Contemporary Japanese women writers are reshaping both domestic and global literary landscapes through subversive, critically acclaimed works—reviving a historic female literary tradition that dates back to the Heian period.

When I read Western literature, I gravitate towards male authors. Always have. I’m not aware of this being a calculated decision and I try not to make value judgments based on the name printed on a book’s spine. But if I’m wandering the aisles of my local bookstore, I’m much more likely to pick up a novel by David Mitchell or Stephen King or Kevin Barry, than one by Zadie Smith or Toni Morrison. It feels like a subconscious process, but perhaps I’m drawn to authors whose personal experience, with adolescence, failed relationships, sense of purpose, or self-doubt, is more likely to mirror my own.

But I can’t really explain it, at least no more than I can explain why the inverse is true with Japanese literature in translation. When I recall the Japanese books that have stuck with me most in recent years, it’s novels by Sayaka Murata, Mieko Kawakami, Rie Qudan, Yoko Ogawa, and Yu Miri. I’m not the most obvious target market for these authors, most of whom explore the emancipation of women in a patriarchal society and what defines “normal” in modern Japan. Apart from living as a foreigner in Tokyo for several years – by definition making me an outsider – these themes have little in common with my day-to-day life. But still I find myself swept up in Japan’s contemporary women-in-literature movement.

Taste and preference are such innately subjective things that I think most of us would struggle to define in simple terms why we like the types of art we like. There’s the thrill, excitement, joy, and emotional resonance of a good story. There’s art that leaves us feeling morose and melancholy, and art that acts like a soothing balm for the soul. But what are the connective threads? What are the probing questions that arise time and again? What are the core ideas that bind our favorite works of art together?

The one overarching theme I could draw between the abovementioned authors’ novels is subversion – often taking the form of feminism – but even that is more prevalent in some books than it is in others. Sayaka Murata is wild and free and unabashedly disruptive; a literary bull in a china shop. While Yoko Ogawa captures struggle, despair, and autonomy through dreamy postmodernism and the strangeness of memory.

In Japan, where the nail that sticks out gets hammered down, it’s interesting to see this kind of subversive literature not just surviving, but thriving. Rie Qudan’s Sympathy Tower Tokyo recently won the Akutagawa Prize, the most prestigious literary award in Japan, and almost immediately its English translation flooded foreign book markets. The short, pithy novel challenges conformity, the pervasiveness of artificial intelligence, and how society misunderstands trauma and delegates empathy. Murata is an even greater success story, selling millions of copies of her books domestically and winning numerous literary awards, despite being a kind of enfant terrible. Three of her most successful novels, Convenience Store Women, Vanishing World, and Earthlings, have been translated into English, each of which is an eccentric social critique, spearheaded by a female protagonist living in the margins. If art is a vehicle for exploring the unknown – not so much about probability as possibility – then there’s an obvious allure to reading such flights of fancy.

Mieko Kawakami may view it in more uncompromising terms. The highest profile, overtly feminist novelist in Japan, she offered a pointed critique during a published conversation with Haruki Murakami 2017:

“On the one hand, your work is boundlessly imaginative when it comes to plots, to wells, and to men, but the same can’t be said for their relationships with women. It’s not possible for these women to exist on their own. And while female protagonists, or even supporting characters, may enjoy a moderate degree of self-expression, thanks to their relative independence, there’s a persistent tendency for women to be sacrificed for the sake of the male leads. So the question is, why is it that women are so often called upon to play this role in Murakami novels?”

Murakami may be Japan’s most popular author, but he rarely renders female characters in more than one dimension. Is it any wonder that some women readers are spending their money elsewhere, seeking solace or entertainment in books with more relatable characters? This, combined with middle-aged women’s high reading rates in Japan, could explain why women are achieving parity in commercial and critical literary circles, despite the gender gap in other areas of society.

Writing Before Their Time

Though this all seems like a 21st-century trend, there is a historical precedent for female authors having a prominent voice in Japanese literature. During the Heian period (794-1185), ladies of the court, writing in their own vernacular script, penned diaries and sprawling works of fiction, full of politicking, eroticism and intrigue, that offer fascinating insights into the lives of the aristocracy during Japan’s Golden Age.

The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu is the best-known. Often cited as the first novel ever written, it’s still considered a masterpiece of world literature, holding an exalted status in Japan similar to that of Hamlet or Macbeth in the English-language canon. Sei Shonagon’s The Pillow Book has also stood the test of time. Written by a court lady in service of an empress consort around the turn of the 11th century, the fragmentary assortment of narratives, musings, and lists was never designed for public consumption, according to a note included by Shonagon at the end of the book. Though scholars debate the veracity of that claim, the book’s wit, personality, and sharp observations have ensured it's still in publication a thousand years later. No matter that The Pillow Book is basically incomprehensible in its original form, as one of its translators, Meredith McKinney, observed. That appears to be the source of its everlasting beauty.

What followed the Heian literary boom was more than 300 years of internecine conflicts, meaning war histories became the dominant form in literature in Japan. Then, during the Edo period (1603-1868), Japan saw the rise of the poets and playwrights, with Matsuo Basho, Kobayashi Issa, Kawatake Mokuami, and Chikamatsu Monzaemon etching themselves into the annals of history. Women were consigned to the fringes of literary prestige, composing poems, memoirs, and letters in castle wings and Buddhist convents, none of which achieved the stardom of the Heian classics. This mirrored women’s diminished status in an empire that was dominated by military elites for centuries.

In the late 19th century, Ichiyo Higuchi broke new ground, becoming the first professional woman writer in Japan. Higuchi, who died aged 24, published short stories about urban slum dwellers and women subjected to lives of prostitution and domestic violence, which won the acclaim of male contemporaries like Mori Ogai. Yukie Chiri also left her mark on the Japanese literary world before dying at a young age. In the early 1900s, Chiri became the first person to transcribe and translate Ainu godsongs into modern Japanese, and in doing so, preserved a collection of ancient indigenous hymns that would otherwise have been lost to history. Fumiko Enchi deserves credit, too. A Showa-period author who challenged power dynamics in Japanese society long before it was fashionable, she wrote postwar masterpieces like Masks and The Waiting Years, and was eventually awarded the distinguished Order of Culture by Emperor Hirohito in 1985.

It’s difficult to draw a direct line connecting Murasaki Shikibu, the nun-poets of medieval Japan, Ichiyo Higuchi, Fumiko Enchi, and the contemporary women of letters. But when writing as a minority, as was traditionally the case for female authors, it only makes sense to admire and be encouraged by those who blazed trails before you. That Mieko Kawakami has called Ichiyo Higuchi a “major inspiration” is no coincidence.

Removing barriers is one thing, actually selling books is another. Readers are not immune to commercial forces; I know I’ve bought some novels because they were screaming at me from colorful bookstore displays. But I wouldn’t have read Convenience Store Women thrice if I didn’t think it was brilliant, if it didn’t have an irreverent tone that invited reinterpretation. Likewise, I recommend people read Yu Miri’s Tokyo Ueno Station because few books have impacted me in such a quietly profound way. And all the buzz surrounding Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police wasn’t just hot air; the novel is one of the most inventive and despairing riffs on an Orwellian dystopia. The point being: if a previously shunned social group is given an opportunity, don’t be surprised when the cream rises to the top.

About the Author: David is a Northern Irish freelance journalist, writer and author based in the UK and Tokyo. Fusing reporting and social commentary with extensive experience traveling throughout the country, he has published stories on travel, arts and culture, business and current affairs, and sports in Japan. His work has appeared in a range of national and international publications online and in print. He's also the author of two travel books, Intrepid Japan and the most recent edition of Frommer's Japan. You can find links to his work at www.davidmcelhinney.com.