[Moved from my soon-to-be defunct side-blog because 1. I still haven't had time to write anything new and 2. it's more Relevant To Your Interests on this one.]

Hitomi Kanehara is an interesting lady. As I always do when reviewing an author for the first time I make a point of reading the biography blurb at the beginning of the book to get a feel for his or her background; Kanehara’s is, to put it mildly, unconventional. Her status as a professional writer, although it was aided by the endorsement of well-known author Ryu Murakami whose edgy and controversial works bear quite a similarity, is still surprising given her early life and education. Considering how Autofiction is focused on a twenty-something female writer who also had a turbulent adolescence you can’t help but wonder where the inspiration for this striking novel came from.

This possiblility that the book’s title should be taken literally is dangled in front of the reader’s nose from the outset but whether it’s a clever bluff on Kanehara’s part is something I wouldn’t hazard a guess on. Anyhow, the character of Rin and the events of her life are a fascinating if somewhat unsettling read: the first few pages pick her story up soon after her wedding, then successive chapters take up the narrative at points earlier on in her life. Telling stories in reverse is nothing new of course (taken to extremes in the likes of Memento) but in this case the approach serves to dig into the troubled psyche of the protagonist, peeling away layer after layer of insecurity and paranoia as it goes.

It’s always difficult for me to judge the prose of foreign language authors because my criticism might be misdirected: are its shortcomings and strengths the result of the original writer, or the person who translated it? Here I’m not sure if I am indeed witnessing a remarkable writer in Kanehara, or whether David James Karashima is adept at creating a startling atmosphere when translating from one language to another. I’ll give the two of them the benefit of the doubt and say it’s a bit of both.

I’m not actually overly concerned whether it’s Kanehara and/or Karashima who is responsible because the end result is brilliant either way. Rin’s first-person narration flows effortlessly despite her mood swings that throw the tone from one extreme to the other: one moment she is declaring her undying devotion to her husband; the next she is hating him for what she perceives as infidelity. This ever-shifting perspective is carried over to her earlier encounters and relationships that may not justify her behaviour but certainly go some way to explaining it.

I don’t want to spoil things by spelling out the details but Rin’s life is a mixture of personal failings on her own part, such as rejecting offers of assistance from those around her, and instances where those who are in a position to help letting her down or neglecting her. The tragedy at the heart of it all is that, for all her psychotic episodes and occasionally violent and self-destructive behaviour, Rin is a lonely and misunderstood individual who just wants to be loved as much as anyone else.

The world in which she lives, that of a seedy underbelly to modern Tokyo which is rarely depicted in fiction, let alone elsewhere, contributes to Rin’s fragile and disturbed mental state. The vulnerability of a young woman who tries to fill the voids in her life with cheap alcohol, unsavoury nightclubs and unsatisfying romantic entanglements is poorly suited to this environment but is too insecure and self-deluded to find a way out. This environment may not be familiar to many (even those of us who have visited the city themselves) but the prose succeeds in drawing you in and portrays it so vividly it’s almost painful at points.

I was left a little disappointed with the conclusion though. The final chapter, portraying a fifteen-year old Rin, doesn’t seem to go back far enough: the origin of her mental disturbance would settle things once and for all so for me it doesn’t completely explain where it all really began.

On reflection however the scattered snapshot approach, an interesting modern variant on slice-of-life storytelling, is still very effective in trying to explain a personality who is, perhaps intentionally, very difficult to understand. How blameless is Rin? Is the fact that she’s fooling herself into thinking she’s happy tantamount to being genuinely happy? I think the ambiguity of Kanehara’s underlying message, and indeed the complexity of her character is probably deliberately open to interpretation because much of the enjoyment of this novel is coming up with answers of your own.

I think Rin’s emotional problems go largely undetected by those around her because she hides her insecurity so well by outrageous, extrovert behaviour; a persona which is considered in many situations to be a sign of confidence and contentment. The reader of course sees the frightened and unsatisfied young woman who dwells within so can see how such assumptions can be tragically misguided. In a way it’s a cautionary tale in that a contemporary, conformist society can let the vulnerable slip between the cracks but at the same time suggests that those individuals find themselves in such positions also through their own volition.

The first-person viewpoint is especially important in a novel such as this because the important plot points often take place inside his or her head; a more objective view would have a different atmosphere entirely, and would fail to convey part of the story’s message. Reality feels like a runaway train, apparently impossible to control (or is it?); the conflicts and traumas are internal, and as such require an up-close and personal point of view to appreciate. It feels like a very personal account, which once again leads me to ask “Is this novel autobiographical?” and fail to find an answer. For that too it’s a very clever piece of work.