Peeling Banana Yoshimoto

The first time I encountered Banana Yoshimoto through her book, NP, I thought she was simply weird.

Now, after two years and 366 pages of Amrita – her lengthiest novel I assume, I find with some amusement her weirdness gradually seeping under my skin. Now, she’s no longer weird, just different.

It’s like meeting an old classmate who you hastily branded as a freak before just because he wore thick glasses and suspenders. And then, about seven years later, you meet at an office or something, and your work forces you to spend more time with each other.

You discover there’s more to him than thick glasses and suspenders. You explore other sides of him and find something disturbingly familiar. He echoes something in your own soul. For an instant, it makes you wonder if you’re a freak as well. But this time, you understand him. You realize that underneath it all, you’re woven from the same thread. And then, before you know it, just as children who’ve learned to play a game together, you become friends.

I imagine bumping into Banana Yoshimoto at a coffee shop. We probably wouldn’t stay long. I’d be itching to take her someplace where the air is clear and the colors are calm, just like at a beach maybe.

You see, reading Banana Yoshimoto is somehow like swimming in the great blue sea.

You float in a sea of emotions, aware that there is a certain depth that allows you to do so. Buoyed by the water, everything is in slow motion. You begin to entertain thoughts that, on land, are easily drowned out by city noise. Thoughts flow one after the other, seemingly disorganized, at random, but all connected somehow.

In the water, the song is different. The silence, the crashing waves, or the gentle splash of the sea makes its own musical genre. Even the sky is a different blue from when you’re on land.

You float and bask in the sensation of water lapping against your skin. You love it. You realize that the experience is lost when you rush, so it’s best done on a lazy afternoon or early morning.

When you think about it, there’s a bit of irony in the saltiness of the water and the sweetness of the air, yet it makes sense somehow. Once in a while, a fish, a seaweed, or seashell jars you to a biting reality.

You get used to bobbing in the water so much that you hate to go. But as you turn the last page, you return to dry land once more.

And then, just as the sun licks the last few droplets of seawater on your skin, it all becomes only a distant memory. Looking back at the sea, you’re never sure exactly what happened.

Only the sensation of something beautiful remains.