Hollow Inside (Japanese Novellas)

Hollow Inside (Japanese Novellas)

A witty, deadpan novel about modern relationships, pets, and living as a single woman; for fans of Sayaka Murata, offbeat humor, and sharp social observation In this skewed, mordantly funny Japanese novel, two women navigate aging and relationships in divergent ways. Hirai, 38, has recently started living with her colleague Suganuma, 42. Both women are single and feel ambivalent at best about the prospect of marriage. Stuck in bland jobs that don’t pay enough for them to afford one-bedroom apartments in the city, they defy social expectation and create their own domestic routines, allowing space for Suganuma’s side-hustle—3D-printing figurines of beloved dead pets for their grieving owners. Though initially united by their resistance to romantic love, the pair begin tentative forays toward partnership. Suganuma strikes up a secret affair, which shocks Hirai into action and back into the world of dating apps. As she drifts through painfully adequate dates and endures intrusive questions at office socials, Hirai frets over whether she really needs to freeze her eggs again. In a dating world sapped of genuine connection, where can she turn to feel less hollow? The debut novel by a bright new voice in Japanese fiction, Hollow Inside won the prestigious Subaru Prize. With a dark, deadpan tone and sharply witty observation, Asako Otani satirizes the myths and pressures of contemporary romantic love, as Hirai and Suganuma try to chart their own paths in a precarious world. Asako Otani was born in Chiba Prefecture in 1990. Her debut novel, Hollow Inside , won the 2022 Subaru Literary Prize. Ginny Tapley Takemori is the prize-winning translator of Sayaka Murata’s Convenience Store Woman , Earthlings , and Life Ceremony , as well as many of her short stories, and other celebrated authors including Kyoko Nakajima and Ryu Murakami. SUGANUMA WAS in the living room making dead dogs. The 3D printer on the cabinet was making a hell of a racket as it squeezed out molten white filament. It was the size of a smallish Buddhist home altar, a bare- bones model with exposed arm and head. It wasn’t so much futuristic as reminiscent of a paper guillotine gathering dust in the back of the school art room. An H-shaped structure stood atop a base, with a small box-shaped head attached to the crossbar. This head was inching its way from side to side, its motor screaming. A nozzle on the head was extrud- ing filament onto the base, and the figure of a dog was gradually emerging from the feet up. A photograph of the dog stood on the edge of the cabinet. It was already dead. They all were. Suganuma’s 3D printer was a bit too noisy for home use. At first it had been in her room, but she couldn’t sleep when it was running and had moved it to the cabinet in the corner of the living room. Now, as she stood facing the corner while she operated it, it was as though she too was being driven out of the apartment. I stood behind her stuffing my breakfast bread roll into my mouth. I didn’t bother about the crumbs falling onto my white blouse. I could gather them up and throw them away when I’d finished. Suganuma had been complaining of deteriorating eyesight lately, and now and then stood back from the machine to observe the details of the emerging figure. Her over- sized T-shirt revealed the contours of her skinny body, and all the bumps of her spine stood out starkly when she rounded her back. Her hair, carelessly gathered into a ponytail, was splitting at the ends for lack of moisture and nutrients. From behind, her thin body didn’t look firm and well toned, it just looked frail. As soon as cheap 3D printers hit the market, Suganuma had bought one, thinking she could make some money with it. She had tried various things, but the best-paying job turned out to be making custom dog figurines. She would be sent photos of pet dogs that had died, and would tweak templates of particular breeds to produce models that were the spitting image of those beloved pets. The plain white figures she made would then be sent out for colouring before being delivered to the respective owners. It was cheaper and easier than taxidermy, and popular with owners who couldn’t bear the thought of skinning their pet. I picked up what looked like a reject figure that was lying on the floor. It was of a chihuahua, hollow inside and surprisingly light. The threadlike fila- ment had become tangled around its body, as though enveloping it in a spider’s web. Could the grieving owner get some measure of comfort from holding this hollow figure made to look like their pet? I couldn’t even begin to imagine it. “ We’re down to our last roll of toilet paper,” Suganuma said suddenly, without taking her eyes off the machine. “I’ll get some on my way home from work, if I remember.” “Please.” I put the figurine of the chihuahua down on the low table. The filament had wound around its legs so that it was unable to stand properly, and it toppled forward onto its nose