Sweet, sweet interiority. Plot seekers beware. This is a story of a child going on a trip with her mother to Tokyo and spending time together, primarily in a museum. And that’s if. Except that because of the interiority being so granular, it becomes a human experience. It is slow and rich and rhythmic, controlling the pace with sentence variation.

The prose themselves are remarkable for their simplicity and, at key moments, dolling out specificity while otherwise being primarily accessible, clear, and concise. Once the style is situated the author deftly has the thoughts of the character analyze with verisimilitude the events that ought to be mundane, but when informed by the granularity of thoughts and the connects—especially to the art she is consuming—heighten the experience to a human, and universal one.

It also does something I really like in my literature: placing, in a casual manner, exactly what the book is about in a way that makes a reader paying attention realize it, while the narrator does not. It creates a truism where every person, when framed and analyzed and voiced properly, becomes infinitely interesting and worthy of contribution to the general intellect. Then parallels it with the nourishing or enriching properties of consuming and being critical of art. Which, of course, this is as well.

Masterfully handled, I must say. Will be looking out for more from this author in the future.