Tokyo Ueno Station, by Yu Miri, translated by Morgan Giles; first American edition, 2020

This is the story about the ghost of a man. Truly. Your protagonist is a ghost.

                                             

As soon as I finished Tokyo Ueno Station, I flipped to the first page to start again. It wasn’t that it was my most favorite book. No. It was that I felt I had only gotten part of the story. The protagonist is unhoused, and, like most on the streets, we never hear their stories.

This is Kazu’s story. In Japanese, Kazu means “harmony” or “Peace.” Oh the irony! Our protagonist is never at peace. He sleeps in a tent, subjected to the whims of nature and police who displace him when the Emperor visits.  

Yu Miri writes with spare, tight prose. Each word is purposeful. And Morgan Giles delivers a glorious translation. It does not feel stilted or forced. Kazu’s soul and character represents all humanity. We are all haunted in one way or another.

According to Kazu, there is no such thing as time, especially if you are unhoused. Days turn into months, into years. This is ironic since the only personal present Kazu receives is….a watch! Even after he dies, the watch will keep ticking. “There may be an ending, but there is no end.”

In life, as in death, Kazu wanders. When he leaves home to live on the streets, it is like the great ancient Japanese poet Basho. In old age, he goes on wandering a pilgrimage until he dies. He wished to die alone, in “peace.” But, there is never peace.

It is fitting that some of the story takes place in a train station. There, life comes and goes. Transition point from place to place. A hustle and whir of motion. Another of the book’s settings is the park, where his tent is erected. This scene is also in transition, since Kazu is continually told to move is belongings. This book is deceptively simple, but, like all our lives and loves, complex. 

Love is unknown in this tale of loss. He is a true  “salary man.” This term describes the majority of Japanese fathers who work far more than they are at home. Kazu exists to be a “good provider.” He neither knows himself, family, or others. He calls life a “claw.” In his later years, he shows regret.

Throughout the book, we wonder: How does he die??! Or, how DID he die? We eventually learn this. But first, we hear the inner monologue of a man. British writer Charlie Mackesy said that it is odd that we can only see the outsides of someone, when the most important parts are on the inside. In this book, we see the inside. It hurts. I am looking forward to re-reading this book.  I think it has a lot more to offer.