Hulttio's Reviews > Mina's Matchbox

If you wanted to describe Mina in a few words, you might say she was an asthmatic girl who loved books and rode a pygmy hippopotamus. But if you wanted to distinguish her from everyone else in the world, you’d say that she was a girl who could strike a match more beautifully than anyone.

This book encapsulates much of why I love Japanese literature. The characters’ inner psychological reality meaningfully mingles with the plot in a way that it tends not to in western fiction. Also—this focus is brought down to earth with an eye toward the almost mundane, ordinary aspects of life, at the same time elevating those same concerns. Mina’s Matchbox is a coming-of-age narrative, a snapshot of a year (1971–1972) in the life of our protagonist, Tomoko, when she goes to stay with her fancy cousin, Mina. They are well-off, live in a large house, and have a hint of the foreign, with a German grandmother providing an otherworldly, “exotic” quality to that branch of the family. Yet, all is not as it seems—her uncle has frequent disappearances that no one talks about, her German grandmother has a certain forlorn look when seeing her old pictures, and even Mina seems desperate to experience something of the outside world that she is restricted from due to her health.

The blurb almost does this book a disservice. It sets it up to appear like some tantalizing mystery; but the mystery is not some cliched third act reveal; rather, it is the all too real and infinitely more significant act of a child coming to understand the complexities and nuance inherent in family life, even when material wealth and needs are accounted for. Coming from Tomoko’s position—a family that isn’t particularly well-off, and a newly single mother—it seems like having money and status is the key; but for Tomoko, her year with Mina is a revelation that this is not the case at all.

The plot is told through vignettes of memory: an older Tomoko recollecting and savoring her childhood memories. In this aspect, it reminded me of ‘Only Yesterday’, one of my favorite Ghibli movies. (I watched it when I was the same age as the protagonist, and it had such a tremendous effect on me—the power of examining your childhood, the good and bad altogether, is a fantastic narrative to explore.) Ogawa takes this thematic element and weaves a web of immersive memories. Though I typically prefer plots more structured, in Japanese fiction I’m better able to let go of this need for external structure; the journey, not the destination, is itself satisfactory due to its telling. That is not to discount the individual events—there are few things more poignant than the inclusion of a beloved pet pygmy hippo, for instance. (Pochiko is on the cover of the US edition, which is a great move—kudos to the designer; in some ways, Pochiko is as much as an emblem of that summer in Mina and Tomoko’s lives as any other, and especially an emblem of Mina herself.)

Many of the turns in the story are seen through the simplistic clarity of a child’s eyes, such as the boundless wonder and anticipation for a rare meteor shower, or the merriment in pushing your friend towards their crush, or even the realization that the adults we look up to are not as infallible as we believe; such simple moments take on a certain nostalgia that is a recurring theme in the book. For much of the short novel, this nostalgia almost felt like an omen—surely, there must be some harrowing, inescapable end towards which we are being shuttled; perhaps this is merely another aspect of my western bias. The denouement is there, but it is not a sharp fall from a cliff—rather, it is a gradual unwinding, like the end of a rollercoaster, though not quite so abrupt. It felt like having tea with Tomoko and, before you know it, the time to depart and go home has arrived.

The characters of Mina and her family are surprisingly dynamic, given that this is a memory—Ogawa imparts much depth on them, even in such a short time span. Mina is a precocious preteen with an overwhelming yearning for books and creating stories, and truly, what reader can’t connect with that? It was especially interesting to see how Tomoko and Mina’s interactions are characterized by the former—first, as a kind of admiration, a gratitude for being taken into her confidence; later, it becomes a kind of protectiveness, a desire to help as an older sibling might. This, in turn, normalizes Mina and her ‘otherworldly’ family. There were more relatable moments, like Mina’s mother being obsessed with typos, or Mina and Tomoko getting swept up in the fervor of the 1972 Olympics; these added a unique complexity to what might otherwise be a standard narrative. (I also had never heard of the Munich Massacre/Black September, which seems almost embarrassing to admit now, given current events; it makes me slightly regret not taking care to visit the site of the Olympic Village when I had the chance.)

The setting, the seaside town of Ashiya, was fascinating, if not quite picturesque; much of the plot hinges on Tomoko and Mina being somewhat secluded in her country-house. They are but a short 15–30-minute drive away from the city, but given the uncle’s frequent disappearances, the children end up mostly staying at home, with Tomoko’s occasional trips to the library on the local bus. Ashiya is essentially quite suburban, but Mina’s home, settled on a dramatic cliffside with a view to the mountains, almost feels like a fantasy land—their house even had its own petting zoo for a time, so the atmosphere certainly fits. The setting of the scenes may be the light-bath room or the living room in front of the TV, nothing extraordinary; yet, it still feels magical, tinged in that dreamy style of memory.

Ogawa’s writing style is conversational, given the older Tomoko’s narration; it is also delightfully prosaic. In translation, it can seem somewhat stilted at times, but this is also something I have come across in other translated Japanese fiction—whether it is a style inherent to Japanese literature or merely a quirk of translating it, I can’t determine. In any case, it is a credit to the translator, Stephen Snyder, that the narrative voice of Tomoko still shines through so vividly. It was quite refreshing coming from contemporary western fiction where authors try to cram three similes into a paragraph in an effort to be ‘literary’. Western authors, take note—sometimes less really is more.

The narrative style can seem disjointed at times, but this only further reflects the nature of memory and remembering, with certain elements taking us on tangents and others abruptly fading into wisps. Moments of what were once great sorrow or joy can become weathered over time, like a well-worn lucky stone that is rubbed frequently; but a slight jolt of reminder can revive those emotions to their original strength. I am also envious of how vibrant Tomoko’s memory is—not only the events, but the smells, textures, and colors are all as alive for her as they were when the events happened; as someone with a patchwork memory who can barely remember a year ago, let alone my childhood, I was impressed. Naturally, this power comes from intentional remembrance on Tomoko’s part—she is surprised to realize that her memories of the summer of 1972 were tucked away in a dusty corner, all but forgotten, until she deigned to examine them. Memory necessarily involves acknowledging that the events in question have come and gone, never to be ours again; thus, memory is but a fleeting shadow of the real thing. For humans, time is a linear experience, and we all race towards the natural end—from a child’s perspective, coming to grips with this sentiment is a notable turning point in one’s maturity.

As with The Memory Police, which Ogawa is perhaps better known for in the west, memory and identity are central themes. Tomoko’s memory, of course, is the whole premise—and a remarkable one at that, one so vivid in its retelling as to seem invented. Of course, Tomoko admits as much at points—her recollection is only so powerful, and certain moments or phrases have to be imagined; but this rather adds to the credibility of her memory, rather than detract from it. Every memory we examine has a hint of retelling and embellishing to it, as our brains naturally fill in gaps with what we expect to see. I also loved the references to the literary greatness of Yasunari Kawabata, a fantastic author whom I’ve only recently come to appreciate. The power of stories is another anchoring point—Mina’s titular matchboxes aren’t just sources of flame, but they are inspiration for her stories based on the weird or random art on their covers. (Maybe I’m just too young, but did matchboxes really have such odd covers? Is that a Japanese thing, or a mid-twentieth century thing?)

Moreover, as with any coming-of-age tale, the growth of Tomoko and Mina (as well their relationship) is a large focal point; much of this only comes to fruition toward the end of the novel, but I appreciated how it nevertheless ties everything together from the beginning, much like in ‘Only Yesterday’. We are who we are precisely because we are the culmination of our experiences, the mundane and the extraordinary alike. And much like that film, it has left me with a deeper appreciation for the time I have already spent and will continue to spend, a renewed opportunity to be more mindful of the everyday—the good, the bad, and even the boring—because once this time is gone, it will be gone. This might be a good candidate for a re-read. I would certainly recommend this book to anyone who would enjoy reminiscing over childhood memories or who is obsessed with the moving power of memory or ‘memento mori’, or one who enjoys simple yet powerful narratives about who we are and how seemingly innocuous moments in our lives can nonetheless influence the course of one’s life. I certainly walked away from this book feeling a certain nostalgia and secondhand appreciation for what has passed; I can only hope to bottle up this buoyant feeling in my review like one of Mina’s matchbox stories to enjoy years from now.

Disclaimer: I received this book as an ARC from NetGalley. Thank you to Pantheon Books and the author for the opportunity to read and review this book. My review reflects only my honest opinions.

Quotations are cited from an uncorrected proof and may be revised in the final edition.

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘It made me a little sad to think that even if you were born in a wonderful house like this, you couldn’t just stay there, warm and cozy, for the rest of your life.’
※ ‘Even though we understood none of the words she was saying, it was clear that she had lost none of her German, and the brilliance of her language came through as though the past fifty-six years had never happened. When the door of her memory was opened, she was able to bring back every syllable with perfection, despite having no one around her to speak them to.’
※ ‘I felt the events of that summer in Ashiya return with almost suffocating power. The texture of the carpet we sat on in front of the television, the shape of the scarves worn by the Black September group, the smell of Pochiko’s droppings on the volleyball . . . everything came back to me in an instant, and with it came sadness; much like Nekoda, that summer had disappeared to some faraway place where I’d never be able to find it again.’
※ ‘It’s extraordinary that the human body can express itself in so many ways through a single ball.’
※ ‘So, she thought, a bit relieved, even when you die, you don’t disappear. Matter doesn’t vanish, it transforms. She imagined herself becoming an insect shell or a shooting star when she died, and she had a feeling she’d be able to sleep peacefully now. She snuggled into her bed, on top of the many dead things she’d hidden underneath.’
※ ‘It’s not that we’ve grown apart or lost track of each other, but simply that time has slipped away much more quickly than we could have imagined when we were young. And yet, with the passage of time, even as the distance has increased, the memories of the days I spent with Mina in Ashiya have grown more vivid and dense, have taken root deep in my heart. You might even say they’ve become the very foundation of my memory.’
※ ‘And when I recall those things, I feel somehow that the past is still alive, still watching over me.’
※ ‘Being an agent for translated literature isn’t exactly glamorous, but still it brings me small and often quite amazing pleasures. Today, at a bookstore in town, I saw a young girl buying a picture book I helped publish.’