A Tale for the Time Being
I have a complicated relationship with novels where the author self-inserts herself into a story that is supposed to be fictional. Of course, every fictional work has traces of its author, but every time I see the author in the pages, I get this ummmm moment. Mostly, it's downhill from there. Sometimes, I manage to look past it. Rarely, that very self-insertion makes me love the book more. A Tale for the Time Being is that rarity. The character Ruth is the author Ruth. I don’t know to what extent, but I suspect a lot, since this isn't just a novel where self-insertion somehow happens—this is a shishōsetsu.
Turns out shishōsetsu (Japanese confessional fiction that directly mirrors the author's real life) is right up my alley. A book saying beforehand, "I will be an I-novel and that is what you are going to read" is not the same as the muddy waters of unexpected self-insertion. Yet, I still can’t put my finger on what made the experience so unique. Maybe the Japanese aspect of it brings something to the table; maybe what was compelling to me was Ruth’s life and mind and soul, and that is pretty much it.
This is one of those times I am hesitant about the word "compelling" There are so many things happening in this book that shouldn’t happen to any human being. But there is love, and hope, and so much wittiness and supapawa to our sixteen-year-old Nao. There is the nobility of trying, alongside philosophy, and literature, and agency in the midst of horrible wars. I don’t know if there is enough good to counter the bad, but I am using the word "compelling" not "depressive" so...