Historically, I’ve had a hard time reading most fiction, but this last little while I’ve been getting really into Japanese literature. I’m not sure what it is about it: the themes, the style of writing, the other-worldliness of the stories—who can say? Perhaps it’s the fact that so many of the ones I have read were troubled in some way. Osamu Dazai, who wrote my new favourite novel, The Flowers of Buffoonery, tried to kill himself four times, eventually succeeding. Shusaku Endo, who wrote Silence, touched on the ethics of apostasy and the impotence of God. But compared to these two, the novel I just finished (earlier on the day I wrote this) was written far less dramatically. You might even think it boring: it is simply about a 36 year-old unmarried woman who has worked in a convenience store part-time for the last 18 years.

I’ve read some comments that have said that she undergoes no development whatsoever, but of course I think there’s much more to it. Is the novel really about her working in a convenience store? Not at all, or hardly. It’s more about the expectations that society has imposed on her. Why doesn’t she get married? Why doesn’t she get a real job? People talk about “curing” her, but in fact the work in the convenience store has been one of the few ways that Keiko, the narrator, could relate to the “normal” world around her. She was more convenience store woman than human, she would admit after a trial that led to her questioning her identity, nearly going along with what the world was pressuring her to do. But in the end, she embraced who she was and went back to the convenience store. (So, perhaps its understandable why people say she had no development.)

As someone who counts himself a bit strange himself, I found this quite empowering. Around about the time I started this blog, I wasn’t too fond of who I was. I had chosen to study philosophy, a degree perfectly suited to my interests, obsessions, and temperament, but I would not frame my degree since I was none too proud of it. I was ashamed that this was a part of me, and I did what someone might a sensible decision, or at least a decision motivated by sensible values: I went to college to learn something practical, only to drop out after a semester because I loathed the experience. (This left me in the hilarious position where I could claim to be a university graduate and a college drop-out.) In the end, I applied to a program that was more along my interests and education, and I spent a whopping $200 to frame my degree. That might sound like a simple act, but for me it represented an affirmation of self, like I could take some pride in who I am, no matter how weird.

That is to say, don’t be afraid to be a little eccentric. Suppose that all the roles we have, whatever they are, are our ways of communicating and engaging with the world. I think about things philosophically, spiritually, etc. because those are the languages that I can engage the world with. For you, maybe it’s thinking about things scientifically or artistically. Who knows? Maybe you have more than one! Likewise, Keiko could engage with others and the world in her role as a convenience store woman. It was in the context of that role that the world made sense to her, and she had some satisfaction. So, I ask, what was wrong with that?

Keiko remarked at one point that it was strange for her sister to be happy for her to be “normal” and have “problems” but not for her to be “abnormal” and have “no problems”. I thought this was a fascinating observation. We can seem more upset by those who stand outside the box that are happy than those who are struggling while staying comfortably within the boundaries of expectation. And what for? Our own comfort? Maybe this is just society’s way of making sense of itself: it cannot exist without these arbitrary standards and hates to be challenged by them. Nevertheless, I say that we might do well to think about why these standards are in place since, after all, some birds just aren’t meant to be caged.