Amalia Gkavea
“Maybe I’m just blessed with encounters with kind people today.”
In the Ginza neighbourhood in Tokyo, there is a very special stationery shop. Aided by an extremely polite, serene owner, people are able to write their thoughts in a unique notebook and find that the words flow like a river. Whether you’re too shy to talk to the one you love, feel inadequate to write an obituary for the only woman you ever loved, or want to thank someone who helped you advance in the world, the Shihodo paper, notebooks, and stationery treasures are there to assist you.
And when this premise is combined with the long tradition of Japanese calligraphy, washi paper, pens, and trivia that will make any stationery lover melt, you expect a novel that will blow your mind, take you to Japan, and heal your heart all at once. Besides, any book lover is also a stationery lover, right?
Yeah… it did not happen.
“Then, what am I to you? Are you telling me what you really think or just being polite?”
The five characters whose stories unfold in the novel are given chapters named after stationery items. Themes of loss, first love, regrets over misguided choices are interwoven with reflections on Japanese social norms. The competitiveness, the famed politeness that hovers between insecurity and emotional dishonesty, the control-freak mentality that drains every chance to enjoy life, the pressure of a deeply patriarchal society—where men must be perfect husbands and fathers, and women must sacrifice their dreams for marital and maternal duties—it’s an oppressive atmosphere that is, frankly, difficult for a European woman to stomach.
“After all, handwritten characters have expressions. They have laughing faces, crying faces, angry faces, happy faces, kind faces… Your mood at the time will be expressed directly.”
Fountain Pen:
A young man, always neat and composed, hovering between dignity and docility, wants to write a letter to his grandmother—the woman who raised him and instilled in him a quiet strength after his mother abandoned him. Sometimes, what we need is for the words to pour out along with our tears. And then, much may change for the better.
A moving introduction to the world of Shihodo.
Organiser:
I’m sorry to say I did not appreciate this story. I have a firm aversion to escorts of any kind, and for me, prostitution isn’t only about physical contact. The woes of a young woman who chose the lure of easy money over using her Humanities degree left me utterly cold.
Notebooks:
Teenage love—we get it, we’ve all been there. But all this tearful pining (and I do mean a lot of tears) over a boy with the personality of a control-freak potato didn’t make for a compelling chapter.
Frankly? I was bored.
Postcards:
A businessman, long the epitome of the scoundrel, must write the obituary of his (first) ex-wife—the only woman he ever truly loved. A bit melodramatic, but tender. And yet again, the misogyny that permeates Japanese society becomes glaring.
I mean, “Men who make women cry will only produce daughters”? Really?
Memo Pads:
Why would I care about the complexities of tea and sushi if there’s no compelling story attached? Memo pads, the sorrows of a sushi chef, and I was bored to tears.
A chapter as flavourless as cold rice.
I loved learning about the different ways to say “Welcome” in Japanese. I loved the details about calligraphy, stationery paper, and washi tapes (which I adore, by the way), and the evocative way flavours and scents can trigger memory. But that’s about it.
Where was the whimsical atmosphere? Where were the interesting characters? The dialogue was atrocious—likely a result of the translation. How many “oh”s and “hmms” do we need?
Whimsical imagery and memorable characters are the backbone of Healing Fiction—alongside, of course, the emotional themes. But in this novel, the imagery is weak, and the characters are practically non-existent. Even the shop owner is a cardboard cutout, a pale imitation of figures from more successful works in the genre.
This novel promised to be a balm for the soul, a love letter to stationery, memory, and all the unspoken things we carry. Instead, it gave me tears, tropes, and sushi metaphors. The Shihodo Stationery Shop might help fictional clients put their feelings into words—but as a reader, I was left with nothing much to say beyond: what a wasted opportunity.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“Maybe I’m just blessed with encounters with kind people today.”
In the Ginza neighbourhood in Tokyo, there is a very special stationery shop. Aided by an extremely polite, serene owner, people are able to write their thoughts in a unique notebook and find that the words flow like a river. Whether you’re too shy to talk to the one you love, feel inadequate to write an obituary for the only woman you ever loved, or want to thank someone who helped you advance in the world, the Shihodo paper, notebooks, and stationery treasures are there to assist you.
And when this premise is combined with the long tradition of Japanese calligraphy, washi paper, pens, and trivia that will make any stationery lover melt, you expect a novel that will blow your mind, take you to Japan, and heal your heart all at once. Besides, any book lover is also a stationery lover, right?
Yeah… it did not happen.
“Then, what am I to you? Are you telling me what you really think or just being polite?”
The five characters whose stories unfold in the novel are given chapters named after stationery items. Themes of loss, first love, regrets over misguided choices are interwoven with reflections on Japanese social norms. The competitiveness, the famed politeness that hovers between insecurity and emotional dishonesty, the control-freak mentality that drains every chance to enjoy life, the pressure of a deeply patriarchal society—where men must be perfect husbands and fathers, and women must sacrifice their dreams for marital and maternal duties—it’s an oppressive atmosphere that is, frankly, difficult for a European woman to stomach.
“After all, handwritten characters have expressions. They have laughing faces, crying faces, angry faces, happy faces, kind faces… Your mood at the time will be expressed directly.”
Fountain Pen:
A young man, always neat and composed, hovering between dignity and docility, wants to write a letter to his grandmother—the woman who raised him and instilled in him a quiet strength after his mother abandoned him. Sometimes, what we need is for the words to pour out along with our tears. And then, much may change for the better.
A moving introduction to the world of Shihodo.
Organiser:
I’m sorry to say I did not appreciate this story. I have a firm aversion to escorts of any kind, and for me, prostitution isn’t only about physical contact. The woes of a young woman who chose the lure of easy money over using her Humanities degree left me utterly cold.
Notebooks:
Teenage love—we get it, we’ve all been there. But all this tearful pining (and I do mean a lot of tears) over a boy with the personality of a control-freak potato didn’t make for a compelling chapter.
Frankly? I was bored.
Postcards:
A businessman, long the epitome of the scoundrel, must write the obituary of his (first) ex-wife—the only woman he ever truly loved. A bit melodramatic, but tender. And yet again, the misogyny that permeates Japanese society becomes glaring.
I mean, “Men who make women cry will only produce daughters”? Really?
Memo Pads:
Why would I care about the complexities of tea and sushi if there’s no compelling story attached? Memo pads, the sorrows of a sushi chef, and I was bored to tears.
A chapter as flavourless as cold rice.
I loved learning about the different ways to say “Welcome” in Japanese. I loved the details about calligraphy, stationery paper, and washi tapes (which I adore, by the way), and the evocative way flavours and scents can trigger memory. But that’s about it.
Where was the whimsical atmosphere? Where were the interesting characters? The dialogue was atrocious—likely a result of the translation. How many “oh”s and “hmms” do we need?
Whimsical imagery and memorable characters are the backbone of Healing Fiction—alongside, of course, the emotional themes. But in this novel, the imagery is weak, and the characters are practically non-existent. Even the shop owner is a cardboard cutout, a pale imitation of figures from more successful works in the genre.
This novel promised to be a balm for the soul, a love letter to stationery, memory, and all the unspoken things we carry. Instead, it gave me tears, tropes, and sushi metaphors. The Shihodo Stationery Shop might help fictional clients put their feelings into words—but as a reader, I was left with nothing much to say beyond: what a wasted opportunity.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/