Fiction and Non Fiction

Twenty-five-year-old Takako has enjoyed a relatively easy existence—until the day her boyfriend Hideaki, the man she expected to wed, casually announces he’s been cheating on her and is marrying the other woman. Suddenly, Takako’s life is in freefall. She loses her job, her friends, and her acquaintances, and spirals into a deep depression. In the depths of her despair, she receives a call from her distant uncle Satoru. An unusual man who has always pursued something of an unconventional life, especially after his wife Momoko left him out of the blue five years earlier, Satoru runs a second-hand bookshop—a true haven for anyone who loves books about books—in Jimbocho, Tokyo’s famous book district. Takako once looked down upon Satoru’s life. Now, she reluctantly accepts his offer of the tiny room above the bookshop rent-free in exchange for helping out at the store. The move is temporary, until she can get back on her feet. But on her healing journey in the months that follow, Takako surprises herself when she develops a passion for Japanese literature, becomes a regular at a local coffee shop where she makes new friends, and eventually meets a young editor from a nearby publishing house who’s going through his own messy breakup. But just as she begins to find joy again, Hideaki reappears, forcing Takako to rely once again on her uncle, whose own life has begun to unravel. Together, this unlikely found family of seeming opposites work to understand each other and themselves as they continue to share the wisdom they’ve gained in the bookshop. Translated By Eric Ozawa

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a towering figure in African literature, and his novels A Grain of Wheat; Weep Not, Child; and Petals of Blood are modern classics. Emerging from a literary scene that flourished in the 1950s and ’60s during the last years of colonialism in Africa, he became known not just as a novelist—one who, in the late ’70s, famously stopped writing novels in English and turned to the language he grew up speaking, Gĩkũyũ—but as a major postcolonial theorist. In Decolonizing Language and Other Revolutionary Ideas, Ngũgĩ gives us a series of essays that build on the revolutionary ideas about language and its constructive role in national culture, history, and identity that he set out in his earlier work—illuminating the intrinsic importance of keeping intact and honoring these native languages throughout time. Intricate and deeply nuanced, this collection examines the enduring power of African languages in resisting both the psychic and material impacts of colonialism, past and present. These themes are elucidated through chapters on some contemporaries of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, including Chinua Achebe, Mĩcere Gĩthae Mũgo, and Wole Soyinka—each offering a distinct lens on the liberatory potential of language. A brave call for discourse and immensely relevant to our present moment, Decolonizing Language and Other Revolutionary Ideas works both as a wonderful introduction to the enduring themes of Ngũgĩ’s work as well as a vital addition to the library of the world’s greatest and most provocative writers.