‘Breasts and Eggs’ by Mieko Kawakami (Review – Book Two)

Earlier this week, I posted on the first part of Mieko Kawakami’s latest release in English, Breasts and Eggs (translated by Sam Bett and David Boyd, review copy courtesy of Picador Australia), and today (as promised) I’m taking a look at the second half of the novel (or, if you prefer, the sequel).  We’re back in Tokyo, and once again we’re confronting a very feminine dilemma, but this time the one facing an existential crisis isn’t Makiko, or even Midoriko, but Natsuko herself…

Book Two takes place in 2016, picking up the story eight years after the eventful few days described in the first part.  Natsuko is now a successful author, having released a collection of stories that has sold over 60,000 copies, and is working on her debut novel.  Back in Osaka, Makiko is the same as ever, cheeerfully working at the bar each night, but Midoriko is now an adult, a happy university student spending her summer holidays travelling with her long-term boyfriend.

It may seem that everything’s worked out for the trio, but in Natsuko’s case that’s not strictly true.  Her writing has ground to a halt, with the research for the novel going nowhere, and even if her editor isn’t putting her under any pressure, Natsuko feels as if she’s letting everyone down.  However, the real cause for concern is what’s happening away from her writing.  Now in her late thirties, she feels as if life is slipping by, and her fear of missing out is intensifying almost by the day – and yet it’s not love, or physical affection she craves, but something more tangible.  Is it too late, even at her age, and in her situation, to experience motherhood?

The second part of Kawakami’s story moves away from the family-driven drama of the original, and while you’ll be pleased to hear that Makiko and Midoriko do make appearances, this book is very much about Natsuko.  This is clear from the title of the revised Japanese edition, 夏物語 (Natsu Monogatori), which Kawakami’s English-language Wikipedia page translates as Summer Stories.  However, while both parts do take place (in part, at least) over the sweltering summer months, that rendering is slightly misleading for two reasons.  The first is that it ignores the standard translation of ‘monogatori’ in English, the most famous example of which is 源氏物語 (Genji Monogatori), or The Tale of Genji.  The second is that the Japanese title is actually a play on words involving Natsuko’s name.  You see, her friends call her Natsu, and the Chinese character representing that name is the same one that’s used for ‘summer’, meaning an equally valid translation could be The Tale of Natsu(ko). No wonder the English version stuck with Breasts and Eggs 😉

There are two main strands to the story, with one following Natsuko’s literary career.  The first chapters reveal more about Natsuko’s success, and her struggles, including a haughty editor who abandons her, and some serious mansplaining at a literary reading.  We’re also introduced to a couple of new characters, her second editor, Ryoko Sengawa, and Rika Yusa, a popular writer Natsuko quickly becomes close to.

Yet as the story develops, it’s Natsuko’s yearning for a child that becomes the main topic.  We learn more about why she’s alone, and has been for so long, from some frank admissions:

I understand wanting somebody beside you, wanting to hold somebody’s hand.  I’d felt those bursts of passion after saying something major, or when it hit me just how strong my feelings were.  I wanted to share this sensation, but once things started getting physical, my shoulders tightened, and I tensed up all over.  Passion and sex were incompatible for me.  They didn’t connect.
p.175 (Picador, 2020)

Having made the decision to avoid intimacy,  Natsuko suddenly fears that her choice of solitude has come at a cost, spurring her into a very different kind of research, and a sudden fascination with sperm donors and artificial insemination.  It’s on this journey that she meets a man, Jun Aizawa, who was born as a result of a donation, and has spent his whole adult life looking for his biological father.  He’s to become an important figure in the dilemma Natsuko is wrestling with.

Book Two of Breasts and Eggs, then, examines the topic of artificial insemination, and the wider issue of family types, in the Japanese context.  We learn very early on that it’s not quite as easy here as it is overseas, with government help restricted to traditional nuclear families, leaving single women and homosexual couples to fend for themselves.  In addition, the laws permitting anonymous donations (and protecting the identity of the donor) mean that any child Natsuko has would end up in the same position as Jun, forcing her to reconsider her options.

Meanwhile, our writer friend begins to take a closer look at those around her, realising that there are many different kinds of family, even in her inner circle.  There’s Rika, the single mum happy to have the occasional boyfriend and Sengawa, who is rich, busy and single.  Even the one married friend she talks to, her former bookshop colleague Rie, has issues, with a depressed husband and a family forcing her to move to another prefecture.  Then, of course, there are Aizawa and his partner Yuriko, both traumatised, for different reasons, and thoroughly determined not to bring a child into the world.

In addition to the ethical dilemmas Natsuko faces, there are more practical concerns as she begins to doubt whether she could cope, anyway.  Even here, she receives conflicting advice, ranging from Risa’s cheery optimism to Sengawa’s carefully worded doubts:

“Isn’t that the way life is?  There’s always something there, demanding all of your attention.  Once you start going, the work never ends, especially when you work for a company.  Life doesn’t change much except in those pivotal moments, right?  If you don’t get sick or, yeah, end up getting pregnant.  You know what I mean?”  Sengawa massaged the skin under her eyes.  “I don’t feel like I ever really made a conscious choice…” (p.271)

And yet that’s exactly what Natsuko is about to do, particularly when it is later made clear that having a child might just kill off the career she’s worked all her life to establish.

Many readers will have heard of Kawakami’s connections to Haruki Murakami, including a book published in Japan of her interviews with him, and there are more than a few nods in his direction in Breasts and Eggs.  The two parts bring to mind Murakami’s early books and their recurring protagonist, and even if Kawakami’s novel is mostly set in the real world, there is a heavy reliance on dreams that feels very familiar.  Most tellingly, for an attentive reader, there are lines that are also rather reminiscent of his work:

Like a row of white boxes, all lined up, the same shape and the same weight, the days of November came and went. (p.209)

Don’t deny it – that could have come straight from any Murakami novel you care to name.

Of course, Kawakami has a style and substance all of her own, and Breasts and Eggs is a well-crafted look at a very female, and Japanese, problem.  The slightly larger page count allows for a more measured pace than in the first part, and the writer strikes an excellent balance between weariness, tragedy and humour (including a running gag in which people assume the writer’s name – Natsuko Natsume – is a pseudonym).  Another nice touch was a scene where Rika discusses the use of Osaka dialect in writing, claiming that it never really seems to work (at which point, I’d refer you back to my review of Book One, where this is discussed in more detail!).  There are breakdowns, illnesses and deaths, but these are broken up by Natsuko’s surreal dreams and a few odd real-life encounters, the most impressive of which is a bizarre meeting with a potential sperm donor.  This is a scene that definitely sticks in the mind…

Many of the reviews I’ve glanced at since finishing the book seem to rate the original novella more highly, but if I’m honest, I probably enjoyed Book Two of Breasts and Eggs more.  I’m not sure everyone will agree, but I felt it showed that Kawakami, like her protagonist, had developed as an author in the time between writing the two stories.  Yes, some readers will feel a little sad that the family connections aren’t quite as strong this time around, but never fear.  Without wanting to give too much away, there is a happy ending to be enjoyed, and in a nice parallel (which even involves another ferris wheel!), we’ll be catching up with Makiko and Midoriko again before the story’s done.  In any case, whether your preference is for the condensed family tale or the more drawn-out existential drama, most readers will agree that this extended version of Kawakami’s early work is well worth seeking out, and I have a sneaking suspicion that we’ll be seeing the book on prize longlists over the coming year  🙂

11 thoughts on “‘Breasts and Eggs’ by Mieko Kawakami (Review – Book Two)

  1. Thanks for reviewing both parts individually. They do feel like separate works initially, but I think the same could be said about the two parts of Don Quixote as well, and that hasn’t damaged any of its reputation!

    I find it’s the dream passages, or similar passages, you mention that actually create and hold thematic and stylistic continuity between both parts of the novel. I know I’ll want to read the novel again to capture some of the structural and stylistic points Kawakami uses. From the first part to the second, it’s Kawakami’s descriptions of liminal stages like dreams, nightmares, being drunk, deep reflection, memories, and one other event (to not give away too much of the plot) that are described with such lucidity and immediacy so much as to seem fantastical or otherworldly. The two ferris wheel rides also connect the two parts and are essential to Natsuko’s development and decisions. There’s a hallucinatory quality to Kawakami’s realism, both in her descriptions of the liminal states and the ferris wheel scenes, that invites the reader to delve further into Natsu’s character or even into their own subconscious to reflect on the moral and philosophical implications raised in the novel. It’s as if she’s gone so deep into reality that realism itself has become “magical”.

    Many of the comparisons to Haruki Murakami, for me, seem more to stem from the fact that they are mutual admirers of each other’s work than their writing style, even though Kawakami mentions Murakami’s initial inspiration and influence. Kawakami, on the evidence of this work, gives us more delineated, complex and nuanced character development and gives her characters more psychological detail. There’s a bit more substance to the women and men in Breasts and Eggs. Murakami, for me, implies what is happening in his characters psyches through descriptions of external phenomena or fantastical sequences of action. The major difference is that Kawakami actually gives us rich, complex portrayals of women. Half the time I meet Murakami’s female characters, they come off as the creation of a heterosexual teenage male fantasy of what a woman is, and are less than complex human beings. But, I digress.

    It is interesting to note, going back to issues raised about the translation in the first review, that Kawakami herself thought Bett and Boyd did a good job translating her work. So, I guess if it was good for Kawakami, it should be good enough for us.


    1. Joseph – The dream passages certainly help to tie the two books together, and there are definitely deliberate attempts to link the two halves. I still think Book Two is more of a sequel than a continuation, though 😉

      As for Murakami, yes, his female figures aren’t often that great, but to be fair, I wasn’t overly convinced by Kawakami’s men, either. I do think there’s a lot connecting them, and that’s unsurprising as Murakami’s work and reputation will have overshadowed the younger generations of Japanese writers immensely. The choice would be to rebel or take on elements of his work, and I think that’s what Kawakami has done, even if she’s by no means completely following in his footsteps.

      As for the translation, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, just that LHK’s excerpts showed that there was definitely a less standard way in which the book could have been rendered in English (and is the writer the right person to judge the translation?).


      1. It’s funny you mention that about writers and translation because I was thinking of the following: didn’t Marquez say he thought Gregory Rabassa’s English translation of One Hundred Years of Solitude was better than his original Spanish? 😉

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Joseph – That just reminds me of Pelé and all the players he tipped as the best in the world, and the teams he predicted would win the World Cup – he was invariably wrong 😉


      2. Just to say a Tweet I posted about the first B & E book review, stating my own preference for the LHK translation, did get a ‘like’ from the author.


        1. Jamie – She’s liked a few tweets, but I’m not sure she’s expressing a preference! I did see an article somewhere which indicated she liked the later version…


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