Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto
A few things I know. Don’t trust people who compliment you right off the bat. Or, never keep a dark secret if you don’t know the reasoning behind it. I know these things because of what people refer to as “the hard way.” And because, in the words of basketball legend Tim Hardaway, “I take my son to school and then I drive 45 minutes to practice with my ABA team, the Florida Pit Bulls, from ten to one. In the afternoon I have meetings.” Life goes on and on, and no one remembers who you once were, what you once took for granted, besides you.
Right now, I am without a kitchen, in a hotel room in Thailand, and so reading Banana Yoshimoto’s 1988 novel, Kitchen, only depresses me all the more. Perhaps if I had both book and room, I could handle Yoshimoto’s digging digging digging to the back of my refrigerator. But as it stands, this book has moved all of my contents. Shifted great portions of me.
My life’s not all that bad. I own a computer, I live in an apartment (normally), and my eighteen-year old sister recently gave me a pair of Beats by Dre headphones she wasn’t using. Still, I feel something is missing. If you have such a hole in yourself, be forewarned; Banana Yoshimoto has a long spoon, and she points it directly into that void