I wake in the darkness before dawn, flailing among the agonized shreds of dreams that still linger in my consciousness, searching for a burning sense of anticipation. (...) In every part of my body, I perceive separately the distinct weights of flesh and bone, sensations that coalesce into a dull ache within my consciousness, reluctant to resurface into the light. (...) I have slept with my arms and legs curled to the side, in the posture of one unwilling to recall his own nature or the circumstances in which he finds himself.

This is the novel’s opening; it encapsulates the essential traits of a narrative that is oneiric yet deeply rooted in reality: the refuge of dreams to flee suffering—the latter manifested through bodies often described in grotesque terms; memory as a prison enclosing a human destiny already doomed; the ambiguity of familial and social ties, thickened by resigned silences and unspeakable memories. We find ourselves before a stream of consciousness set against a backdrop portrayed both naturalistically and like a dark fable. Mitsui, the first-person narrator, is shattered by the tragicomic suicide of a friend. His life is already scarred by his son’s monstrous disability and his wife’s alcoholism; furthermore, tragic family events weigh upon him, their recollection repressed yet ever-present in his consciousness. Perhaps to effect a turning point in his life, he accepts the invitation of his brother Taka to return to the village at the edge of the “mighty” forest, where the family home stood and where they grew up as children. It is a return to the past: for Mitsui, a desperate hope for change that translates into the definitive awareness of his estrangement from the world; for Taka, a desire for self-punishment enacted by retracing dramatic events that engulfed their family. In 1860, upon the fall of the Shogunate, their great-grandfather’s brother led a peasant uprising, later bloodily suppressed; at the end of the Second World War, in the very same village, a brother died in a clash between Japanese and Koreans, the latter prisoners of war. Seeking to retrace the deeds of his uncle and brother, Taka decides to lead the villagers in pillaging the local supermarket, owned by a Korean known as “The Emperor” (perhaps to confer upon him a sacred aura, Korean as he is!). Mitsui remains aloof from the events, curling further into his stupor, while Taka emerges as a vigorous and cunning leader; yet it is all a charade through which Taka seeks to punish himself for a grave sin: as a youth, he raped his disabled sister, driving her to suicide. Taka confesses to a murder he did not commit and then, disbelieved by Mitsui, kills himself.

He looked like a life-size plaster dummy, entirely red and dressed only in trousers.

shouts the wife to Mitsui, who tries to justify himself.

You reject people and let them die, and the only thing you can do to make amends is cry out in your sleep: “I have abandoned you!” (...) In the deep gloom of the cellar, stirred by swirling eddies of wind, I saw the eyes of a dying cat. (...) As I contemplated them in the darkness, the eyes of my cat, a companion of many years, became the eyes of Taka, the eyes of the great-grandfather’s brother I had never known, and the eyes of my wife, red as plums; and they all merged into a luminous circle that was rapidly asserting itself as an undeniable part of my being. (...) And I would survive in an agony of shame, beneath the light of those stars, peering with my single eye and the timidity of a mouse into a vague, dark outside world...

The setting is similar to that of The Water Forest (see the review on this site), and certain historical references are analogous, such as the peasant uprisings of 1860, but the narrative structure is profoundly different. Unlike in The Water Forest, here the first-person narrator is redundant, just as the familial relationships are intricate, unfolding along two axes: the bond between Mitsui and Taka, a mixture of affection and revulsion, and the former's relationship with his wife, which seemingly remains in the background.

Remaining silent for a moment and then staring at me with eyes full of desperate hostility, this time red from tears rather than whisky, my wife said to me:

When the time comes when, as you say, we must acknowledge that there is no turning back, perhaps then we will be a little kinder to each other!

Despite the complex interplay of themes and narrative layers, perhaps the unifying meaning of the novel lies in the acceptance of the disabled child—the sole possibility for rebuilding a relationship torn apart by merciless fate.

The narrative unfolds slowly, with numerous references and digressions, as if the author were wary of uncovering the depths of consciousness too quickly. One is captivated by the spell of the words, rich in psychological and social resonance; yet an oppressive sense of claustrophobia looms over everything, offering no glimpse of development or resolution, so that reading becomes burdensome and one reaches the novel's end with difficulty.

Why read it? Splendid prose, and the haunting allure of pain and death.

The Silent Cry