Showing posts with label Japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Japan. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Review Tuesday: Global Detectives #Sweden #Japan #China #ReviewTuesday

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Image by Stefan Schweihofer from Pixabay

A lot of my reading tends to be opportunistic. I don’t usually decide beforehand, “Oh, I want a sci fi book”, or “It’s been too long since I’ve read a mystery”. We always have a couple of shelves full of volumes we’ve picked up at the local second hand bookstore. I’m typically reading several things concurrently, some in ebook form and some in print. When I’m looking for a new print read, I’ll browse through those shelves, waiting for a title to grab me.

Hence it was a bit of a surprise for me to realize that in the past month I’ve read three detective stories. This certainly wasn’t intentional. Even more interesting, each of the three books was written by an author from a different country. The similarities and differences motivated me to review all three in a single post.

Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell


On a remote farm in rural Sweden, an elderly man is viciously bludgeoned to death, while his wife is left beaten, barely clinging to life, with a noose around her neck. The senseless ferocity of the attack raises a public clamor for justice. The old woman’s final word - “foreign” - dramatically increases the urgency for police detective Kurt Wallander to solve the crime. Anti-immigrant sentiment is on the rise in formerly generous Sweden. As Wallander and his team meticulously sift through clues and follow up the most tenuous threads of evidence, vigilantes start targeting innocent refugees, and Wallander himself.

Faceless Killers is the first book in Mankell’s popular Kurt Wallander series, but the second that I’ve read. (You’ll find my review of The Fifth Woman here.) Like the previous novel, this one is unrelentingly bleak. Mankell skillfully evokes the flat, featureless terrain of Skåne province and its dank, chilly weather, as well as the largely empty, routine-filled lives of its inhabitants. The horrific violence of the crimes Wallander investigates offers a startling contrast to both the dull, mundane environment and the tedious, detail-oriented nature of police procedure.

Despite the darkness, these books fascinate. Wallander is a wonderfully flawed character, devoted to his job but almost helpless in dealing with his family and his personal life. He has learned to trust his intuition about his cases; he reacts without thinking in situations that require physical action, risking life and limb in the process. More than anything else, he’s persistent. He cannot let go of a case, even when it appears he has failed to apprehend the villains. I don’t think it will be too much of a spoiler to tell you that in this mystery, the trail goes cold for more than six months before Wallander has an unexpected breakthrough.

I’d expect this series to be depressing, but somehow it’s not. One reason is the moral issues that underpin the story. Mankell is seriously concerned about the “immigrant problem” in Sweden. He knows there’s no simple solution. Wallander reflects his creator’s confusion.

Indeed, if you’re interested in the complexities of immigrants and their stories, I recommend Mankell’s recent novel The Shadow Girls (which is not a mystery).

Malice by Keigo Higashino


A famous writer, Kunihiko Hidaka, is found murdered, in a locked room, in his locked house, by his wife and his best friend, fellow author Nonoguchi. Despite the fact that Nonoguchi has an iron-clad alibi, police detective Kyochiro Kaga senses something not quite consistent about his story. As Kaga delves deeper, Nonoguchi confesses to the crime, a revenge killing for his supposed friend’s long-time extortion. Still, Kaga has his doubts. Only when he revisits Nonoguchi’s and Hidaka’s childhood together does he manage to uncover the whole truth.

Malice is an intellectual exercise, a so-called puzzle mystery, full of unexpected twists and clever deductions. Unlike the Mankell novel, it does not strongly engage the emotions – or at least, it did not engage mine. Detective Kaga seems to be primarily a vehicle for generating plot twists. He did not strike me as particularly realistic and I had little or no sense of who he might be aside from his mental acuity. Still, like Wallander, he is doggedly stubborn about ferreting out the true story behind Hidaka’s case. Even when he has a confession from the so-called murderer, Kaga can’t let the case go.

He is similar to Wallander in his trust of intuition as well. Although mental gymnastics play a far more important role in Malice than in the Wallander mysteries, it is Kaga’s feeling that things don’t quite fit together that propels him to deeper research.

A Case of Two Cities by Qiu Xiaolong 

 

Inspector Chen of the Shanghai Police Department is a rising star – but perhaps someone wants to stop his ascent. His superior has assigned him a nearly impossible case, namely ferreting out the details about a web of corruption that involves the highest echelons in Chinese society, and bringing the players to justice. In a country where wealth and political power go hand in hand, where connections to the ruling Party ensure impunity, how can a lowly inspector, even one as intelligent and perceptive as Chen, make any headway? Indeed, digging too deeply into the affairs of the rich and influential members of the syndicate may be personally dangerous, as demonstrated by several murders that occur as Chen inches closer to uncovering the .

Like Kurt Wallander, Inspector Chen Cao is the hero of a series of detective novels. In each one, he tries to solve a case while struggling against dark political forces. Chen truly wants to serve society, but he’s too smart to ignore the abuse of power that surrounds him. He walks a tightrope between fulfilling his assignments and falling prey to the bribery and other seductions. He’s similar to Wallander in his strong moral compass, and his tendency to ignore his better judgment when called upon to act. However, he’s far more intellectual and introspective than Wallander.

Chen grew up wanting to be a poet, but the Party called him to other duties. Poetry still runs in this veins, though. The spontaneous quotations from classical Chinese verse are one of the joys of this series.

I’ve read most of this series, though not in the original order. Overall I didn’t like this book as much as the earlier ones. It seems that the series has become somewhat formulaic. At the same time, the tale has its brilliant moments, especially when Chen is pulled off the case and sent to St. Louis as the nominal head of a group of Chinese writers involved in a cultural exchange. Qiu shows us American culture viewed through the lens of the Chinese. These revelations are sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing.

In my favorite section of this novel, Chen persuades a monk in a Chinese temple (in the US) to allow him to step in and tell fortunes as a way to gain information from the villain and his mother. Drawing on his literary background, Chen does such a fantastic job that he impresses not only his marks but also the monk.

Of the three authors discussed in this post, Qiu Xiaolong is the only one who writes in English. In fact, he is a professor at a U.S. university. His deep disillusionment with the current government in China shows in every page. His perspective is so unfailingly negative that it makes me uncomfortable. I’ve visited China five times in the past two years. I know that the corruption, the authoritarianism and the hypocrisy that Qiu highlights is very real. At the same time, I can’t help feeling that his own experiences as an expatriate have blinded him to some of the more positive aspects of modern China.

Or perhaps I am wrong. Maybe the dark picture he paints is realistic. In any case, his books in a way are more political polemics that true mysteries. If you’re looking for a pure whodunnit, I would not recommend the Inspector Chen novels.


Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Sweet Tooth

Just a few days ago, I returned from a two week vacation in Japan. This was actually my third long visit to that complicated and beautiful country. This time we focused on northern regions, starting in Sapporo on the remote island of Hokkaido and then working our way south to Tokyo.

Japan, of course, has many claims to fame. Sushi. Samurai. Sumo. Geishas. Cherry blossoms. Austere and elegant temples, feudal castles and superfast railways. We've experienced all those things - well, all except the geishas, though we did see a number of women wearing traditional kimonos. Even after three visits, however, I found things to surprise me.

One thing I had not previously realized was how much the Japanese love sweets. When one thinks about Japanese food, the images that arise typically involve raw fish, grilled steak, tofu, rice, vegetables - lean, healthy cuisine. You wouldn't expect to see an ad for a giant cream puff:


In fact, everywhere we went we noticed bakeries, ice cream stores, and dessert cafes.


We arrived in Sapporo too early to check in to our hotel, so we decided to look for some lunch. Down the street from where we were staying, we found a pleasant coffee shop. We ordered pizza and beer. (We wanted to be able to get some sleep after our exhausting overnight flight.) It was clear, though, that the specialty of this joint was ice cream sundaes. On either side of us, diminutive Japanese young women were devouring gooey confections topped with whipped cream and syrup.

(I didn't actually take any photos, but the masterpieces our neighbors were consuming were quite a bit more elaborate than the examples below.)



Meanwhile, on the video screen on the wall, the cafe broadcast lurid videos of someone assembling the most enormous sundae I'd ever seen: a huge bowl holding perhaps twenty scoops of different sorts of ice cream, with three types of sauce, nuts, sprinkles, cookies, even those paper parasols you get with tropical drinks. The price for this super sundae? About fifty dollars! Who would shell out that much cash just for sweets? Apparently some people must have. Even the more modest desserts were in the fifteen to twenty dollar range.

Now, I have the opposite of a sweet tooth. I'm probably the only woman you'll ever encounter who could live her life without ever tasting chocolate again. My parents never gave me sweets as a kid. When I was two years old, a well-meaning friend of the family handed me a lollipop and I was totally mystified.

My husband likes sweets a bit more than I do, but still, we hardly ever have dessert of any kind. (I'd rather use my calories on another glass of wine!)

However, indulgence in sugary pastimes seems to have been somewhat contagious. We'd heard that Hokkaido was famous for its ice cream. We had to try it. Twice. Then there was the caramel custard we found in the convenience store - just the right thing after a teriyaki dinner. And cookies - well, I was sampling them in order to decide what to buy for friends back home... Oh, and the cheesecake...

Fortunately, I seem to have recovered from my temporary hankering for sugary foods. I haven't had anything sweeter than fruit since returning.

Normally, when someone mentions pastries or desserts in the same paragraph as travel, one thinks of France, or maybe Vienna. But Sapporo may be in competition as ice cream capital of the world.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Sunday Snog #120: Nasty Business


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By the time you read this - if all goes well - I'll be in Hokkaido, Japan, enjoying my first visit to that region of legendary beauty. I'll be gone for two weeks, but I've got lots of great guests lined up here at the blog. And I couldn't leave you without a snog!

Here's a bit from my romantic erotica novel Nasty Business.  If you like your stories intense, varied and kinky, you'll love this book.

After you savor my snog, hop back to Victoria's and sample lots more sexy kisses.

  

I want sex, I need release, but it doesn't seem that I'm going to get it tonight. I stand, stretch, realize that my muscles are stiff and sore. Perhaps from my awkward position this afternoon. Perhaps because I haven't worked out in several days. Then I remember the well-equipped gym Rick showed me during our tour of the house. Just the thing.

I change from my sweat- and sex-damp dress into a sports bra and shorts, pull my hair into a low ponytail, and wend my way down the dark corridor toward the back of the building, where it settles into the hillside. Everything's very quiet. There's no light under Rick's door, or under Margaret's.

It crosses my mind that Margaret was odd and unfamiliar tonight, less diffident, more assertive than usual. She seemed to radiate a happy confidence that overwhelmed her usual seriousness. I guess that she has gotten over her embarrassment about her interlude with our host. I'm pleased at her resiliency.

The gym is even darker than the corridor. Like Rick's office, it has only small windows set high in the wall. I grope for the light switch, turning on the track lights overhead. Experimenting, I find that I can dim them down to a more pleasant, less blinding level.

I start with some stretches at the barre, watching myself in the mirror opposite me. I don't normally spend much time gazing at myself. I know I'm beautiful. But the woman I see reflected back at me tonight seems a stranger. Her petite frame, her small breasts, her delicate ankles, make her seem fragile. With my hair pulled back loosely, I look young. Innocent. Vulnerable.

I have to laugh at this fancy. I know that I am strong and full of power. I shift to one of the stationary weight machines, working my triceps and biceps until they burn. I've stopped watching myself. Next I turn my attention to my quads and adductors, pushing the weights apart as I open my thighs, working against their force to pull my legs back together again.

I work hard, trying to burn my arousal away into exhaustion. Somehow, it's not happening. Every time I spread my thighs apart, I'm acutely aware of my throbbing, swollen clit, hidden in my soaked shorts. I increase the force and pace of my repetitions, determined to be the mistress of my body and my urges. It's almost as though I'm climbing the slope to orgasm. The harder and faster I work, the more excited I become.

Finally, I have to stop. I lie back in the apparatus, panting. The room smells of musk and sweat. With a pang, I recognize the odor not only of my perspiration, but of his. Rick's. Damn. I close my eyes wearily, willing my body to relax. Damn, damn, damn.

There's a sound. My eyes fly open. I am no longer alone. For the briefest instant, I think that it's Rick, and my heart accelerates as though I were still working the machine. Then, with an inner smile, I realize my error. Raoul.

"Ruby!" he says in that soft Latin voice. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I had no idea that there was anyone here."

He has obviously come for his own workout. He wears a loose pair of shorts, nothing else. My eyes trace the curlicues of hair on his muscled chest. I smile. He smiles, sniffs, strolls over to stand between my spread thighs.

"I was having trouble sleeping," I tell him, knowing that he's reading other messages in my body, in the air. "Exercise is usually a good way for me to get rid of tension."

"Maybe I can help," he says, almost whispering. His hands on the tops of my thighs, he leans over and kisses me full on the lips. It's a simple, uncalculated kiss, no hidden agendas, no power trips, just texture, wetness, warmth. It's an invitation.

I accept. As he bends over me, I raise my legs and clasp them around his waist. I can feel his delicious hardness, pressing against me through our clothing. He gives a soft laugh, pulls up my bra and takes my nipple in his mouth. Lovely, to feel that texture, warmth, wetness against that sensitive flesh.

He gives me long minutes of bliss. When he stops, my nipples are round and rigid as ceramic beads. "Let me go for a moment," he says, and I release the clutch of my legs.

He stands and with a grace I find in few men, removes his shorts. I can't help but marvel at his beauty. Muscles that swell rather than bulge, curves that flow under his bronzed skin and lush fur. His cock juts proudly from a jet tangle at his groin. I have a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to kneel at his feet and take him reverently into my mouth.

Before I can evaluate or act on this impulse, though, he seats himself on a recumbent stationary bicycle and leans back against the seat, one bare foot in each stirrup. His cock stands straight up, swaying a bit as he moves. It's simultaneously silly and wonderfully lewd.

He grins up at me. "Care to come for a ride, Ruby?"

Friday, October 4, 2013

Review: Amorous Woman


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Amorous Woman by Donna George Storey
Iro Books, 2012
ISBN 978-1-9056-1917-7

I was musing about erotica recently and realized that all my own novels, as well as most of my favorite work by other authors, could be viewed as stories about journeys. I'm not talking about travel in space. I am referring to an intellectual and emotional exploration, a progression in which characters begin in one psychological place and end up somewhere quite different, changed, more perceptive, perhaps more accepting of themselves, with an improved understanding of their needs and desires. Of course, many mainstream novels can be seen in this light. In erotica, however, the characters' sexual activities and discoveries are the agents of change.

Donna George Storey's wonderful first novel AMOROUS WOMAN is an exceptional example. In the case of Lydia, Ms. Storey's heroine, there is a physical voyage as well, to the fascinating and frustrating culture of contemporary Japan. However, Lydia's real journey is internal, as she strives to balance her sometimes reckless hunger for new sensations with her need for human connection.

Lydia flies to Kyoto eager to taste all the cultural and sensual delicacies that Japan has to offer. Fluent in Japanese, she finds the country more accessible than it would be to most, but in her relationships with its people, and especially its men, she is repeatedly disappointed. She becomes an English teacher bedding college boys, a dutiful wife to a handsome but overworked salaryman, mistress and companion to a powerful tycoon, an exclusive female escort, a sex performer. The delicate perversity of Japanese sexuality continually attracts her. She aches to be included, but no matter how correct her grammar and how outrageous her sexual behavior, ultimately, she remains the gaijin, the stranger.

Ms. Storey takes us back to meet Lydia in her teens, when she first discovers the power of her sexual imagination. From her worldly older cousin she learns the difference between "good" and "bad" girls; it is abundantly clear which category she belongs to. Her imaginary lover encourages her to be audacious:

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"You have become a bad girl since you started listening to your cousin. But of course I'm very glad that you're taking her advice. The world would be a happier place with more women like her."

"I'm not sure I have the nerve to do what she said," I confessed.

"Of course you do. I want you to do it and you don't want to disappoint me. Why don't you pick up that brush and press it against your virgin hole?"

With a quivering hand, I reached for the brush and held the rounded end of the handle against my secret lips.

...

"Very good. I knew you could do it. Now move it in and out slowly. I know you want to open yourself for your lover. And for me."

This is indeed exactly what I wanted to do. Somehow he always knew just what to make me do, as if he could see desires inside me I didn't myself understand.

======================

Lydia brings this openness to experience, this willingness to take risks, with her to Japan, where it carries her into adventures and even dangers. What she really craves, though, is to belong.

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"What brings you to Japan, Lydia-san?" Dr. Shinohara asked.

...

The honest answer was that I came because I craved adventure, a life of surprises, a non-stop feast of exotic sensual pleasure, anything but a job in investment banking like most of my college friends. But at this point it was probably better to give the doctor my safe, standard line.

"I came to Kyoto to learn traditional Japanese dance."

"I see. Do you enjoy wearing kimono?"

Should I tell him the truth now -- that it feels unspeakably sexy to wear one and I loved being bound by the column of cloth hobbling my legs and the obi's snug embrace of my breasts? It probably meant I was a sexual masochist, but I didn't really want to admit it. More exciting was the promise of transformation through that bondage, the chance to shed my foreign awkwardness for the Japanese dancer's gliding grace.

"Yes, I do like wearing kimono, but it's a challenge, too. I have to move my body in a different way, so maybe I can understand, just a little, what it's like to be Japanese. I think it is the Japanese way, in dance and in life, to transform ..." I pulled my English-Japanese dictionary from my book bag and quickly leafed through it for the right word.

"Constriction," Dr. Matsumoto read out for me.

"To transform constriction into art."

"Lydia-san understands Japan very well," Dr. Shinohara said to his friend.

...

I bowed my head, my cheeks burning with pleasure. I'd not only been seen, but embraced. How could he have known that was my secret fantasy - the fantasy of all true Kyoto gaijin - that our wandering spirits had reconnected us with us with our lost host?

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Lydia's journey takes years. As she delves deeper into Japanese culture as well as her own sexual complexities, she feels more rather than less alien. She begins to take greater risks, flaunting her extravagant sexuality because she can, rather than because she really wants to. Finally, confronted with a man who desires and understands her, whom she probably could love if he weren't married, she has the courage to stop and examine her behavior and desires, and to choose a new path.

I enjoyed Amorous Woman more than any erotic novel I've read in a long while. Ms. Storey writes with insight and humor. She vividly conveys the sensual experiences of living in a new land.

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Each day of my first year in Kyoto brought some wonderful new discovery - a mysterious fox shrine tucked away in a winding alley, the beguiling sweetness of bean jam wrapped in soft rice pastry, a lovely boy bowing nervously as I ushered him into my apartment. Even in the recollection there is magic. The whole year seems to fold in on itself like a dancer's fan, leaving one perfect day in high summer.

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As someone who has made her own voyages of discovery into strange cultures, I strongly identified with Lydia and her lust for new experience, as well as her desire to be a part of the wonders around her.

However, Ms. Storey understands more than just foreign cultures. She is an expert at expressing the complexities of sexual relationships. Amorous Woman includes both real encounters and some deliciously extreme fantasies that Lydia entertains. I found the real-world scenarios more exciting. Ms. Storey manages to show us Lydia's doubts, fears and confusion while still keeping the sexual temperature turned up to the maximum.

Amorous Woman is definitely arousing but it is much more than a light-hearted bedroom romp through Japan. It is a believable and moving tale of one woman's journey of sexual self-discovery. If you don't mind some serious content mixed with your sex, I recommend it highly.



Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Discovering Sex and Self in a Foreign Land

By Donna George Storey (Guest Blogger)


Thanks so much for hosting me at your blog, Lisabet. It’s an especially fitting place to celebrate the ebook release of my novel, Amorous Woman, because your first novel, Raw Silk, a mesmerizing erotic tale of Thailand, was a great inspiration for me to write about my own experiences living in Japan.

Perhaps it’s not surprising that both of our novels follow a time-honored master narrative—a woman’s journey of erotic discovery. And in both Raw Silk and Amorous Woman, the heroine’s relationship with her lovers is mirrored by her growing intimacy with a new and fascinating culture. I’ll confess I also lifted another model for my first book-length project: the plot of a 17th century Japanese erotic classic called The Life of An Amorous Woman by Ihara Saikaku. With a sharp eye for the humor in Japanese society, Saikaku allowed his lusty protagonist to experience every role open to women of her time from a court lady to a streetwalker. (Perhaps the perennial appeal of the female experience earned this book more sales and critical acclaim than his The Life of an Amorous Man). I translated this story into an exploration of a foreigner’s experience in Japan in the late twentieth century. My protagonist, Lydia Evans Yoshikawa, starts off as an English teacher, marries a Japanese businessman, becomes a bar hostess, the mistress of a rich man, and finally a call girl. Her desire to get closer to Japan is sometimes frustrated, sometimes delightfully fulfilled. I’m gratified to say that fellow gaijin (the Japanese word for “foreigner”) almost always tell me I got it just right.

While I thoroughly enjoyed bringing to life my sensual memories from the three years I lived in Japan—the delicious and beautifully arranged meals, the scent of fresh straw floor mats and the cool glide of a silk kimono on my skin—I found as I wrote Amorous Woman that I was gaining a valuable perspective on my own sexual odyssey. Society gives us so many messages about what sex should be. The appeal of the story of a woman’s erotic education may indeed be that we all—male or female--must discovery for ourselves what sex and pleasure mean for us personally.

In that spirit, I wanted to share a scene from the novel that illustrates a critical moment of discovery for Lydia while she is still in America, but one that will resonate throughout the novel. She’s always been an “A” student and a “good girl,” still a virgin at eighteen. Her worldly cousin Caroline throws a party with plenty of handsome college boys so that Lydia can choose the man to deflower her. She also gives Lydia a lesson on how to give a good blow job to develop her confidence when she’s alone with her first lover. At the party, Lydia picks out the lucky guy and proceeds to seduce him by being light-heartedly honest about her intention to have sex with him that very night.

From Amorous Woman:

“Are you sure it’s okay if we use your cousin’s bed?” Mike said, frowning at the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, which I ignored.

“Oh, yes, she knows we’re going to have sex. She reserved it especially for us.”

He shook his head and laughed again.

And then, well, I don’t remember exactly how we got naked, or who pushed whom down on the bed, or when exactly we stopped kissing and started doing other things, but there were more than a few firsts that night.

It was the first time a guy kissed my breasts so softly and slowly, I learned that lips tugging gently on my nipple could make me wet between my legs.

It was the first time I tried Marybeth’s lesson on a real penis—thank you Marybeth for a gift that keeps on giving. It was bigger than a thumb, but far more interesting. I loved the way it twitched when I stroked it, the way it grew even harder in my mouth, the way Mike moaned softly as he watched me do it, eyes glowing.

It was the first time I heard my favorite sound on earth—his sweet groan of homecoming as he slid inside my cunt.

And then, somehow, it wasn’t new any more. It’s as if I’d always known this: his warm weight pressing me down, his musky boy's smell, his soft lips and slick, snaky tongue, his satin-tipped hard-on and the taut curve of his ass. Then of course, that moment when he bucked and groaned and went crazy because of me just being there, just being.

I didn’t come that night--that first would happen thanks to the persistence and skill of the justly famed cunnilinguist Doug--but I was happy enough to take my ecstasy once-removed. Mike, bless him, didn’t ask too many questions.

I was the one who decided to confess as we lay together afterwards, just like on TV, with my head resting against his shoulder and his arm around me like we were a real couple. “That was the first time I’ve ever been with a guy, you know.”

“Lydia, you can stop kidding around now,” he said, but gently. Did he notice that of course, all my “jokes” turned out to be true?

“Why do you think I’m kidding?”

He frowned. “First of all, you give great head. There’s no way that was your first time. You’re a pro. Well, I didn’t mean it that way, you know, just that you knew exactly what to do.” He laughed, embarrassed, and stroked my hair. “And then, well, you were really into it.”

“I do like to joke around. It’s an old habit.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“You know what? You’re fun. It’s easy to be with you.” He pulled me on top of him. “Wanna do it again?”

I nodded. Back in my high school, a million years and a billion miles away from where I was now, naked and straddling Mike’s hard belly, it was a bad thing for a girl to be “easy.” Now I knew the secret.

It was good.

**

That, I believe, is the secret of writing erotica as well!

Donna George Storey’s adults-only tales have appeared in over 150 journals and anthologies including Penthouse, Best Women’s Erotica, The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents the Best of Donna George Storey, and Best Erotic Romance. Her novel, Amorous Woman, will change your image of Japan—and erotica—forever.


 Amorous Woman is available at: 




Donna George Storey’s Website