It is clear what Gail Tsukiyama wants to communicate in her newest novel, The Street of a Thousand Blossoms. The book strives to convey love, loss, coming-of-age, the horrors of war, the rebuilding of a nation--and throw in a little instruction in Japanese culture to boot.
Spanning more than thirty years immediately before, during, and after World War II, Blossoms follows the lives of the residents of Yanaka, a suburb of Tokyo. It finds its main characters in Hiroshi and Kenji Matsumoto, two young boys taken in by their grandparents after the death of their mother and father, and quickly expands to chronicle the lives of those around them: their grandparents, the sumo coach who nurtures Hiroshi’s burgeoning talent, the mask maker who draws the quiet Kenji into the world of the theatre. The novel’s subject is nothing less than the breadth and scope of these people’s entire lives.
Clearly, then, the characters should be the story’s driving force. But this is where the book stumbles. The characters feel a little too controlled, as if Tsukiyama does not trust them to tell their own story. She is too ready to describe feelings and frame dialogue in terms of platitudes and expected turns--a shame, because she has a wonderful gift for simile and metaphor. She is capable of beautiful, evocative choices of words, which makes it all the more disappointing that she so often relies on old saws. Meanwhile, her characters, once in a great while, say or do something truly unexpected, and thus freed, they transform into the most convincing human beings. If these moments, scattered throughout the book, were more common, Tsukiyama might have truly achieved the depth she seems to seek.
Instead, the thinness of her presentation creates the sense that the characters and story are subservient to the themes she wants to portray. The narration is given to fits of exposition that tell in a paragraph exactly how a character is feeling or what happens to them after a certain event, a too-pat approach that causes parts of the novel to feel rushed even though it’s more than 400 pages long.
Alternatives suggest a reading list: those interested in the history of Japan after World War II should read John Dower’s masterful Embracing Defeat, to which Tsukiyama acknowledges a debt for this novel. Those seeking a novel about the changing Japan of this era should consider Junichiro Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters. And readers simply new to Tsukiyama’s work should read The Samurai’s Garden instead.
Blossoms by no means fails miserably; it is reasonably entertaining. But it’s hard to recommend a book when the best thing you can say about it is that worse has been written. Tsukiyama seems to be grasping at timelessness here, but she would have done well to let it arise from the more intimate, character-driven storytelling at which she excels.
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