A quiet, thoughtful YA novel about a soul given a second chance inside the body of a boy who has died by suicide. Gentle, but not shallow, and surprisingly good at reminding you how much you don’t see in other people, or in yourself.

My first time reading Ichiyo Higuchi, and I didn’t expect to love it this much. Five Meiji-era stories set in working-class Tokyo, full of sharp observation and women who feel real on the page. “Troubled Waters” and “Growing Pains” were standouts, and the new translation reads beautifully.

This book introduces the life and work of Chiyo-ni (1703–1775), one of Japan’s most celebrated haiku poets and a woman who built a literary life in a world that rarely made space for women. Poet, artist, and later a Buddhist nun, Chiyo-ni lived a life shaped by both discipline and quiet observation.

The book moves from her life and historical context into her poetry, presenting the haiku in multiple forms alongside artwork, calligraphy, and helpful explanations. It’s not a book to rush through. It asks you to slow down, read carefully, and return to certain pages more than once. Some poems need guidance to fully open up. Others arrive whole.

A sad but gentle healing novel that knows exactly what it’s doing. The Calico Cat at the Chibineko Kitchen follows people carrying deep grief as they share meals that allow them one brief moment with someone they’ve lost.

A strange, playful book that keeps shifting its tone and direction. When the Museum Is Closed leans into oddness, quiet humor, and moments of connection that don’t follow logic so much as feeling. What stayed with me wasn’t the premise itself, but the way the book pays attention to who gets to move freely, who is observed, and how women carve out space for one another.

A quiet, observational book that pays close attention to how people think, move, and exist inside time. The End of the Moment We Had isn’t driven by plot so much as by interior life, small interactions, and emotional distance. What stayed with me most wasn’t the larger structure of the book, but a moment of stillness and recognition in its second piece, where nothing dramatic happens and yet everything feels familiar.

A short, unsettling novella that refuses soft edges. In Hunch Back, Saou Ichikawa gives us Shaka, a disabled woman who will not be softened into a symbol. The voice is sharp, sometimes grotesque, but always real. It left me unsettled and still thinking about body, desire, and judgment.

Natsuo Kirino’s Swallows tackles surrogacy, women’s rights, and the question of what a woman’s body is worth. A novel about power, choice, and the uneasy space between autonomy and control, it left me both frustrated and thoughtful in equal measure.

A bleak vision of Japan’s collapse where the old live on without end and the young fade before they’ve begun. Yoko Tawada’s slim novel is sad, strange, and a reminder of how political choices shape even the most private lives.

A soft, food-filled novel about healing and connection, The Restaurant of Love Regained is a gentle reminder that comfort can be cooked one dish at a time.

A luminous and deeply interior novel about loneliness, invisibility, and the small, slow movements toward connection. All the Lovers in the Night lingers long after the last page.