Esther Greenwood in The Bell Jar, that is to say, things seem to just get worse and worse for her.
As we read of her experiences working and living in Japan as a gay woman, we are also given insight into her teenage years in Taiwan, her slow recognition of her sexuality, her first encounter(s) with women, and that devasting night that resulted in an irrevocable self-disintegration. Chō blames herself for her attack, and not only does she sabotages her relationship with her girlfriend but pushes away one of the few people actively trying to help her. Chō’s uneasy relationship with her sexuality and the physical and emotional violence she experiences over the course of the narrative make for an unrelentingly depressing read.
Throughout the course of her novel, the author links Chō's experiences to those of Qiu Miaojin and of her fictionalised counterpart, Lazi. Both tonally and thematically Solo Dance shares a lot of similarities with Miaojin’s Notes of a Crocodile: both works interrogate notions of normalcy and alterity by exploring the experiences of women whose sexuality does not conform to societal norms.
Whereas Miaojin’s writing has a more cynical and satirical edge to it, Solo Dance is mostly just depressing. Immeasurably depressing. I knew going into it that the novel would not be a happy read, but, dio mio, for such a short read this book sure is brimming with queer pain & suffering. Because of this, I’m afraid I found Solo Dance to be a very one-note read. Sure, the realities it explores are sadly realistic, but, the storytelling has this flat quality to it that made it hard for me to become immersed in what I was reading. I can’t pinpoint whether it is the author’s style or the translation at fault, but while reading this I felt not so much transported into the story as merely…well, as if I was ‘just’ reading a text that didn’t quite elicit any strong responses beyond finding r*pe, lesbophobia, and suicidal ideation upsetting to read of. The story never reeled me in, which is a pity as the topics it explores are ones close to my heart (i am a lesbian and grew up in a very catholic and not particularly lgbtq+ friendly country).
The dialogues were a mixture of clumsy and dry and some of Chō’s internal monologues struck me as trying too hard to mimic Lazi’s brand of nihilistic angst. Other times it just sounded off, stilted ("is the stigmatization of my sexuality the source of all my misfortune? This illogical question had plagued her for a long time", "her rational thoughts returned to life and began to talk to her")…this read like something that has not been translated very well.
The narrative also seemed to go way out of its way in order to make Chō suffer, and while I can sometimes buy into the type of story where one character experiences trauma after trauma (a little life), here I didn't. A lot of the interactions she has with others either struck me as unlikely or just plain unbelievable (from the words spoken by the woman who 'rejects' her to her encounter with another suicidal queer woman).
If you are interested in reading this book I still recommend you give it a shot (just bear in mind ‘tis dreary affair).
June 20, 2022
I RECEIVED THIS DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.
My Review: Asian cultures don't, as a rule, deal well with modern QUILTBAG identities. The perception of queer folks isn't anything like as angry as the anti- crowd here in the West but it's close in emotional terms to our unenviable habit of emotional violence and rejection. Homophobia is something queer folks battle no matter where we are. Doesn't say great things about human beings, does it.
What Author Li does in Solo Dance is deeply personalize the costs of being out in the culture of Taiwan, which leads to violent assault, and in Japan's less physical homophobic world, where it's simply ignored. Slighted, denigrated, and rejected; but without ever saying the awful words "gay" or "lesbian". This ostracization is crueler even than physical beatings.
But that is what Chō Norie prefers to her native Taiwan's brutality. She came to Japan unable to speak Japanese, as a Taiwanese woman, with all the cultural frieght that carries. Her great-grandmother's generation was used as "comfort women" and her own is a kind of slighted immigrant worker-bee, needed but not valued in larger Japanese society...and that suits Chō down to the ground. Maybe, after all, if she *can't* speak the language, no one will demand she speak at all. Thus is denial and emotional cowardice perpetuated in Chō's new, self-selected life.
With the long-standing Japanese cultural celebration of suicide, the Ghost Forest and the Wind Phone joining the long-standing ritual suicide of seppuku; it seems utterly unsurprising, then, that Chō comes here to make a life while obsessing over, planning for, lovingly dwelling on, her own suicide to come, as well as the past. (It should be noted that Japanese society is being deliberately steered away from this cultural acceptance.)
Since that is the very first page of the story, I think it acceptable to quote it here; if this is in the least triggering for you and you've read this far into the review, it's a poor fit for you.
The main point of my discussing this book, though, is to say that it is a gorgeous work of prose, in a quiet and mannered way. It is an honest and bleak account of Otherness in a culture that greatly values comformity. It is a deep dive into a woman's blocked relationship with her body, with the pleasures of sex and intimacy, stemming from sexual violence. Chō runs away from Taiwan because she does not want to confront her rape in every living moment. Japan does not, to no one's surprise, encourage healing in its culture of silence around matters sexual. Her own fearfulness about her emotional state, then, is never in any way the focus of any positive intervention.
It is not a hopeful story of a survivor.
Chō Norie, as she has chosen to be known, is not Yingmei the child whose early life contains earthquakes (fascinating to read about how her family copes with those!) and the death of a classmate-cum-crush-object of Yingmei's which is met with emotional ceremonies and discussions that she is utterly unable to process or participate in. Chō is a woman born out of intent...a creation not the being created, an auto-Galatea. And as a result, Chō has few inner resources to meet the few concerned people she encounters in Japan, even fewer to meet the awful and brutal rejection of a character Chō is (somewhat bloodlessly) involved with.
What, then, is the source of my four-star rating? First, beautifully translated imagery-laden writing. I think Translator Arthur Reiji Morris did a beautiful job of putting flattering English clothes on this very Japanese body. Enough context is presented that I never felt lost or left out; I suspect those were crafted for the translation, and it was done with great facility. Second, the fact that Chō was a woman made up, and one composed of literary antecedents. There are many works of literature harkened back to and that always gets my upvote.
There's a last thing you should know before starting on this journey: The ending. It is, to be as succinct as I can be, fantastical. Whether real or fantasized or merely cooked up, it does not resolve the events of the book. It leaves room for you to do that and, in the context of a book of this kind of interiority (though not a récit, it comes close), that fel to me like a worthy choice. It was not satisfying, though, in that "...and that was a fascinating story! *closes cover*" way.
Like all unfinished business, it lingers.
My Review: Asian cultures don't, as a rule, deal well with modern QUILTBAG identities. The perception of queer folks isn't anything like as angry as the anti- crowd here in the West but it's close in emotional terms to our unenviable habit of emotional violence and rejection. Homophobia is something queer folks battle no matter where we are. Doesn't say great things about human beings, does it.
What Author Li does in Solo Dance is deeply personalize the costs of being out in the culture of Taiwan, which leads to violent assault, and in Japan's less physical homophobic world, where it's simply ignored. Slighted, denigrated, and rejected; but without ever saying the awful words "gay" or "lesbian". This ostracization is crueler even than physical beatings.
But that is what Chō Norie prefers to her native Taiwan's brutality. She came to Japan unable to speak Japanese, as a Taiwanese woman, with all the cultural frieght that carries. Her great-grandmother's generation was used as "comfort women" and her own is a kind of slighted immigrant worker-bee, needed but not valued in larger Japanese society...and that suits Chō down to the ground. Maybe, after all, if she *can't* speak the language, no one will demand she speak at all. Thus is denial and emotional cowardice perpetuated in Chō's new, self-selected life.
With the long-standing Japanese cultural celebration of suicide, the Ghost Forest and the Wind Phone joining the long-standing ritual suicide of seppuku; it seems utterly unsurprising, then, that Chō comes here to make a life while obsessing over, planning for, lovingly dwelling on, her own suicide to come, as well as the past. (It should be noted that Japanese society is being deliberately steered away from this cultural acceptance.)
She didn’t have a strong inclination towards death, but she had no attachment to living either. While she still had breath in her lungs, she would do her best in life, yet should it ever reach that point where it was no longer bearable, she would choose death without hesitation.
Since that is the very first page of the story, I think it acceptable to quote it here; if this is in the least triggering for you and you've read this far into the review, it's a poor fit for you.
The main point of my discussing this book, though, is to say that it is a gorgeous work of prose, in a quiet and mannered way. It is an honest and bleak account of Otherness in a culture that greatly values comformity. It is a deep dive into a woman's blocked relationship with her body, with the pleasures of sex and intimacy, stemming from sexual violence. Chō runs away from Taiwan because she does not want to confront her rape in every living moment. Japan does not, to no one's surprise, encourage healing in its culture of silence around matters sexual. Her own fearfulness about her emotional state, then, is never in any way the focus of any positive intervention.
It is not a hopeful story of a survivor.
She was twenty-seven and this real-world conversation shouldn’t feel so remote, but she couldn’t force herself to get interested. There was an insurmountable wall that prevented her from fully engaging with it. All this talk of a decade from now, two decades from now, seemed like the distant future—hundreds if not thousands of years away. A world in which her existence wouldn’t make any difference. That was the true representation of her feelings.
Chō Norie, as she has chosen to be known, is not Yingmei the child whose early life contains earthquakes (fascinating to read about how her family copes with those!) and the death of a classmate-cum-crush-object of Yingmei's which is met with emotional ceremonies and discussions that she is utterly unable to process or participate in. Chō is a woman born out of intent...a creation not the being created, an auto-Galatea. And as a result, Chō has few inner resources to meet the few concerned people she encounters in Japan, even fewer to meet the awful and brutal rejection of a character Chō is (somewhat bloodlessly) involved with.
What, then, is the source of my four-star rating? First, beautifully translated imagery-laden writing. I think Translator Arthur Reiji Morris did a beautiful job of putting flattering English clothes on this very Japanese body. Enough context is presented that I never felt lost or left out; I suspect those were crafted for the translation, and it was done with great facility. Second, the fact that Chō was a woman made up, and one composed of literary antecedents. There are many works of literature harkened back to and that always gets my upvote.
There's a last thing you should know before starting on this journey: The ending. It is, to be as succinct as I can be, fantastical. Whether real or fantasized or merely cooked up, it does not resolve the events of the book. It leaves room for you to do that and, in the context of a book of this kind of interiority (though not a récit, it comes close), that fel to me like a worthy choice. It was not satisfying, though, in that "...and that was a fascinating story! *closes cover*" way.
Like all unfinished business, it lingers.
August 26, 2025
Przeogromnie smutna książka o queerowej samotności, dyskryminacji i odrzuceniu, a także o niszczącym doświadczeniu przemocy. Być może przez moje skrajnie różne doświadczenia nie mogłem w pełni utożsamić się z bohaterką, ale jej cierpienie było niepodważalnie przejmujące. 3,5
December 15, 2025
przepięknie o bólu i ciemności, płaczę
June 18, 2022
Many schools in the countryside were keen to raise their standing and the only way to do so was to produce students with good grades who could go on to study at highly renowned senior high schools.
The above sentence is representative of the sentences in Solo Dance. I had a lot of interest in the story, and a great deal of sympathy for the protagonist, but the writing is very dull, possibly because, in a way, it is a double-filtered translation, where Kotomi is writing in her second language, and then I'm reading her via an English translation of that second-language story. Maybe the original prose was pleasingly plainspoken, but, t0 my ear, the English version sounds kerklunked.
It's one of those books I would have tolerated better if it were nonfiction.
The above sentence is representative of the sentences in Solo Dance. I had a lot of interest in the story, and a great deal of sympathy for the protagonist, but the writing is very dull, possibly because, in a way, it is a double-filtered translation, where Kotomi is writing in her second language, and then I'm reading her via an English translation of that second-language story. Maybe the original prose was pleasingly plainspoken, but, t0 my ear, the English version sounds kerklunked.
It's one of those books I would have tolerated better if it were nonfiction.
May 20, 2022
3.5 rounded to 4.
The narrator, even though we learn her name, is mostly referred to simply as she. Born in Taiwan, but after a shocking event, to escape her past, she moves to Japan. But like in Taiwan, she can’t accept herself and be open about being a lesbian.
Solo Dance is quite a dark and depressing novel that includes I needed quite some time to get into the story. At first, I couldn't feel for the narrator. But after a while, I found this novel, as a whole, to be very good. It is full of literary references to Japanese and Taiwanese authors that are mostly unknown to me, and I will check them out.
Thanks to World Editions for the ARC and this opportunity! This is a voluntary review and all opinions are my own.
The narrator, even though we learn her name, is mostly referred to simply as she. Born in Taiwan, but after a shocking event, to escape her past, she moves to Japan. But like in Taiwan, she can’t accept herself and be open about being a lesbian.
Solo Dance is quite a dark and depressing novel that includes I needed quite some time to get into the story. At first, I couldn't feel for the narrator. But after a while, I found this novel, as a whole, to be very good. It is full of literary references to Japanese and Taiwanese authors that are mostly unknown to me, and I will check them out.
This was her solo dance. And now that the dance had begun, she had to see it through to the end.
Thanks to World Editions for the ARC and this opportunity! This is a voluntary review and all opinions are my own.
April 24, 2025
Taka krótka książka, a czytałam prawie 5 dni, bo za dużo emocji i bałam się zakończenia ❤️🩹
April 15, 2025
Trudny temat, przytłaczająca i bolesna fabuła. I piękna, nawet w tym bólu. Bardzo mi się podoba styl autorki i wspaniała robota tłumaczki. To jeden z ciekawszych Tajfunów i warto zwrócić na niego uwagę.
Może końcówka jest trochę naciągana, ale moim zdaniem właśnie takie zakończenie było potrzebne. Wyciągające dłoń, dające nadzieję, przekierowujące myśli na inne tory, jeśli książkę czytałaby osoba, której relacja głównej bohaterki jest bliska i sama nie widzi dla siebie nadziei.
Może końcówka jest trochę naciągana, ale moim zdaniem właśnie takie zakończenie było potrzebne. Wyciągające dłoń, dające nadzieję, przekierowujące myśli na inne tory, jeśli książkę czytałaby osoba, której relacja głównej bohaterki jest bliska i sama nie widzi dla siebie nadziei.
September 21, 2022
Somewhere between 4 - 4.5
June 18, 2022
独り舞 was originally published in 2018 in Japanese by Li Kotomi with the English translation by Arthur Reiji Morris released in May 2022. Li Kotomi won the prestigious literary Akutagawa Prize in 2021. She is also known for having challenged Haruki Murakami in his writing of female characters in an interview https://lithub.com/a-feminist-critiqu...
The cover art of Solo Dance shows what appears to be a skewered bird and we learn in the text that it's a thorn bird that seeks the sharpest thorn to impale itself on, singing the most beautiful song before it dies. The female protagonist Chō Norie/Zhao Yingmei thinks constantly of death, starting from primary school in Taiwan when a classmate of hers that she had a crush on passes away in an accident. Nobody realizes the cause of her emotional distress, attributing it to trauma from the major earthquake in September 21, 1999. Yingmei, whose name means greets plum blossoms, is a solitary person who takes refuge in literature, particularly in the works of Qiu Miaojin, Sanmao (pen name for Chen Maoping), Osamu Dazai, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Yukio Mishima. These authors, in addition to writing transcendatory works, all committed suicide. She meets Haoxue, they trade bantery literary lines from Eileen Chang's Love and Qiu Miaojin's Last Words From Montmartre. A connection and relationship forms, with plans to attend National Taiwan University together.
While reading Solo Dance, it made me reflect what kind of literature and supports are available to a young queer person growing up in Taiwan. Yingmei is guided and influenced by Qiu Miaojin's Notes On a Crocodile and the aforementioned Last Words from Montmartre. She notes the resilience and fighting spirit that Qiu Miaojin exhibited. As such, it made me anxious about the decisions and fate of Norie/Yingmei because this book may be a source of hope or despair to other young queer youth. I can understand why Norie felt trapped with no other options, why she may choose to isolate herself when it felt like everyone was gossiping/pitying her. Every time she takes the effort to make a fresh start, her past catches up and she's faced with society's intolerant gaze. Reading this book requires a fortification of spirit because blaming the victim is all too common.
On the literary plane, Solo Dance was satisfying in that Li Kotomi is well versed in Taiwanese, Japanese and Chinese literature. She integrates it well into the story of a young lesbian woman trying to find her way through writing.
Please do note the content warnings, Solo Dance contains a disturbing scene of sexual assault motivated by lesbophobia.
Content Warnings: Lesbophobia, Mental illness, Rape, Suicidal ideation, Suicide, Sexual assault, Suicide attempt, stalking
The cover art of Solo Dance shows what appears to be a skewered bird and we learn in the text that it's a thorn bird that seeks the sharpest thorn to impale itself on, singing the most beautiful song before it dies. The female protagonist Chō Norie/Zhao Yingmei thinks constantly of death, starting from primary school in Taiwan when a classmate of hers that she had a crush on passes away in an accident. Nobody realizes the cause of her emotional distress, attributing it to trauma from the major earthquake in September 21, 1999. Yingmei, whose name means greets plum blossoms, is a solitary person who takes refuge in literature, particularly in the works of Qiu Miaojin, Sanmao (pen name for Chen Maoping), Osamu Dazai, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Yukio Mishima. These authors, in addition to writing transcendatory works, all committed suicide. She meets Haoxue, they trade bantery literary lines from Eileen Chang's Love and Qiu Miaojin's Last Words From Montmartre. A connection and relationship forms, with plans to attend National Taiwan University together.
While reading Solo Dance, it made me reflect what kind of literature and supports are available to a young queer person growing up in Taiwan. Yingmei is guided and influenced by Qiu Miaojin's Notes On a Crocodile and the aforementioned Last Words from Montmartre. She notes the resilience and fighting spirit that Qiu Miaojin exhibited. As such, it made me anxious about the decisions and fate of Norie/Yingmei because this book may be a source of hope or despair to other young queer youth. I can understand why Norie felt trapped with no other options, why she may choose to isolate herself when it felt like everyone was gossiping/pitying her. Every time she takes the effort to make a fresh start, her past catches up and she's faced with society's intolerant gaze. Reading this book requires a fortification of spirit because blaming the victim is all too common.
On the literary plane, Solo Dance was satisfying in that Li Kotomi is well versed in Taiwanese, Japanese and Chinese literature. She integrates it well into the story of a young lesbian woman trying to find her way through writing.
Please do note the content warnings, Solo Dance contains a disturbing scene of sexual assault motivated by lesbophobia.
Content Warnings: Lesbophobia, Mental illness, Rape, Suicidal ideation, Suicide, Sexual assault, Suicide attempt, stalking
November 19, 2022
solo dance - li kotomi
i’ve said it before. i’ll say it again. and i’ll keep on saying it.
god i love queer and translated literature.
a book by a japanese-taiwanese author?
two spaces in translated literature that has given me so much favorites?
i was sold immediately.
solo dance was a book i had low expectations coming into,
with the few reviews i’ve seen and friends who’ve read.
and i can see why — it’s not a perfect book, and i gave it 4 stars.
but the catharsis this book brought me was something else.
told from the perspective of a self-rejecting queer woman in taiwan,
solo dance is a book that is surrounded by an air of depression and death.
okay not the most motivating opener — but stay with me here.
li kotomi juggles two main themes effectively (imo) in the writing of this novel:
the struggle of being queer in an asian country, and
the lasting effects of trauma and long-term recovery.
both of these instrumental to the air of sadness that permeates the book.
and as a cheat code — li kotomi referenced so many of my favorite asian (queer and non-queer) authors throughout the duration of her novel.
qiu miaojin and the nature of her life, murakami and his impact in japanese literature, and yu hua and mishima in passing.
li kotomi seemed to know the way to my heart lmao
to close, i loved this book — my problems with it and all.
namely two things: the need to suspend disbelief in parts, and the too clean-cut ending.
(do i secretly prefer open-ended endings where not everything has closure? i partly blame murakami jk)
i’ve said it before. i’ll say it again. and i’ll keep on saying it.
god i love queer and translated literature.
a book by a japanese-taiwanese author?
two spaces in translated literature that has given me so much favorites?
i was sold immediately.
solo dance was a book i had low expectations coming into,
with the few reviews i’ve seen and friends who’ve read.
and i can see why — it’s not a perfect book, and i gave it 4 stars.
but the catharsis this book brought me was something else.
told from the perspective of a self-rejecting queer woman in taiwan,
solo dance is a book that is surrounded by an air of depression and death.
okay not the most motivating opener — but stay with me here.
li kotomi juggles two main themes effectively (imo) in the writing of this novel:
the struggle of being queer in an asian country, and
the lasting effects of trauma and long-term recovery.
both of these instrumental to the air of sadness that permeates the book.
and as a cheat code — li kotomi referenced so many of my favorite asian (queer and non-queer) authors throughout the duration of her novel.
qiu miaojin and the nature of her life, murakami and his impact in japanese literature, and yu hua and mishima in passing.
li kotomi seemed to know the way to my heart lmao
to close, i loved this book — my problems with it and all.
namely two things: the need to suspend disbelief in parts, and the too clean-cut ending.
(do i secretly prefer open-ended endings where not everything has closure? i partly blame murakami jk)
July 8, 2023
A depressed Taiwanese sad girl lesbian who is obsessed with Japanese literature and Qiu Miaojin? While the narrative style of the novel itself is imperfect, it's embarrassing how much this book feels like it was catered exactly to me. Li Kotomi are you free on Thursday please let me know if you are free on Thursday I am free
September 1, 2022
Millennial, twenty-seven, Noire in one of the most dynamic cities in the world, broods over both her present and past life and how they turned ugly and grim. Within a society studded by oppression and bigotry, she lives with one foot in heaven and the other in hell, fearing to fledge and make her surroundings see her true colors, her true sexuality. Quandries keep on rolling down her way as she goes from one place to another while romanticizing her suicide.
Poignant and so human.
Poignant and so human.
August 18, 2024
A quick but not easy read. Solo Dance is about the traumatic life of a queer Chinese-Japanese woman, Cho Norie/Zhao Yingmei. Born in Taiwan, she knew since a young age that she was different. Her first crush died in the 1999 earthquake and with no way to acknowledge it or talk about it, she becomes obsessed with death. She studies literature in a Taiwanese university and a series of events happens that causes her to escape Taiwan to start afresh in Japan. But soon, her past catches up with her. The novella starts with the present and fills us in on her past via flashbacks.
Arthur Reiji Morris' translation is fluid and lyrical, and I've highlighted quite a few passages. This story deals with very heavy topics like sexual assault motivated by lesbophobia, suicide, depression, and PTSD.
Cho's life is marked by loneliness and pain. She's othered and silenced by her sexuality and ostracized by victim blaming. It's notable that she's barely even named in her own story. The depths of her suffering, alienation, and pain remind me of some of the queer people I know who struggle deeply with mental illness & trauma. It's painful to see how she has few caring relationships and even lesser positive experiences of life. I wished I could protect her. And, as Joy's review points out, young queer Asians have limited literary narratives they can draw strength from; I was very anxious that the narrative would end with her taking her life, similar to the many tragic queer authors she admires, but thankfully there is a somewhat awkwardly written plot twist (that almost reads like a dream).
Special note on the title and cover - the cover shows a skewered bird and references the thorn bird, an image that appears multiple times in the story, and the title refers to the lonely dance that Cho is forced to live.
Arthur Reiji Morris' translation is fluid and lyrical, and I've highlighted quite a few passages. This story deals with very heavy topics like sexual assault motivated by lesbophobia, suicide, depression, and PTSD.
Cho's life is marked by loneliness and pain. She's othered and silenced by her sexuality and ostracized by victim blaming. It's notable that she's barely even named in her own story. The depths of her suffering, alienation, and pain remind me of some of the queer people I know who struggle deeply with mental illness & trauma. It's painful to see how she has few caring relationships and even lesser positive experiences of life. I wished I could protect her. And, as Joy's review points out, young queer Asians have limited literary narratives they can draw strength from; I was very anxious that the narrative would end with her taking her life, similar to the many tragic queer authors she admires, but thankfully there is a somewhat awkwardly written plot twist (that almost reads like a dream).
Special note on the title and cover - the cover shows a skewered bird and references the thorn bird, an image that appears multiple times in the story, and the title refers to the lonely dance that Cho is forced to live.
January 27, 2023
So I had to sleep on this to reflect exactly what I experienced while reading Solo Dance. I finished it last night and had to text my mum "hi you up?" and then proceeded to call her to rant about it for a good half an hour.
Solo Dance is an incredibly painful book, I have to mention it right off the bat. It deals with homophobia, r*pe, bullying, forced outing of a gay character, depression, and suicidal ideation. It is a heavy read.
But my god it is good.
We follow a 27-year old Taiwanese office worker now living in Tokyo, who originally left Taiwan because of incredibly traumatic experiences. She's a lesbian, and hiding it. In flashbacks, we learn of her past, while in the present we see her struggling with said past and with her sexuality. She's also been always curiously obsessed with death, and ponders upon ending her life. While dealing with the heavy stuff, she loves - loves books. Literature is important in this title, and I got curious about the authors and titles mentioned. There is so much love for those authors within this book.
I saw some reviews criticising the style - that it's not smooth, that it feels clumsy. I understand that, but once again, I argue that it is a distinct tone of Japanese literature; I simply feel many Japanese books have a similar flow of the text, and personally, it does not bother me in the least.
There were some aspects from which you could see that this is a debut - maybe some encounters were too fantastic to be fully believable, maybe sometimes the narration was a bit jumpy. At the same time, I'm amazed at the fact that this is a debut.
I enjoyed a great deal about the descriptions of queer life in Taiwan and Japan, two societies I know to be conservative when it comes to this. Solo Dance is a title that showed there is happiness too, that the queer community exists and cna be supportive even in states with oppression.
However, what most shocked and thrilled and rattled me when reading was the story. It is a bleak one, nearly hopeless - and unfortunately relatable. So much that when calling my mum I said "it's almost what my life could've been like, if I'd grown up in Taiwan or Japan." Some of the experiences Cho had were similar to mine, and some of them were my worst fears coming alive on the page, and having to read about them was, well, awful. Reading this gave me intense physical reactions in addition to the thoughts spinning around. And honestly, I was a little bit scared, too - how is it possible an author whom I've never met, who comes form the other side of the world, can this accurately voice my thoughts?
A great, intense, ravaging read.
Solo Dance is an incredibly painful book, I have to mention it right off the bat. It deals with homophobia, r*pe, bullying, forced outing of a gay character, depression, and suicidal ideation. It is a heavy read.
But my god it is good.
We follow a 27-year old Taiwanese office worker now living in Tokyo, who originally left Taiwan because of incredibly traumatic experiences. She's a lesbian, and hiding it. In flashbacks, we learn of her past, while in the present we see her struggling with said past and with her sexuality. She's also been always curiously obsessed with death, and ponders upon ending her life. While dealing with the heavy stuff, she loves - loves books. Literature is important in this title, and I got curious about the authors and titles mentioned. There is so much love for those authors within this book.
I saw some reviews criticising the style - that it's not smooth, that it feels clumsy. I understand that, but once again, I argue that it is a distinct tone of Japanese literature; I simply feel many Japanese books have a similar flow of the text, and personally, it does not bother me in the least.
There were some aspects from which you could see that this is a debut - maybe some encounters were too fantastic to be fully believable, maybe sometimes the narration was a bit jumpy. At the same time, I'm amazed at the fact that this is a debut.
I enjoyed a great deal about the descriptions of queer life in Taiwan and Japan, two societies I know to be conservative when it comes to this. Solo Dance is a title that showed there is happiness too, that the queer community exists and cna be supportive even in states with oppression.
However, what most shocked and thrilled and rattled me when reading was the story. It is a bleak one, nearly hopeless - and unfortunately relatable. So much that when calling my mum I said "it's almost what my life could've been like, if I'd grown up in Taiwan or Japan." Some of the experiences Cho had were similar to mine, and some of them were my worst fears coming alive on the page, and having to read about them was, well, awful. Reading this gave me intense physical reactions in addition to the thoughts spinning around. And honestly, I was a little bit scared, too - how is it possible an author whom I've never met, who comes form the other side of the world, can this accurately voice my thoughts?
A great, intense, ravaging read.
August 25, 2022
A book that is full of topics that interest me: immigrant issues, lgbt themes, mental illnesses, literature and its impact on a reader’s life… The main character is a lesbian from Taiwan moving to Japan and trying to create a new life for herself there. Struggling with severe depression and the shadow of death that accompanies her during most of her life, she tries to create a place for herself, yearning to write, reading and falling in love.
Sounds good? Sounds more than good but the novel was all over the place, touching so many important topics and, in my opinion, not developing anything fully. It’s too short to do justice to everything it tries to show, the main character’s life is a path of every misfortune you can think of and while sometimes the coincidences are beautiful , some just make you sigh because it was too much. The language did not help, it was too simplistic (I wonder if this could be the translation’s fault?), the narrator was explaining too much of the character’s feelings and emotions, although they were there, clearly shown and sometimes really nicely depicted. Still, there were a few really beautiful lines that went straight to my heart, especially about writing.
I hoped for much more. I would never say it was a waste of times as it gave me a peek into a Taiwanese woman’s world but other than that, I’d like it to be deeper and if there would be less coincidence maybe…
I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
Sounds good? Sounds more than good but the novel was all over the place, touching so many important topics and, in my opinion, not developing anything fully. It’s too short to do justice to everything it tries to show, the main character’s life is a path of every misfortune you can think of and while sometimes the coincidences are beautiful , some just make you sigh because it was too much. The language did not help, it was too simplistic (I wonder if this could be the translation’s fault?), the narrator was explaining too much of the character’s feelings and emotions, although they were there, clearly shown and sometimes really nicely depicted. Still, there were a few really beautiful lines that went straight to my heart, especially about writing.
I hoped for much more. I would never say it was a waste of times as it gave me a peek into a Taiwanese woman’s world but other than that, I’d like it to be deeper and if there would be less coincidence maybe…
I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
September 9, 2025
Starożytni Rzymianie mawiali, że amor omnia vincit i tę maksymę lubimy przytaczać, żywiąc się płynącą z niej ułudą, jakoby sama istota miłości była zdolna do rozwiązania wszystkich przeszkód napotykających na swojej drodze. Jednakowoż dla tych, którzy wyłamują się z normatywnego jej fantazmatu, tj. osób funkcjonujących na marginesie i tak już niestabilnej tkanki współczesnego społeczeństwa, miłość nie zawsze zwycięża. Wręcz przeciwnie, jest zdana na ciągłe porażki z przeciwnościami losu i może kosztować wolność, a nawet życie. Główna bohaterka tej powieści pochodzi z Tajwanu, który w 2019 roku stał się pierwszym krajem azjatyckim sankcjonującym pod względem prawnym związki osób tej samej płci. Mimo to Samotny taniec daleki jest od koloryzowania rzeczywistości, nie tylko tej tajwańskiej, ale również japońskiej. Kraj kwitnącej wiśni staje się drugą ojczyzną powieściowej protagonistki, w której osoby LGBTQ+ żyją z podwójną tożsamością: tą oficjalną, na potrzeby życia zawodowego i oczekiwań społecznych, głównie ze strony członków rodziny i tą nieoficjalną, ograniczoną do ram enklaw tęczowych barów i dyskotek, gdzie zazwyczaj funkcjonuje się pod zmyśloną ksywą z branżowych internetowych portali.
Mimo swoich skromnych rozmiarów Samotny taniec jest powieścią wielowątkową, choć pierwsze skrzypce grają w niej zagadnienia tożsamościowe. Główna bohaterka próbuje zadomowić się w Japonii, przyjmując szereg nowych tożsamości. Yingmei Zhao staje się zjaponizowaną Norie Chō. Ma osobne nazwy użytkowników na portalach randkowych LGBT, oparte zarówno na jej chińskim, jak i japońskim imieniu. Dźwiga ze sobą ciężar wielu tożsamości, a jednak zawsze pozostaje dziewczyną złaknioną bliskości, której wrażliwość tańczy na kartach powieści. Mimo wielu imion i przywdziewania niejednej maski wciąż pozostaje tą samą osobą, niezależnie od jej zmagań: z nową ojczyzną, przybranym językiem czy z demonami przeszłości. Płynne przełożenie tego aspektu na język polski, język tak bardzo zależny od zaimków, było zapewne nie lada wyzwaniem dla autorki przekładu, Anny Wołcyrz.
Kampanie na rzecz praw obywatelskich to długi proces. Minęło ponad sto lat między Proklamacją Emancypacji, która położyła kres niewolnictwu w Stanach Zjednoczonych, a Ustawą o Prawach Obywatelskich, która położyła kres segregacji rasowej. W Wielkiej Brytanii ponad pół wieku dzieliło przyznaniu kobietom praw wyborczych a uchwaleniem prawodawstwa zrównującego płace kobiet i mężczyzn. Mimo swoich rozmiarów i różnorodności Azja pozostaje daleko w tyle za światem anglojęzycznym, jeśli chodzi o prawa par jednopłciowych do zawarcia małżeństwa. Japonia – najbardziej rozwinięty kraj Azji – jest opisana w powieści jako „queerowa pustynia” i pod tym względem Samotny taniec idzie pod prąd myśleniu, jakoby rozwój i postęp technologiczny szedł w parze z wrażliwością na kwestie społeczne i zagadnienia praw człowieka. Emblematyczna dla tej powieści pozostaje osoba Qiu Miaojin, której najbardziej znane dzieło, Zapiski krokodyla stało się kamieniem milowym dla tajwańskich lesbijek. Samobójstwo Miaojin w wieku zaledwie 26 lat wzmacnia trwającą całe życie obsesję Norie na punkcie śmierci, a jednocześnie dla książkowej akcji stanowi barometr społecznej tolerancji, którego wskazanie nie napawa optymizmem. Tak jak w połowie lat 90. ubiegłego stulecia nie było przestrzeni dla swobodnego życia przez Qiu Miaojin, tak na początku XXI wieku wciąż jej brak dla powieściowej Norie, która przymusowy outing w miejscu zatrudnienia „zawdzięcza” nie komu innemu, jak dziewczynie znajdującej się po tej samej stronie tęczy…
Mimo swej spornej nośności i bezkompromisowości w mierzeniu się z niełatwymi zagadnieniami, w dwóch momentach odczułem niemały zgrzyt. Pierwszym jest odrzucenie głównej bohaterki przez jej drugą dziewczynę, pierwszą „dojrzałą” miłość. Niezwykle ostra jej reakcja nie tylko nie pasowała do kontekstu sytuacyjnego, ale mam wrażenie, że została celowo obliczona na wywarcie czytelniczego dyskomfortu w chwili, w której cała energia skoncentrowana została na współczuciu dla protagonistki. Z psychologicznego punktu widzenia ta scena nie wypadła w moich oczach wiarygodnie, choć zarazem liczę się z tym, że główną przyczyną mojego zgrzytu jest - być może - odmienna emocjonalność od emocjonalności powieściowych bohaterek i ekstrapolacja moich uczuć połączona z wewnętrznym oporem, nie przyjmującym niezgody na to, że tok wydarzeń fabularnych nie jest zgodny z moją ich projekcją. Drugi zgrzyt związany jest z bajkowym zakończeniem powieści. Trudno mi było uwierzyć w taki zaskakujący splot okoliczności i choć wiem, po co ono było autorce, to mimo tej wiedzy i tak zgrzytałem i zgrzytać pewnie będę. Podsumowując powiedziałbym, że Samotny taniec to ciekawy i miejscami naprawdę niebanalny Tajfun. Z pewnością sięgnę po Qiu Miaojin.
Mimo swoich skromnych rozmiarów Samotny taniec jest powieścią wielowątkową, choć pierwsze skrzypce grają w niej zagadnienia tożsamościowe. Główna bohaterka próbuje zadomowić się w Japonii, przyjmując szereg nowych tożsamości. Yingmei Zhao staje się zjaponizowaną Norie Chō. Ma osobne nazwy użytkowników na portalach randkowych LGBT, oparte zarówno na jej chińskim, jak i japońskim imieniu. Dźwiga ze sobą ciężar wielu tożsamości, a jednak zawsze pozostaje dziewczyną złaknioną bliskości, której wrażliwość tańczy na kartach powieści. Mimo wielu imion i przywdziewania niejednej maski wciąż pozostaje tą samą osobą, niezależnie od jej zmagań: z nową ojczyzną, przybranym językiem czy z demonami przeszłości. Płynne przełożenie tego aspektu na język polski, język tak bardzo zależny od zaimków, było zapewne nie lada wyzwaniem dla autorki przekładu, Anny Wołcyrz.
Kampanie na rzecz praw obywatelskich to długi proces. Minęło ponad sto lat między Proklamacją Emancypacji, która położyła kres niewolnictwu w Stanach Zjednoczonych, a Ustawą o Prawach Obywatelskich, która położyła kres segregacji rasowej. W Wielkiej Brytanii ponad pół wieku dzieliło przyznaniu kobietom praw wyborczych a uchwaleniem prawodawstwa zrównującego płace kobiet i mężczyzn. Mimo swoich rozmiarów i różnorodności Azja pozostaje daleko w tyle za światem anglojęzycznym, jeśli chodzi o prawa par jednopłciowych do zawarcia małżeństwa. Japonia – najbardziej rozwinięty kraj Azji – jest opisana w powieści jako „queerowa pustynia” i pod tym względem Samotny taniec idzie pod prąd myśleniu, jakoby rozwój i postęp technologiczny szedł w parze z wrażliwością na kwestie społeczne i zagadnienia praw człowieka. Emblematyczna dla tej powieści pozostaje osoba Qiu Miaojin, której najbardziej znane dzieło, Zapiski krokodyla stało się kamieniem milowym dla tajwańskich lesbijek. Samobójstwo Miaojin w wieku zaledwie 26 lat wzmacnia trwającą całe życie obsesję Norie na punkcie śmierci, a jednocześnie dla książkowej akcji stanowi barometr społecznej tolerancji, którego wskazanie nie napawa optymizmem. Tak jak w połowie lat 90. ubiegłego stulecia nie było przestrzeni dla swobodnego życia przez Qiu Miaojin, tak na początku XXI wieku wciąż jej brak dla powieściowej Norie, która przymusowy outing w miejscu zatrudnienia „zawdzięcza” nie komu innemu, jak dziewczynie znajdującej się po tej samej stronie tęczy…
Mimo swej spornej nośności i bezkompromisowości w mierzeniu się z niełatwymi zagadnieniami, w dwóch momentach odczułem niemały zgrzyt. Pierwszym jest odrzucenie głównej bohaterki przez jej drugą dziewczynę, pierwszą „dojrzałą” miłość. Niezwykle ostra jej reakcja nie tylko nie pasowała do kontekstu sytuacyjnego, ale mam wrażenie, że została celowo obliczona na wywarcie czytelniczego dyskomfortu w chwili, w której cała energia skoncentrowana została na współczuciu dla protagonistki. Z psychologicznego punktu widzenia ta scena nie wypadła w moich oczach wiarygodnie, choć zarazem liczę się z tym, że główną przyczyną mojego zgrzytu jest - być może - odmienna emocjonalność od emocjonalności powieściowych bohaterek i ekstrapolacja moich uczuć połączona z wewnętrznym oporem, nie przyjmującym niezgody na to, że tok wydarzeń fabularnych nie jest zgodny z moją ich projekcją. Drugi zgrzyt związany jest z bajkowym zakończeniem powieści. Trudno mi było uwierzyć w taki zaskakujący splot okoliczności i choć wiem, po co ono było autorce, to mimo tej wiedzy i tak zgrzytałem i zgrzytać pewnie będę. Podsumowując powiedziałbym, że Samotny taniec to ciekawy i miejscami naprawdę niebanalny Tajfun. Z pewnością sięgnę po Qiu Miaojin.
July 21, 2025
Bardzo moja. Napisana ładnym językiem, poruszająca emocje i przekonania, którymi niestety wciąż torturuje się wiele queer osób.
Końcówka trochę zbyt bajkowa, ale wciąż pozycja poruszająca życiowe problemy, warta przeczytania.
Końcówka trochę zbyt bajkowa, ale wciąż pozycja poruszająca życiowe problemy, warta przeczytania.
February 27, 2024
a very interesting insight into the queer communities (or lack of) in taiwan and japan. li kotomi highlighted the loneliness queer people feel in countries that don’t accept them openly.
May 25, 2022
"She didn’t have a strong inclination towards death, but she had no attachment to living either. While she still had breath in her lungs, she would do her best in life, yet should it ever reach that point where it was no longer bearable, she would choose death without hesitation."
•
This quote from the first page of Solo Dance is how the protagonist, Norie aka Yingmei, is introduced. She is a queer Taiwanese cisgender woman who moves to Japan to reinvent herself. As bleak as it may sound, this sets the tone for the whole novel, where a depressed and struggling Norie tries to navigate her new life in Japan.
•
With a narrative that oscillates between past and present, Li Kotomi paints a portrait of homophobia, mental illness, and trauma. Solo Dance is simply a sad book that digs deep into heavy topics in sparse prose. Page by page, layer after layer of Norie's fractured psyche is uncovered, and we come to understand and empathize with her.
•
Although the good bits outweighed the not-so-good ones, I was disappointed with the ending that did not mesh well with the rest of the story.
•
I was reminded of these books while reading Solo Dance:
Violets by Kyung-Sook Shin, tr. Anton Hur,
Dogs and Others by Biljana Jovanović, tr. John K. Cox,
Like Animals by Eve Lemieux, tr. Cayman Rock.
The Membranes by Chi Ta-wei, tr. Ari Larissa Heinrich
•
Some more quotes from the book:
"Her memories of Danchen froze that day, never to be revised. Time would never move again for Danchen. But for her, time marched forward regardless."
•
"If “death” was the word with the most appealing ring to it, then surely “insurance” was the opposite— a concept that was nothing more than the commodification of humanity’s innate fear of future uncertainty."
•
"She was twenty-seven and this real-world conversation shouldn’t feel so remote, but she couldn’t force herself to get interested. There was an insurmountable wall that prevented her from fully engaging with it. All this talk of a decade from now, two decades from now, seemed like the distant future—hundreds if not thousands of years away. A world in which her existence wouldn’t make any difference. That was the true representation of her feelings."
•
I voluntarily read and reviewed an advanced copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.
•
3,75/5
•
This quote from the first page of Solo Dance is how the protagonist, Norie aka Yingmei, is introduced. She is a queer Taiwanese cisgender woman who moves to Japan to reinvent herself. As bleak as it may sound, this sets the tone for the whole novel, where a depressed and struggling Norie tries to navigate her new life in Japan.
•
With a narrative that oscillates between past and present, Li Kotomi paints a portrait of homophobia, mental illness, and trauma. Solo Dance is simply a sad book that digs deep into heavy topics in sparse prose. Page by page, layer after layer of Norie's fractured psyche is uncovered, and we come to understand and empathize with her.
•
Although the good bits outweighed the not-so-good ones, I was disappointed with the ending that did not mesh well with the rest of the story.
•
I was reminded of these books while reading Solo Dance:
Violets by Kyung-Sook Shin, tr. Anton Hur,
Dogs and Others by Biljana Jovanović, tr. John K. Cox,
Like Animals by Eve Lemieux, tr. Cayman Rock.
The Membranes by Chi Ta-wei, tr. Ari Larissa Heinrich
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Some more quotes from the book:
"Her memories of Danchen froze that day, never to be revised. Time would never move again for Danchen. But for her, time marched forward regardless."
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"If “death” was the word with the most appealing ring to it, then surely “insurance” was the opposite— a concept that was nothing more than the commodification of humanity’s innate fear of future uncertainty."
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"She was twenty-seven and this real-world conversation shouldn’t feel so remote, but she couldn’t force herself to get interested. There was an insurmountable wall that prevented her from fully engaging with it. All this talk of a decade from now, two decades from now, seemed like the distant future—hundreds if not thousands of years away. A world in which her existence wouldn’t make any difference. That was the true representation of her feelings."
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I voluntarily read and reviewed an advanced copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.
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3,75/5
January 14, 2025
Tengo que decir que descubrí este libro por casualidad y desde el principio me llamo la atención. Una obra cortita de una autora Taiwanesa que vive en Japón.
Esta novela corta describe un tema complejo y es la vida de una chica homosexual en Taiwan y después en Japón. Un relato íntimo, donde la protagonista huye de su pasado por un trauma, un relato en el que la protagonista oculta quien es realmente, oculta su sexualidad y oculta un violento ataque que hizo que se marchara a Japón. Una relato que te hace reflexionar hasta que punto puedes huir te de pasado, cuanto tiempo puedes ocultar ciertas cosas y si es posible olvidar hechos para nada simples.
Una historia que tiene partes claras pero que también tiene muchas partes oscuras, partes donde vas a sonreír, pero también momentos de dolor con escenas bastante duras. Una novela con muchas referencias a otras escritoras japonesas, a la poesía china ( que es nueva para mi)… Una novela dura que trata de forma cruda la homofobia, y que te hará pensar y reflexionar.
Esta novela corta describe un tema complejo y es la vida de una chica homosexual en Taiwan y después en Japón. Un relato íntimo, donde la protagonista huye de su pasado por un trauma, un relato en el que la protagonista oculta quien es realmente, oculta su sexualidad y oculta un violento ataque que hizo que se marchara a Japón. Una relato que te hace reflexionar hasta que punto puedes huir te de pasado, cuanto tiempo puedes ocultar ciertas cosas y si es posible olvidar hechos para nada simples.
Una historia que tiene partes claras pero que también tiene muchas partes oscuras, partes donde vas a sonreír, pero también momentos de dolor con escenas bastante duras. Una novela con muchas referencias a otras escritoras japonesas, a la poesía china ( que es nueva para mi)… Una novela dura que trata de forma cruda la homofobia, y que te hará pensar y reflexionar.
August 4, 2021
正好今年剛看完《其後》，不過相對於邱妙津，這種直面生命「災難」，試圖逃避或跨越而後重生的故事，在我看來更有《永別書》的風味。
以閱讀的愉悅（享受度？）來說，倒數五秒月牙似乎是更成熟的作品，但出道作果然就是特別有意思吧！
以閱讀的愉悅（享受度？）來說，倒數五秒月牙似乎是更成熟的作品，但出道作果然就是特別有意思吧！
January 11, 2023
Li Kotomi’s Solo Dance was a huge hit in Japanese literary circles: it won quite a few prestigious book awards and catapulted the author into the type of fame seen by Murakami (who is referenced in this book) After reading Solo Dance, I can see why. It is a melancholy piece of work and yet it keeps the reader captivated.
Chō Norie works in an office in Japan. She has two secrets. One is that she is a lesbian and the second is how she ended up in Japan. The rest of the book works as a sort of flashback detailing Chō’s two major relationships and how they shaped her worldview and the event which caused her to move.
Although Solo Dance is about sexuality, I felt that the major theme is grief; death permeates this novel and a lot of it is how Chō copes with it. One character with mental health issues, which ends tragically but the interesting thing is that Chō lets it affect her and it does shape her outlook, and yet there is some type of hope and feels that she can overcome her grief or at least take in her stride, despite her lapses. Solo Dance also gives glimpses in the underground gay scenes of both Taiwan and Japan, something that I haven’t ever read about. I also liked how literature forms a part of Chō’s salvation – the written word will always be able to channel those inner feelings that are difficult to express and that comes out beautifully here.
A word about the translation, it’s flowing and crystal clear. I love it when a translation is organic and considering that this is Arthur Reiji Morris’ first full length (if I am not mistaken) then I will try to seek out future ones by him. As always, with World Editions there’s a lot of love in the final product so there are extensive biographies and different contributions from the author, translator, cover designer and publisher. This is a labour of love from beginning to end.
Chō Norie works in an office in Japan. She has two secrets. One is that she is a lesbian and the second is how she ended up in Japan. The rest of the book works as a sort of flashback detailing Chō’s two major relationships and how they shaped her worldview and the event which caused her to move.
Although Solo Dance is about sexuality, I felt that the major theme is grief; death permeates this novel and a lot of it is how Chō copes with it. One character with mental health issues, which ends tragically but the interesting thing is that Chō lets it affect her and it does shape her outlook, and yet there is some type of hope and feels that she can overcome her grief or at least take in her stride, despite her lapses. Solo Dance also gives glimpses in the underground gay scenes of both Taiwan and Japan, something that I haven’t ever read about. I also liked how literature forms a part of Chō’s salvation – the written word will always be able to channel those inner feelings that are difficult to express and that comes out beautifully here.
A word about the translation, it’s flowing and crystal clear. I love it when a translation is organic and considering that this is Arthur Reiji Morris’ first full length (if I am not mistaken) then I will try to seek out future ones by him. As always, with World Editions there’s a lot of love in the final product so there are extensive biographies and different contributions from the author, translator, cover designer and publisher. This is a labour of love from beginning to end.
April 18, 2025
(3.5/5) me ha gustado muchoooo aunque igual demasiadas casualidades un poco forzadas. a lo mejor también un poco verde porque es su primera novela pero molbemolbe
June 4, 2022
tw: sexual violence, homophobia, mental health issues, suicide, outing
Solo Dance is a book about a woman, who after a traumatic, life-altering event, leaves Taiwan and moves to Japan for work. She has, in a way, rebranded herself. She has a new name, Cho Norie, and she is ready to move on. But this is a book about contemplation in a lot of ways. She starts off by saying "She didn’t have a strong inclination towards death, but she had no attachment to living either", which is definitely a strong opening. In this book, the narrator thinks about her life up until that point. We see her growing up, some important events of her childhood, and her figuring out she was a lesbian. We see elements of lgbtq communities in Taiwan and Japan, but also the alienation she feels from her coworkers, how much she is doubting herself, and so on.
I truly did think I would end up loving this book, and while I can't say I dislike it, I did not love it. The overall atmosphere of the book is very bleak, and just simply put depressing. Now, I will say, having read the synopsis, I didn't expect sunshine and roses, but the overall feeling has made it slightly hard to read. It is not a light read by any means, so keep that in mind if you decide to read this.
What I enjoyed about the book, is the raw and honest depiction of mental illness, and how all-encompassing it can be, how it can affect every segment of your life. How trauma and past experiences can cause you to be distrustful and how much hurt can seep into your bones and hold you back. It deals heavily which just existing, and how hard, and maybe even more importantly, how complicated it is. How there is no easy way out of something, no right way to be. The book also spends a lot of time talking about some Taiwanese and Japanese literature, and while I haven't read them, it is clear that the author (and by proxy, Norie) holds a lot of love for those works. (and I will for sure check them out!)
I did enjoy the most of the book, and yet finishing it, I had quite mixed feelings about it. I wish there was more of the side characters, though I understand why there was not - this is a very introspective book. I did quite enjoy the writing, but the flow and the pacing were a bit inconsistent, I felt like it was a bit dragging at some times. And probably the biggest reason why my opinion's divided is the ending, and the chapters leading up to it. It felt like an abrupt change (which I do assume was intentional), but by the ending and the finale of the book my emotions were already all over the place and the ending felt more confusing to me than it was probably intended to be. Don't get me wrong, I did like that the book ends on a hopeful note, but the entire part of the book from the moment when Norie starts traveling felt weirdly disconnected from the previous part of the book.
All that being said, I did think this was a book worth reading, and I am glad I did. It does show resilience and (hopefully) that there's something for us even when we lose the ability to see it. I liked how much it dealt with identity, and finding yourself. But bear in mind, it is very dark and depressing at times, so take that into consideration before reading!
Thank you to Netgalley for providing me with an arc in exchange for an honest review!
Solo Dance is a book about a woman, who after a traumatic, life-altering event, leaves Taiwan and moves to Japan for work. She has, in a way, rebranded herself. She has a new name, Cho Norie, and she is ready to move on. But this is a book about contemplation in a lot of ways. She starts off by saying "She didn’t have a strong inclination towards death, but she had no attachment to living either", which is definitely a strong opening. In this book, the narrator thinks about her life up until that point. We see her growing up, some important events of her childhood, and her figuring out she was a lesbian. We see elements of lgbtq communities in Taiwan and Japan, but also the alienation she feels from her coworkers, how much she is doubting herself, and so on.
I truly did think I would end up loving this book, and while I can't say I dislike it, I did not love it. The overall atmosphere of the book is very bleak, and just simply put depressing. Now, I will say, having read the synopsis, I didn't expect sunshine and roses, but the overall feeling has made it slightly hard to read. It is not a light read by any means, so keep that in mind if you decide to read this.
What I enjoyed about the book, is the raw and honest depiction of mental illness, and how all-encompassing it can be, how it can affect every segment of your life. How trauma and past experiences can cause you to be distrustful and how much hurt can seep into your bones and hold you back. It deals heavily which just existing, and how hard, and maybe even more importantly, how complicated it is. How there is no easy way out of something, no right way to be. The book also spends a lot of time talking about some Taiwanese and Japanese literature, and while I haven't read them, it is clear that the author (and by proxy, Norie) holds a lot of love for those works. (and I will for sure check them out!)
I did enjoy the most of the book, and yet finishing it, I had quite mixed feelings about it. I wish there was more of the side characters, though I understand why there was not - this is a very introspective book. I did quite enjoy the writing, but the flow and the pacing were a bit inconsistent, I felt like it was a bit dragging at some times. And probably the biggest reason why my opinion's divided is the ending, and the chapters leading up to it. It felt like an abrupt change (which I do assume was intentional), but by the ending and the finale of the book my emotions were already all over the place and the ending felt more confusing to me than it was probably intended to be. Don't get me wrong, I did like that the book ends on a hopeful note, but the entire part of the book from the moment when Norie starts traveling felt weirdly disconnected from the previous part of the book.
All that being said, I did think this was a book worth reading, and I am glad I did. It does show resilience and (hopefully) that there's something for us even when we lose the ability to see it. I liked how much it dealt with identity, and finding yourself. But bear in mind, it is very dark and depressing at times, so take that into consideration before reading!
Thank you to Netgalley for providing me with an arc in exchange for an honest review!
July 18, 2023
okay, so hear me out: if you've yet to go through a very specific emotional journey in your life, then Solo Dance will probably feel like a never-ending dreary mess of melodrama and needless angst. but if you have, then all of a sudden it becomes a humanization of the ugliest pain you've felt – and that humanization is what made me love this book so much. let me explain.
Solo Dance follows a Taiwanese woman who is a lesbian. it repeatedly draws reference to Qiu Miaojin, an iconic Taiwanese lesbian author who committed suicide at age 26. where Qiu Miaojin's Notes of a Crocodile focuses primarily around the experience of various queer misfits in late-1900s Taiwan, Solo Dance focuses on a single woman's relationship with trauma that is associated with her lesbianism. in other words, it's less about being queer, and more an exploration of trauma through the lens of being queer. i think this is an important distinction to make, because i think the ideas Solo Dance explores can speak to so many more people than just those that identify as queer.
if you have ever wanted to run away, change your name, hide from somebody from somebody you hurt, lock yourself in a room and never speak to anybody ever again... this book is for you. if you have ever been dragged down by guilt, wondered if you were broken, or were otherwise disgusted by your own emotions, this book is for you. not everybody has gone through periods of their life where their pain has led them to irrevocably hurt the people around them, where they felt the only possible path to recovery was to run away from their problems, and i believe that experiences like that are among the most difficult to talk about because attached to them are permanent feelings of guilt, of knowing that you were in the wrong. that's the feeling that i believe Solo Dance explores so well – the idea of *running away*. i think Solo Dance manages to humanize these emotions, and does well as a sort of reminder to folks going through this sort of emotional journey that they are not alone.
i definitely wasn't expecting that i'd be writing a review like this when i checked this book out, but by the time i was about halfway through i knew that i couldn't talk about this book and contextualize why i loved reading it so much without getting a little angsty. it's a short read, so if any of this resonated with you at all, then please give Solo Dance a shot!!
Solo Dance follows a Taiwanese woman who is a lesbian. it repeatedly draws reference to Qiu Miaojin, an iconic Taiwanese lesbian author who committed suicide at age 26. where Qiu Miaojin's Notes of a Crocodile focuses primarily around the experience of various queer misfits in late-1900s Taiwan, Solo Dance focuses on a single woman's relationship with trauma that is associated with her lesbianism. in other words, it's less about being queer, and more an exploration of trauma through the lens of being queer. i think this is an important distinction to make, because i think the ideas Solo Dance explores can speak to so many more people than just those that identify as queer.
if you have ever wanted to run away, change your name, hide from somebody from somebody you hurt, lock yourself in a room and never speak to anybody ever again... this book is for you. if you have ever been dragged down by guilt, wondered if you were broken, or were otherwise disgusted by your own emotions, this book is for you. not everybody has gone through periods of their life where their pain has led them to irrevocably hurt the people around them, where they felt the only possible path to recovery was to run away from their problems, and i believe that experiences like that are among the most difficult to talk about because attached to them are permanent feelings of guilt, of knowing that you were in the wrong. that's the feeling that i believe Solo Dance explores so well – the idea of *running away*. i think Solo Dance manages to humanize these emotions, and does well as a sort of reminder to folks going through this sort of emotional journey that they are not alone.
i definitely wasn't expecting that i'd be writing a review like this when i checked this book out, but by the time i was about halfway through i knew that i couldn't talk about this book and contextualize why i loved reading it so much without getting a little angsty. it's a short read, so if any of this resonated with you at all, then please give Solo Dance a shot!!
July 10, 2022
Kotomi Li's Solo Dance is the story of a twenty-seven year old Taiwanese woman. She's also a lesbian. For reasons that are understandable her outlook on life is bleak. She expects nothing will last. She trusts no one. Nothing is enough. She's also careful to hide her lesbianism from her coworkers in Japan—where she chose to live after completing a degree there.
To be honest, I think my reading of this book is skewed because of my own positionality and privilege. Here I am, living in California, married to a remarkable artist who is a woman, as am I. I've done some wrestling with mental health issues in my time and have shared a similarly bleak mental outlook during a substantial chunk of my life. And I just want to say to this woman, "Be who you are! Don't make death your BFF!"
But that's my positionality. The main character is living across the planet from me in an environment that's anything but supportive and that I don't know diddley about.
I know this isn't a great review, but I don't have more to say at the moment. Positionality. Privilege.
I received a free electronic review copy of this title from the publisher via EdelweissPlus; the opinions are my own.
To be honest, I think my reading of this book is skewed because of my own positionality and privilege. Here I am, living in California, married to a remarkable artist who is a woman, as am I. I've done some wrestling with mental health issues in my time and have shared a similarly bleak mental outlook during a substantial chunk of my life. And I just want to say to this woman, "Be who you are! Don't make death your BFF!"
But that's my positionality. The main character is living across the planet from me in an environment that's anything but supportive and that I don't know diddley about.
I know this isn't a great review, but I don't have more to say at the moment. Positionality. Privilege.
I received a free electronic review copy of this title from the publisher via EdelweissPlus; the opinions are my own.
November 9, 2022
I’m glad I read it but honestly it was okay. Just okay. I want to read more Kotomi but GAHLEE this is DEF a first novel. Weakly plotted, limp prose, wishy-washy characters, little to no sense of place. Neat window into Taiwanese—Japanese lesbian life. Despite all that — still sharp at moments — surprises — written with the shaking voice someone uses when they’re telling a hurtful truth
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