Today's Finished Book: "Terroir of the Dead"
At the solo exhibition I held until recently, I displayed ceramic house objects alongside monochrome drawings of gardens I had created. The houses had a dull, aged-looking glaze from Mashiko ware, and my drawings depicted gardens that felt lived-in and slightly overgrown, filled with flowerpots and support stakes, so many people told me they felt a sense of nostalgia.
I also heard stories like, "My parents' house had sweet olive trees planted, and smelling them makes me feel nostalgic," or "Scent and memory have a very strong connection." It made me think that perhaps sight—that is, pictures—cannot compete with scent, or the sense of smell.
There are surely many reasons why we feel nostalgia, but I think that when we feel it, it is always because something is missing. Even if we smell a scent or listen to music, the scenery we imagine is never truly there. I think the reason people feel nostalgia when looking at my drawings is because they lack color, leading the viewer to imagine their own colors there.
The book I finished today is about memory and food. Here it is.
It is "Terroir of the Dead" by Masanori Sone.
The setting is Japan in 2061, which has become a dystopia. It is a collection of linked short stories revolving around memory and food, centered on the regulars who gather at Café Chloe, which is attached to a facility for assisted dying built in a rural area.
"You know, wild boars love bamboo shoots. But you see, bamboo shoots have a really strong astringency, don't they? Apparently, it gives them an upset stomach. That's why they say the meat of a wild boar in early spring is loose and not very tasty," Gentou-san says happily.
"That's why, when you cook it, you want to pair it with bamboo shoots. Even if they're dead, wouldn't the boar be happy if it were served on a plate with its favorite food?"
I wonder if that's how it works. Since I couldn't find a good way to respond, Shuka-san answered, "I'm sure it would be happy. When I die, I want them to put everything I loved in my coffin, too..."
I was overwhelmed by the conversation that mixed death, food, and memory.
"Even if they're dead, wouldn't the boar be happy if it were served on a plate with its favorite food?"
If I were to die someday, and at that time, the perfume I loved was sprayed, the food I loved was served, and the music I loved was played—even if my sense of smell, taste, and hearing were filled with things related to me, I wouldn't be there. But even if I weren't there, if those other senses were catching things related to me, I feel that the people mourning me would surely feel my presence even more strongly.
Masanori Sone, who wrote this novel, is the owner of the café "nicolas" in Sangenjaya, and recipes for pasta and cakes also appear in the novel.
Reading this book made me realize that eating uses not just the sense of taste but also the sense of smell, and is quite strongly linked to memory. Recipes of the deceased or recipes for dishes eaten with the deceased feel like keys to unlocking memories, and I find that quite mysterious—it makes me a bit of a romantic.
It was a book I borrowed from a friend who works at a café, and the binding was lovely. The text was printed horizontally and bound on the left, which somehow made me feel like I was reading someone's diary; it was a book with a wonderful presence.
My friend often goes to nicolas, but I have never been, so I think I will stop by next time I go to Sangenjaya.
I've somehow become a bit of a poet, rambling on.
But it was a wonderful book, so I wanted to introduce it. If you're interested, please check it out!
Well then, good night.
(Soejima)