All Books, All the Time
Jocelyne Allen (Canada)

I come from a family of readers. Books were everywhere in my home—on bookshelves, end tables, on the bathroom counter much to the chagrin of my mother. My father even had one of those old mass-market paperback spinners, the kind you used to see at the grocery store, in the basement where he kept his impressive collection of Louis L’Amour novels. One of the earliest memories I have is of “reading” a book to my baby brother.

But for all the many stories I read in all the many genres I was interested in, I came to Japanese literature rather late, all things considered. The “Cool Japan” explosion had yet to begin; manga was something for hardcore comics nerds with a lot of disposable income. All of the Japanese media I did consume, things like Astroboy and Battle of the Planets, were carefully repackaged for North American consumption, all traces of Japanese-ness removed, so much so that I didn’t even know they had originated in Japan until I was an adult.

My first encounters with Japanese literature—at least the real and memorable ones—didn’t come until I moved to northern Japan and found myself bereft of new books, all because I couldn’t read the language. (The internet was in its infancy and ebooks were still a far-away dream at this point.) I read and re-read the English books I’d brought with me and the random paperbacks that were passed around the English-speaking community. But a bibliophile without a steady supply of books is a sad thing indeed, so I diligently set myself to the task of studying Japanese and learning to read.

All of which is to say that I perhaps came to Japanese literature in a strange way. Without reading any of the work that had been translated into English by giants of Japanese translation like Donald Keene, I learned about the literature at the same time as I learned to read the language. And what really struck me then and remains an important aspect of Japanese literature for me to this day is the accessibility of it.

There are the obvious entry points—bookstores are everywhere in Japan, a treasure trove that still amazes my Canadian self. Even a large city like Toronto doesn’t have bookstores dotting the landscape, one at nearly every train station the way Tokyo does. And while Tokyo is certainly the bookstore capital of Japan, making a comparison of bookstore density a little unfair, there was a well-stocked bookstore even in my small town in Akita, with two or three larger ones in the neighbouring city. That small-town bookstore would also deliver to your home or office way back before online shopping was even a twinkle in the internet’s eyes. And of course, there are also libraries everywhere, in addition to used bookstores, random book fairs, and flea markets. Japan is a place where it’s very easy to get a book.

But other kinds of accessibility were more surprising to me. The whole system of publishing literature itself is more open to would-be writers and aspiring book professionals than what I was familiar with in North America where there are very few, rocky paths to publication and a whole messy system of agents and a few large publishing houses.

Japan has many more publishers of all sizes putting out every kind of book imaginable, and almost all of those publishers have some kind of new writer contest to scout new talent.
Up-and-coming writers can submit their work to these contests, and the winners will often have that work published in addition to being assigned an editor to work with them and hone their voice. There’s a support system in place to nurture writers and help them develop life-long careers.

The system of editors working so closely with writers is something I’ve also admired, and in my opinion, this is another point of access for Japanese literature. With editors generally having more experience in the publishing industry, they can provide something like on-the-job training for new writers, teaching them the ins and outs of the industry. They also teach writers the importance of deadlines by locking them up to write in hotel rooms or a spare room for that purpose at the publisher’s head office. This is not a joke. The Japanese publishing industry is serious about books.

These points of entry encourage a more diverse variety of people to write, since they know that there is a future for them in the industry and that they will be supported by publisher and editor alike. And this diversity is a true gift to readers. We have so much to choose from, so many voices to hear, stories to encounter, viewpoints to consider. We can read about a very ugly girl and her cat (Nishi Kanako’s Kiriko ni Tsuite), or visit a fantastical Heian-era Japan populated by shapeshifting crows (Abe Chisato’s Yatagarasu series), or get a glimpse of life in a bento lunch factory and the difficulties of being working class with a dash of murder and organized crime (Kirino Natsuo’s Out). There’s fantasy, science fiction, mystery, drama, slice of life, cooking, combinations of all of the above, and so much more.

The accessibility of books and literature in Japan means readers have an endless wealth of treats to choose from. But without the ability to read Japanese, that embarrassment of riches remains locked behind a glass door—you can see all the pretty treasures, but you can’t engage with them. All of which is why I’m very glad I taught myself to read Japanese and eventually became a translator of those treasures. Most of these goodies won’t be translated into English, and I want to read them. But I also want to do whatever I can to share the richness of Japanese literature with English readers and make it even more accessible to global audiences. More books for everyone!

(Translator/ Interpreter)