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Sophia Whiteside

4/12/2017

Accept the Unexpected

Banana Yoshimoto’s book Kitchen is riddled with careful, subtle language and intriguing

plot twists (Yoshimoto, 1993). It is her writing style and narrative approach that allows the

unimaginable to be so readily accepted (Dollase, 2011). Her straightforward narration leads her

readers to accept the bizarre concepts in a way where those unusual events seem incredibly

mundane (Chilton 2009). It is Yoshimoto’s clean syntactic choices that create such an engaging,

relatable, and compelling story—a story which calms the nerves and soothes the soul (Roquet,

2009) (Treat, 1993).

Yoshimoto’s writing style is an approach to narrative which she credits to the copious

amounts of television and manga she consumed growing up (Treat 359). Both mediums move

with speed, which is an approach Yoshimoto uses in much of her writing—specifically Kitchen.

She manages to weave a cozy narrative through succinct words and rapid characterization.

The novella begins with the first-person narrator, Mikage, describing different types of

kitchens and the solace they bring her. Words are written delicately about white tiles and tea

towels, but are then abruptly followed by mention of Mikage’s grandmother’s recent death—

which is also the first of multiple deaths to be mentioned in the story. “After my grandmother

died, I couldn’t sleep. One morning at dawn I trundled out of my room in search for comfort and

found the one place I could sleep was beside the refrigerator” (Yoshimoto 4). As a reader, the

news of this death should be a saddening revelation. Except that Yoshimoto immediately follows

it with words like trundled, comfort, and sleep; all words that evoke senses of security and

warmth.
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Of course death is not the most unexpected thing in this story—it is hardly the most

unexpected event to occur in either life or literature. Death itself is inevitable—it is merely the

unwanted occasion of its happening that leaves the living feeling it was unexpected: because they

are neither ready nor prepared to let go. Granted, the grandmother’s death (and the quickly

followed mention of Mikage’s grandfather and parent’s long time deaths) is not necessarily

shocking, because as readers it is our first impression of the grandmother (and the other deceased

family members). An important thing to note is the initial news and explanation is written in the

same way people might handle deaths in real life. In fact, all of Yoshimoto’s plot twists are

written in the same way people ought to handle grief, which is what allows the readers to accept,

ingest, and appreciate Kitchen’s story.

The entire overarching story follows the aforementioned theme. Individual scenes are

unfolded and moved through quickly, this keeps the readers from being bogged down by each

main plot point. Just as with grief or depression, it is easy to become stuck in a repeated loop

when confronted with terrible news or emotions. It is through snapshots of vivid detail that the

beauty of life is reimagined and introduced into Yoshimoto’s writing. Like in the wake of a great

sadness, this description is written: “I scrubbed the sink with scouring powder, wiped off the

burners, washed the dishes, sharpened the knives. I washed and bleached the all the dish towels,

and while watching them go round and round in the dryer I realized that I had become calmer”

(Yoshimoto 56). Here the reader is provided with this sense of what Mikage finds therapeutic.

Yoshimoto does not go into incredible detail about why these actions have calmed Mikage, she

leaves the reader the opportunity to understand for themselves how intense cleaning can be a

cleanse to the body as well. Then Yoshimoto states “I had become calmer” and moves on. As

readers we identify with that one thing, whatever it is for each individual, that just makes us
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calmer. Inexplicably everything is better. This is what Yoshimoto’s writing does, it gets to the

point, and moves on, leaving behind the remnants of relatability.

After Mikage’s grandmother dies, Mikage is unexpectedly invited to stay with a boy her

age named Yuichi Tanabe, and his mother Eriko (Yoshimoto 6). So taken off-guard, Mikage

agrees to stop by their apartment. She arrives that night and is eventually convinced to stay with

the Tanabe family for a while—though she insists it will only be until she is back on her feet.

Something completely out of the blue has been proposed, and within the daze of confusion, the

rest follows quickly. Thus, not necessarily allowing Mikage, or the reader, a chance to stew over

the story’s recent development. Sometimes it is our over analyzation and rumination that brings

life to a halt. Yoshimoto doesn’t present readers the opportunities to stop and consider disbelief

or confusion, for the next scene is already unfurling itself across the page.

For example, at Mikage’s first visit to the Tanabe residence when Eriko is initially

introduced. Eriko already pushes the conventions of a typical, happy, maternal figure in regard to

the fact that she owns a gay bar. Beyond that, Yuichi also tells Mikage that Eriko is actually a

man (Yoshimoto 13). Of course before the initial news is told that Eriko is a man, Yoshimoto

went to extensive lengths to solidify to the readers the idea that Eriko is not just female, but is in

fact a stunning woman.

“This was his mother? Dumbfounded, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Hair rustled

like silk to her shoulders; the deep sparkle of her long, narrow eyes; well-formed lips, a

nose with a high, straight bridge--the whole of her gave off a marvelous light that seemed

to vibrate with life force” (Yoshimoto 11).

This passage exemplifies the tactics Yoshimoto uses to create a believable image. “I

couldn’t take my eyes off her” pushes the readers to feel that they too should be enamored by her
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beauty. So not only does it jar the reader to learn who Eriko really is, but it also defeats the

conventional norms of a traditional family structure. Which is helpful because throughout the

story Mikage is searching for a new identity and family. Eriko transforming from man to woman

opens the door to the idea of choosing what role one can play in a family, which threads into the

ability of choosing family in general (Dollase 12). Mikage exhibits this concept when she

chooses to live with the Tanabe’s. As readers, there is no alternative to accepting what Yoshimoto

is saying, or else a vital undertone of the story will be ignored.

This immediate announcement and explanation approach is also used when the final

death of the story is introduced. At the beginning of section 2, the first lines read: “Eriko died

late in the autumn” (Yoshimoto 44). The line sits baldly on the page—no build-up or

forewarning. Before the reader has a chance to process, an explanation is quickly followed. The

readers are put into a space where if they do not accept that Eriko is dead, nothing else that

follows will matter. She never forces her readers to believe everything she is writing. What she

does is force situations with which the reader readily accepts. This solidifies that through her

writing she leads readers to accept startling plot twists that would normally be drawn out,

causing readers to not dwell but instead move forward; which also ties into the relation between

her books and handling sadness, it is best to move forward. Slowing will not change the past.

Eriko dies and the readers are hit with information—not emotion. It is when Mikage and

Yuichi are spending their first real time together that the readers get a chance to examine how

they and the characters feel about the death. After hanging out, Yuichi falls asleep. Mikage leaves

him sleeping and exits the room: “I washed the enormous pile of dishes as quietly as possible,

and I cried and cried. Of course it wasn’t over having to wash all those dishes; I was crying for

having been left behind in the night, paralyzed with loneliness (Yoshimoto 67).” This is where
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the readers get an opportunity to really internalize and mourn Eriko’s death alongside Mikage.

Mikage says it is by the loneliness of Yuichi falling asleep that causes her to cry, but as a reader it

can be conferred that the root problem runs deeper, to the death of Eriko.

Yoshimoto’s writing, much the same with a few other Japanese writers, is done with an

ambient style of narrative that molds traditional techniques into a space where readers can

interpret and examine what is left unsaid (Roquet 103). Barriers between thought and reality are

somewhat dismantled, just enough to allow readers the ability to climb into the stories of these

Japanese writers and explore for themselves. Yoshimoto does this specifically in the moments

where she details one event in particular, isolating it from everything going on in the story that

surrounds it. But that one event relates to a grander scheme—like the dishwashing scene.

Through narration, Yoshimoto creates a world that exists almost totally on its own. The

events that happen: deaths, transvestites, Mikage traveling late at night to bring a depressed

Yuichi food, all breathe color into a unique world. An article talks specifically about the idea of

“Invented Tokyos” which is when Japanese authors (specifically Yoshimoto) create their own

reality of Tokyo (Chilton). Yoshimoto separates kitchen in such a way that it is a melding of both

life and thought. It can be taken as the retelling of a young woman’s journey, but it is also a

general framework of rebirth after devastation—which is a concept not unfamiliar to many.

Yoshimoto’s writing has been acclaimed to be forthright, nostalgic, and cathartic. She

feels she grew up during a time in Japan where the air was filled with “pervasive talk of the

tedium of life” (Treat 356). So through her writing, Yoshimoto sought to create within the world

a space which clings to the simple sides of life. Kitchen’s rawness reflects the human condition

so well that it causes even grown men to find relatability and sympathy with Yoshimoto’s

college-aged, female protagonist (Treat 360).

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Perhaps it is this frankness, this sincerity, which appeals to her readers. Not unlike

a self-help column in a newspaper or magazine, her commentaries are 'low-brow'

approaches to 'deep' questions about love, belonging, identity, or indeed, one's

metaphysical relationship with time and being. And while there are moments of great

emotional import in her stories, she rarely spends much time or effort in conveying them

(Chilton 18).

Amidst her cozy narration of dimly lit kitchen counters and late night snacking,

Yoshimoto’s protagonist subtly comes by startling realizations. Such as this one Mikage has after

a night of thoroughly cleaning Yuichi’s clearly abandoned kitchen: “No matter what, I want to

continue living with the awareness that I will die. Without that, I am not alive. That is what

makes the life I have now possible” (Yoshimoto 59-60). Yoshimoto does this on purpose, she sets

up a scene that invites the mind to wander between the words, and then hits the reader with a

deep moment of reckoning. This point in the story is a turning point which shifts the entire focus

of the story. Until here, the reader is unsure what direction Mikage is heading, but now it is clear

that she is choosing life, and a life worth remembering. This line also provides somewhat of a

catharsis to realize that amidst life, great thoughts, ideas, and changes can occur. Readers want to

believe good things are possible, and Yoshimoto presenting this line resonates and keeps readers

moving forward with Mikage.

Beyond this, Yoshimoto drops many one liners that add to the feel of her story without

telling the reader how to think or feel. In the scene following this revelation, Yuichi comes back

to the apartment with all the groceries Mikage had sent him out to buy. At this point in the story

the two friends are rekindling their relationship, and Yuichi is going through a difficult time with

the death of Eriko. Amidst the joking dialogue, and cutesy narration that has the reader
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adamantly wish Yuichi and Mikage were a couple, Yoshimoto slips in a sad line. Mikage is

poking fun at Yuichi for how many bags he had brought back from the store, and Yuichi discloses

“I bought a few things for myself.” To which Mikage narrates her thoughts “I peer into my bag.

Besides shampoo and notebooks, there were lots of ‘instant’ dinners: a clear indication of his

recent eating habits” (Yoshimoto 60).

Yoshimoto doesn’t say poor Yuichi has spent many nights eating alone, nor does she say

feel sorry for this character who is not motivated to cook for himself or leave the house to eat.

Instead she brushes over that Yuichi went ahead and purchased a lot of instant dinners—in spite

of the fact that Mikage was over now. Not only does this indicate Yuichi’s recent lifestyle of

being alone in his empty apartment, but it also shows that he is not holding out hope that things

will change even though Mikage is there now. None of this Yoshimoto says directly—no—she

simply writes the line and leaves it standing alone for the readers to feel and think about on their

own.

Yoshimoto creates an atmosphere where anything is accepted in her story through select,

carefully chosen words and sentences. She gives just enough information that the reader can run

with what they have, and then later she goes back to add more details. For instance, on page 14

of Kitchen, Eriko’s backstory is being told and Yuichi tells Mikage the change from man to

woman happened as a result of Yuichi’s real mother dying (Yoshimoto). At that time in the story,

the reader accepts that detail as all they really need to know in order to move forward believing

Eriko’s origin story. Then later on pages 79-81 the story behind how Yuichi’s mother died is told

in more detail (Yoshimoto). This follows the theme of Yoshimoto’s story narrative replicating the

process of grief. In the moment, the griever feels they have all the information they need to move
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on from a horrible situation. Only when they are really out of the situation can new insights (such

as the mother’s death story) have a deeper and more impactful presence.

Yoshimoto and a few other Japanese writers created a mood regulating style of writing

(Roquet 5). Their use of diction and syntax provide catalysts for an array of human emotions,

which embrace those feelings and provide a sort of therapy to the readers. One method to this

mood regulating style is ambiguity-through-transparency (Roquet 10). By using simple words

that have a depth not in their definition but in the context of which they are used, it allows

readers to not be caught up in the flowery language but instead in the emotion behind the words.

Yoshimoto does not trick her readers, she chooses to not explain everything at once and instead

leaves the transparency for her readers to accept and investigate the story for themselves. While

later inserting deeper information that now holds more meaning to the readers than it would have

initially.

Yoshimoto ends her story on a short note that leaves the readers wanting more. Again, her

use of brief language is what draws the story in, even at its close. Not only this, but she leaves

the story on a positive note that pretexts hope for a better future: “Yuichi sounded happy. [...].

The room was warm, filling with steam from the boiling water. I launched into what time I’d be

in and what platform I’d be on” (Yoshimoto 105).

Mikage and Yuichi are on the phone discussing Mikage’s return from a business trip.

Yoshimoto chooses to include the room’s warmth and steam of boiling water as the only

description of the setting. This subtle image provides all the reader needs to build a

heartwarming atmosphere. Her choice to end the story before their reunion again puts trust in the

readers to think and imagine for themselves. The readers intensely embrace what is written as a

cornerstone for what their imaginations will build after. Kitchen is a story that encapsulates the
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healing process. The words were not chosen to detail a story of someone living a happy life.

They were chosen to tell the story of someone just living, hoping for something better, and

existing in the moments at hand. None of this could have been done without Yoshimoto’s clean,

decisive writing.
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Works Cited:

Chilton, Myles. “Realist Magic and the Invented Tokyos of Murakami Haruki and Yoshimoto

Banana.” Journal of Narrative Theory, vol. 39, no. 3, 2009, pp. 391–415.,

www.jstor.org/stable/41427215.

Dollase, Hiromi Tsuchiya. "Choosing Your Family: Reconfiguring Gender and Familial

Relationships in Japanese Popular Fiction." Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 44, no. 4,

Aug. 2011, pp. 755-772. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1111/j.1540-5931.2011.00861.x.

Roquet, Paul. “Ambient Literature and the Aesthetics of Calm: Mood Regulation in

Contemporary Japanese Fiction.” Journal of Japanese Studies, vol. 35, no. 1, 2009, pp.

87–111., www.jstor.org/stable/27756619.

Treat, John Whittier. “Yoshimoto Banana Writes Home: Shojo Culture and the Nostalgic

Subject.” Journal of Japanese Studies, vol. 19, no. 2, 1993, pp. 353–387.,

www.jstor.org/stable/132644.

Yoshimoto, Banana. Kitchen. Trans. Megan Backus. New York: Grove Press, 1993. Print.