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Sayaka Murata Convenience Store Woman

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I wonder how many times I’ve read this book since I first came across it.

Every time I read it, I’m reminded of a dressing—one of those liquids that looks smooth and light, like it’s made with olive oil, but when you leave it on the table for a while, the oil and the other extracts slowly separate.

And when you want to use it again, you have to shake it yourself before pouring it over the salad.

Maybe that’s what this story is to me. When I feel comfortable being mixed in as part of the liquid, anything that resists blending feels like an outsider. But those who sense discomfort in the mixture go on separating even further.

We all try to follow the rules within some kind of container that may or may not even exist—a container we call “society.” Then, in a quiet moment, we notice ourselves drifting away and start to feel something.

“For society.” “Society?”

This, to me, is a beautiful story—perhaps even an incomprehensible one—that captures something elusive within Japan, something that words can barely hold.