Japanese literature is usually more subtle that what more popular literature is. Yoko Ogawa is one of my most favorite authors and her writing is always like that: implying things rather than plain out stating them; mundane (or even absent) storylines instead of fast-paced adventurous stories. There's always a hidden tension that's slowly built. This book was written 30 years ago, nearly half a century after the crimes of WWII. To me the most shocking message of the book was the things people can get used to. If I remember correctly (it's been more than 2 years since my 1st read), people have a limb or two missing by the end and they still adjust, they still do not question, they still keep going with their days till they cease to exist. Isn't it like the atrocities and crimes humanity has had to go through? Isn't this gradual way that these people on this unnamed island lost words and meanings and body parts without reacting the same way that we tolerated such horrible crimes? And isn't historical amnesia what's making us repeat the same mistakes over and over again? Also don't forget that Japan's crimes in WWII were denied and unspoken for many years. I remember reading an article about how the Memory Police was the "easy" target to blame, when we forget the peoples "responsibilities" (and how this had a parallel meaning to Japan's own history). It's easier to put the blame on the (very) obvious "bad guy" instead of looking inside ourselves for how we facilitate some events. There's always a historical context within which some books must be read. Of course I know not all books are for everyone (and I had absolutely no intention to get too political), however I felt the need to share my feelings and thoughts.
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