“Because we’re always in pain, we know exactly what it means to hurt somebody else.�
Whew. My first encounter with Japanese literature, and I think I’v“Because we’re always in pain, we know exactly what it means to hurt somebody else.�
Whew. My first encounter with Japanese literature, and I think I’ve found something truly special. Heaven is a profoundly moving and heartbreakingly raw portrayal of mental health, bullying, and the turbulence of teenage angst. This novel doesn’t just feel like reality—it is reality.
Kawakami’s Heaven gripped me and left me emotionally drained. Narrated by a nameless 14-year-old boy, the story delves into his harrowing experiences as the victim of relentless and sadistic bullying. His tormentors cruelly mock his lazy eye, nicknaming him “Eyes,� a moniker that further dehumanizes him. The story begins with an unexpected letter from an anonymous classmate, Kojima, another victim of bullying, though her suffering stems from her perceived poverty and disheveled appearance. Their shared pain forges a unique bond, a friendship (or perhaps something deeper) that revolves around their shared trauma.
While I initially expected their relationship to inspire some form of empowerment or transformation—standing up to the bullies or finding strength in each other—it instead seemed to serve as a mutual refuge. At times, their connection felt more like a space to accept and endure their suffering rather than actively resist it. This ambivalence frustrated me, but it also struck me as deeply authentic. In a world that often offers no easy answers, their companionship provided solace, even if it didn’t offer a solution.
The graphic depictions of bullying were difficult to stomach. Kawakami does not flinch from detailing the brutality, forcing the reader to confront the full horror of these experiences. I found myself enraged, helpless, and heartbroken, aching to intervene, yet forced into the role of a powerless witness. This is the power of Kawakami’s writing: it is visceral, unapologetic, and deeply unsettling. It reminds us that bullying is not a mere rite of passage but a devastating, often life-destroying reality.
What elevates Heaven beyond a narrative about victimhood is Kawakami’s philosophical exploration of bullying—its origins, its impact, and the disturbing psychology of the perpetrators. One of the most chilling moments in the novel is when Momose, one of the bullies, reveals his reasoning. His explanation is devoid of the stereotypical backstory of a troubled home life or personal pain; instead, it highlights an almost incomprehensible level of sadism. Kawakami boldly dismantles the myth that all bullies are broken individuals acting out of their own suffering—some, as this novel suggests, simply enjoy inflicting pain.
Kawakami’s characters are remarkable in their complexity. The narrator, Kojima, and even the bullies are all vividly realized, nuanced, and hauntingly human. In exploring the bond between the narrator and Kojima, Kawakami avoids cliched resolutions. Their relationship does not evolve into a transformative love story, nor does it provide a neat resolution to their suffering. This refusal to conform to traditional tropes felt refreshingly honest—because in reality, a romantic relationship cannot undo the pain of bullying or solve the systemic issue it represents.
What I admire most about Heaven is Kawakami’s ability to create characters who feel utterly real in their mystery and intricacy. This novel is not just a story; it’s an experience—raw, unsettling, and profoundly thought-provoking. It’s a book that forces you to reflect, to empathise, and to confront uncomfortable truths.
If you haven’t read Heaven, do yourself a favor: read it. It’s a masterpiece....more
James Baldwin’s work demands engagement, reflection, and reckoning. In just three hours, I devoured I Am Not Your Negro—a testament to Baldwin’s unparJames Baldwin’s work demands engagement, reflection, and reckoning. In just three hours, I devoured I Am Not Your Negro—a testament to Baldwin’s unparalleled brilliance as a writer, thinker, and chronicler of the human condition. His voice, so poignant and powerful, resonates through every page, compelling readers to confront uncomfortable truths about society. Baldwin’s grace lies in his ability to wield language with precision and beauty, all while dismantling entrenched power structures and challenging us to reimagine the world. Reading his work is not simply an intellectual exercise—it’s an awakening.
This book, drawn from Baldwin’s unfinished manuscript Remember This House, centers on the lives and legacies of Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King Jr. Raoul Peck’s adaptation into the documentary I Am Not Your Negro enriches Baldwin’s fragmented writings with archival footage, interviews, and haunting visuals. Though I’ve yet to see the film, the text alone is profoundly impactful. Baldwin’s reflections on privilege, power, and race transcend time, creating a narrative both searing and deeply intimate. His grief for his fallen friends is palpable, and his refusal to reduce Malcolm and Martin to oppositional forces is deeply moving. He asks us to grapple with what might have been had these leaders survived—a question that lingers long after the final page.
Baldwin’s assertion that standing up and claiming one’s rightful place in the world is an act of defiance against the Western power structure is at the heart of his writing. His work does not simply describe the world—it critiques and deconstructs it. In one chapter, he predicts the possibility of a Black president, a prescient observation that reminds us of both the triumph of Barack Obama’s election and the regression marked by the presidency of Donald Trump. The contrast is stark, illustrating how far we’ve come and, disturbingly, how far we’ve fallen. Baldwin forces us to confront America’s cyclical struggles with race, justice, and equality, leaving no room for complacency.
Through his electrifying prose, Baldwin captures both the grief and resilience of the Black experience. His sorrow for the state of America today, where Black lives are still undervalued, feels heartbreakingly relevant. Yet his work also inspires pride and defiance. Baldwin’s legacy endures because his words remain an indispensable guide for navigating our flawed and fractured world. This book isn’t just something to read—it’s something to reckon with. I cannot wait to explore the entirety of his oeuvre, for every piece I’ve encountered so far has been nothing short of transformative....more
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