The first quarter of All the Lovers in the Night had me hooked. I sat with my pencil, underlining everything that made sense to me, anything that allowed me to see myself in her. However, as I progressed further, restlessness began to creep in. It wasn't just the lack of headspace to digest such a book, but also the fact that the book seemed to drag on endlessly, going nowhere. I picked it up again after a month’s break simply because I grew tired of seeing it gather dust; it had almost become an eyesore, staring at me from the nightstand.

There is no doubt there’s beauty in Kawakami’s words. There’s even a glimmer of life, albeit small, in Fuyuko’s world. It’s not entirely hopeless—both the book and Fuyuko’s life. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of me to compare it to her older works (which I’ve loved). However, I wish I had liked it more.