6/28/2023 0 Comments Hiromi kawakami parade![]() he nested dreaminess of the text-its air of rapt involution-is partly a result of this desire to transcend narrative time. We’re left with an ash-skeleton of sorts, or whatever remains after a lazy afternoon has burned away-the fibrous weave of a rotted-through leaf, say, or the hollow lambency of a cicada shell. ![]() At only seventy-nine pages, the book is an alchemical feat of miniaturization, a distillation and bottling-up of the essence of a summer afternoon her slight, subtle prose turns so casually away from excess detail that the resulting image of reality is imbued with a curious weightlessness. ![]() You often get the impression that time has been loosened somehow, as though Kawakami were stringing it up leisurely on a washing line, careful to place her clothespins just so. Time unfolds on a human scale, marked by minor intimacies. there’s a slow sensuality at the core of Parade, a product of Kawakami’s relaxed faith in the blessedness of the quotidian. ![]() You don’t really need to be aware that Parade is a loose sequel to Kawakami’s previous novel, 2017’s Strange Weather in Tokyo, to enjoy the former, since it stands on its own as an enrapturing display of writerly grace and restraint. ![]()
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