Five Diverse Writers Share their Favourite Japanese Books, Films, Anime, and More
Looking for something to enjoy? This article will give you some ideas
Many Japanese are pleasantly surprised to learn that so many people around the world enjoy Japanese culture. While some works are created with a global audience in mind, most are produced for the small but highly active Japanese market.
Of course, we have many common themes, such as love and adventure. After all, we are all human beings. But we see cultural elements and details from different perspectives.
Japan Uncovered mainly shares my perspective and opinions, as well as those of other Japanese people. But this time, I've asked five amazing writers—all non-Japanese people who have never lived in Japan—to recommend their favourite works.
Their perspectives may be similar to yours or completely different. I hope you enjoy their reviews and check out any works that catch your eye. I've also added some short comments. Also, please share your favourite works in the comments section.
Jackson Houser's recommendations
The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon
I finally read the Japanese classic, The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, in the early 2000’s, after seeing casual references to it over the years, often in connection with discussions of The Tale of Genji, by Lady Murasaki. I was struck at the time by how much the book read like a blog, a literary form that was then somewhat new to me.
There were passages that set out vignettes of gallant visitors to the women’s quarters of the Imperial Court or anecdotes about an outing to a festival, full of references to excruciatingly detailed rules of courtesy.
And right next to those passages were, for example, lists of significant mountains, or markets, or waterfalls. What made the items on the lists so significant? Sometimes there was a brief comment in the text; sometimes the translator dropped a hint, but always, in the stories and the lists, there was an air of the esoteric and exotic. I was transported to a world that was very much different from mine.
I was inspired in some ways by how poetry was a critical component of life in that place and time; how everyone drew on the same basic stock of poetry, though some had much greater verse-hoards than others. It was interesting to see the great importance attached to the display of clothing, including the strategic concealment of some of it. And the paper: many kinds, for many purposes.
A final note about the title. A modern reader may think of "pillow talk,” and infer salaciousness. There are some passages that relate to the etiquette of gallantry, especially how a man should behave when leaving after spending a night with a woman of the Court, but there was nothing graphic, at least in the translation I read, and nothing to indicate that the translator had censored any passages for modesty. The title of the book, if it were offered on Substack, would likely be more like: Jottings From My Nightstand; or, Thoughts At End of Day.
Yukio Mishima
There are writers such as Ernest Hemingway or Jack London, where one doesn’t read the writing, whatever it may be, so much as read something that The Legend happened to have written. That is how Yukio Mishima was presented to me: a man who transformed himself through physical culture and martial arts; who became a manly Japanese man (indeed, there were hints that his love life included men, so manly was he); and, the story went, he became so obsessed with what he saw as modern Japanese decadence that he ended his career in a hyper-traditional way.
A number of years ago I stumbled across some of his novels in a second-hand bookstore that I used to frequent. I bought his final tetralogy. And discovered that they showed a delicate presentation of character, carefully set in a specific time and place evoked by significant details. I was reminded that, just as Achilles excelled in music as well as war, samurai could be fierce warriors and also fine calligraphers or floral arrangers.
I read through the novels almost in a dream state. I retained the feeling of a great contrast between the public persona of the Manof Action and the Sensitive Portrait Artist that the writing displayed. Recently I dug the books out to glance at before writing something about them, but found that a glance was inappropriate. I must read them slowly, so that is what I will be doing for some time.
Yuri’s comment:
The Pillow Book is among my top five favourite Japanese literary works. As Jackson wrote, her writing is like a blog, teaching us a great deal about the life, culture, and values of the time. And even though it was written 1,000 years ago, I can relate to her very much.
Unsettling Japanese Fiction
By Jordan Acosta
I grew up in Hong Kong in the 90s, a country then obsessed with Japan; from pop idols storming the charts, to serialised anime on TV dominating playground discussion, Japanese culture was ubiquitous; exemplified by the merchandised-omnipotence of the Sanrio Corporation, the ‘Official Home of Hello Kitty®️ and friends’ in just about every air-conditioned retail space.
My own interest in Japan stems from this formative period, evolving into a passion for making my own ramen, a brief spell practising Jōdō (杖道 – 'the way of the staff') and reading English translations of Japanese books. I’m not the only one: Penguin, the world’s largest publisher, reported that one quarter of 2024's bestselling foreign translations were Japanese.
As an aspiring novelist, taking inspiration from other books is a given, but there’s something about reading Japanese fiction which conveys a sense of ‘Japanese-ness’, for want of a better word; a literary terroir which appeals to me: from the heartwarming moments of ordinary people in Atsuhiro Yoshida’s Goodnight Tokyo (and the current publishing trend for ‘slice of life’ stories), to the meticulous attention to detail in mystery novels by writers like Keigo Higashino and Seichō Matsumoto.
For me, Japanese novels are suffused with a sense of restraint and understatement, perhaps a reflection of a people known for their reservedness. There are exceptions, of course, and it is these exceptions which pique my interest most of all. My favourite Japanese books are those which leave me feeling unsettled.
Below are three modern translations which have delighted, challenged and disconcerted me in equal measure, widely available in just about any bookshop in the UK:
In the Miso Soup, Ryu Murakami 「イン ザ・ミソスープ」• 村上 龍
(Bloomsbury, 2009)
Frank was waiting for me in the cafeteria off the lobby, drinking a beer. He’d described himself as white and stocky and looking a bit like Ed Harris in profile, and said he’d be wearing a necktie with a pattern of white swans, but he was the only foreigner in the place anyway. I introduced myself and shook his hand, studying his face and not finding the least resemblance to Ed Harris from any angle.
Nothing can quite prepare you for Ryu Murakami’s (not to be confused with Haruki Murakami) novella-length horror, set in Shinjuku in the late 1990s. Kenji, a young tour guide specialising in Tokyo’s nightlife, meets Frank, an American tourist, whose initial eccentricity takes a dark turn as the reader delves into all three(!) chapters of the book.
If you found yourself morbidly fascinated by Brett Easton Ellis’ absurd (and gruesome) commentary of rampant consumerism in American Psycho, then you’ll blast through this in a single sitting.
Translated into English by Ralph F. McCarthy.
Edge, Koji Suzuki「エッジ」• 鈴木 光司
(Vertical, 2012)
Moreover, the majority of physical constants were related to Pi through basic equations.
Jack felt as if an icy lump in his stomach was melting, sending rivulets of cold throughout his body. He had begun shivering intermittently, and soon the trembling became constant and his teeth chattered violently.
It was only a hypothesis. But just contemplating the implications, Jack was so deeply disturbed that he couldn’t stop shaking.
There had been a change in the value of Pi. And it involved a string of the heretical number that had struck terror in men’s hearts since ancient times: zero.
To a certain generation, Hideo Nakata’s Ring (リング) became synonymous with Asian Horror, spawning a well-received foray into Hollywood adaptions of the original Japanese source material; from The Ring to The Grudge, and many more. Ring itself was adapted for film from Koji Suzuki’s 1991 novel of the same name, the story of a journalist’s investigation into mysterious deaths linked to a videotape. Its sequel, Spiral (らせん), propelled Suzuki to literary stardom.
Edge, originally published in 2008, swaps the domestic settings of Suzuki’s breakout in order to answer larger questions about the nature of the universe, presented as a science-based narrative spanning seismic anomalies, quantum physics, and mathematics, in order to solve a spate of missing persons, who have simply vanished into thin air. If cosmic horror from a different lineage to the American tradition popularised by H.P Lovecraft appeals, you could do worse than Edge.
Translated into English by Camellia Nieh and Jonathan Lloyd-Davies.
The Memory Police, Yoko Ogawa「密やかな結晶」• 小川 洋子
(Vintage, 2020)
Then I spotted a small brown creature flying high up in the sky. It was plump, with what appeared to be a tuft of white feathers at its breast. I had just begun to wonder whether it was one of the creatures I had seen with my father when I realized that everything I knew about them had disappeared from inside me: my memories of them, my feelings about them, the very meaning of the word “bird”—everything.
Ogawa’s International Booker Prize shortlisted novel The Memory Police is an eerie book, set on an island where things disappear; as does its inhabitants’ memories of the thing itself: hats, birds, roses; and on it goes. Regaled by an unnamed protagonist, this mnemonic removal is strictly enforced by the titular organisation, whose overbearing presence – just like everything else in this strange book – is never quite explained.
Is The Memory Police a science-fiction story, a reflection on loneliness, or an allegory for dementia? Whatever the case, Ogawa writes an uncomfortable, speculative spin on the closely observed, elegant prose which characterise so many of Japan’s literary bestsellers.
Translated into English by Stephen Snyder.
Jordan Acosta is a British-Filipino speculative writer and creative director based near London.
Yuri’s comment:
Jordan selected three excellent novels. In the Miso Soup really gave me the creeps! It was rumoured that Wim Wenders was going to make a film adaptation, but unfortunately it seems to have been shelved.
LGWare, the Blacklens' recommendations
A Black Man and Dragon Balls
How a cartoon introduced me to the world of Japan
When I was a little over 5 years old, I would wake up hours before the rest of my family and reread well-worn books or search for something entertaining on television. It was around this time that I discovered what I would have described as a bright, energetic cartoon about a boy with a cloud, a fancy stick, and a monkey tail.
Of course, I was watching Dragon Ball for the first time. I didn’t know it, but it was my first portal into a new world. Japan and Japanese media were unlike anything I experienced in America, but my young mind was fairly certain it was just always better.
Dragon Ball was created by Akira Toriyama and was originally inspired by the Chinese novel Journey to the West. However, I doubt Dragon Ball needs an introduction. It is one of the most famous media franchises in the world, especially in America, and especially among Black people.
To this day, I’ve seen grown Black men scream as if they are “powering up” like Goku. Although Piccolo is green, he was claimed by the Black community in the 90s. (We often did this because Black characters were rarely given anything to do in nerdy media if they existed at all.)
Sadly, this is the problem with Dragon Ball. The Black characters fall victim to racist tropes that were even outdated in America by the time Toriyama started writing.
Mr. Popo is the most famous case of this. Although powerful and respected, his main job is a servant. This wouldn’t be so bad if his appearance didn’t resemble American minstrelsy imagery. Black skin, big red lips, and huge bug eyes were all used to dehumanize Black people.
Nevertheless, most Black people understand Mr. Popo was not created out of animosity. We still prefer Piccolo, but we got love for Mr. Popo too. I appreciate Dragon Ball, despite its flaws, for opening my eyes to the world of Japan.
Chainsaw Man Is Deeper Than It Looks
Growing up in the West, I loved how foreign Japanese media felt. As I grew older, I found the themes to be universal to the human spirit. This is especially true in the Shonen manga Chainsaw Man written and illustrated by Tatsuki Fujimoto. Fujimoto’s work is fused with his Japanese upbringing and heavily influenced by media from the West.
On the surface, Chainsaw Man looks like any other battle manga with an edge. A man with a chainsaw for a head hunts evil devils. Perhaps you watch a little further, and you assume it is actually about a teenage boy whose life goal is to touch a woman’s boob. I admit this almost turned me away, but push through and you will be rewarded.
Chainsaw Man explores modern masculinity and relationships. In a world full of violence, it analyzes the types of love through its characters. Denji, the protagonist, is not the standard Goku-like shonen protagonist. He is only trying to eat another day and potentially touch a woman. However, if we wipe away the manga’s blood and gore, we see how Denji learns the difference between platonic love and romantic love. He learns women are not just objects. He learns how it feels to have a family. The manga, however, is also concerned with showing how the world breaks an individual and how individuals become subservient zombies to society.
Chainsaw Man tells a beautiful, horrid story. It moved me. It frightened me. It made me think deeply about humanity. If you are a fan of Japanese battle manga and looking for something a little different, Chainsaw Man is worth the experience.
Yuri’s comment:
I am truly sorry about the issue of black characterisation in manga and anime. Generally speaking, many of us are still caught up in simple and sometimes harmful stereotypes. I plan to cross-post a detailed and balanced article by LGWare on this topic in the near future.
Kenny Minker's recommendation
Harakiri
Early on in Masaki Kobayashi’s 1962 film Harakiri, a samurai laments his uselessness and poverty:
“I sought connections for employment with a new master. But try as I might, we live in times of peace, and my effort has been in vain.”
This line sums up the plight of the rōnin, masterless samurai who lacked place and purpose. In Harakiri, set in the year 1630, a rōnin comes to the house of a feudal lord. He’s seeking a place to commit harakiri, also known as seppuku—ceremonial suicide by disembowelment. We soon learn that he’s not the first ronin to make this request. Others have done so as a con, hoping that the lord will deny the request and give them charity instead. From there, the story builds. It’s a complex celebration of honor and duty that also challenges unwavering commitment to these ideals.
Harakiri’s style has much in common with the best films of the western genre… a mysterious stranger “comes to town,” with a troubled past, ambiguous intentions, and a permanent faraway look in his eyes. His story unfolds against a backdrop of gorgeous minimalist scenery, with a tension-building soundtrack of clanging percussions and plucked strings.
I love films that move slowly and challenge simple notions of right and wrong. Harakiri, for me, is a masterpiece. Every moment counts, every detail adds beauty.
I’m not a connoisseur of Japanese cinema, nor of samurai stories, but rewatching Harakiri reminds me that these are areas I should spend more time exploring.
Yuri’s comment:
The title sounds painful, and some scenes may make you want to look away, but it is an engaging work, cleverly calculated. I'm glad Kenny chose this one. Some poor samurai actually found themselves in similar situations. So it's not complete fiction!
Remy Dean 🏴☠️'s recommendations
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, My Oshi
It was Yuri’s excellent article celebrating Japan’s oshi culture that prompted me to consider who my oshi are. Instantly, I knew Kyary Pamyu Pamyu was one of them!
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu (きゃりーぱみゅぱみゅ) is now a household name in Japan as a top tarento, presenting regular shows on radio and television as well as being recognised as Queen of the J-Pop scene — a culture she’s repeatedly deconstructed, redefined, and revitalised. For me, it is her panmedia practice that elevates her above contemporaries in disparate areas of music, fashion, performance, and across the visual arts. She has defined and then subverted the concept of kawaii and continues to deliver the most eclectic and positive expressions of Pop Art.
Perhaps she’s still best known outside Japan for her debut single “PONPONPON”, released with its influential viral video way back in 2011, but so much more has happened since to confirm her as one of the more important artists of the 21st-century. She just released her ‘comeback’ single, “Kuru Kuru Harajuku” following a hiatus during which she embarked on a new adventure of marriage and motherhood. So, what better time to revisit this long-read article on Medium and Substack tracking some key points of her uniquely creative kawaii career, so far…
Kwaidan – Myth and Movie
Kwaidan (怪談) is an all-time favourite film that I was fascinated with long before I had a chance to watch it. I first came across stills from it decades ago, in the early days of my obsession with cinema. Back then, I hadn’t developed a taste for full-blooded horror, but I was attracted to the cinema of mystery and imagination. I loved weird and stylish supernatural thrillers and, as far as I could tell from books and occasional movie seasons on BBC2, such films were more often produced beyond the Hollywood and Eurocentric markets. It soon became apparent that Japan produced real classics that I made my mission to discover and, since then, my entry point to many world cultures has been through music and movies.
Masaki Kobayashi’s 1964 opus, Kwaidan, is a collection of four supernatural folk tales collected by Lafcadio Hearn, an Irish-born folklorist and author who settled in Japan and became an influential cultural commentator. Thus, the film brings together some of my major interests: folklore and filmmaking along with the arts and culture of Japan. The first tale is "Kurokami / The Black Hair" sets the tone with its gorgeous cinematography and unsettling emotional ambiguity along with content that resonates with classical Japanese Buddhist art and modern J-Horror. "Yuki-Onna / The Woman of the Snow" is a sympathetic portrayal of its titular supernatural being and stunningly shot with some striking experimental imagery. "Mimi-Nashi-Hôichi no Hanashi / Hōichi the Earless," is an epic, standalone segment that includes the iconic image of a man covered in Japanese writing which I remember first seeing decades earlier in those books on world cinema. It’s an image that has recurred through horror and fantasy media ever since. "Chawan no naka / In a Cup of Tea," is told as a puzzling, nested narrative and leaves the viewer in a state of existential reflection.
As a whole and in part, Kwaidan remains an astounding cinematic achievement, that has left a lasting influence on countless films, from Akira Kurosawa to modern J-Horror and even the Star Wars franchise. You can read my full review on Medium.
Me and Yōkai
Like the fairies, goblins, and mythical beasts of Europe, yōkai (妖怪) are diverse supernatural beings, deeply embedded in Japan’s folklore. They appear in age-old illustrated scrolls and came to significant cultural prominence by way of the artist Toriyama Sekien (鳥山 石燕) who produced popular Yōkai Dictionaries in the 18th-century. However, by the mid-20th-century they were receding into obscurity, swamped by the modern world… until manga artist, Mizuki Shigeru (水木 しげる) reimagined these creatures in popular series like GeGeGe no Kitarō (ゲゲゲの鬼太郎), and his Yokai Encyclopaedia. Yōkai were reinvented as a community of mischievous and peace-loving entities. Satoshi Tajiri (田尻 智) grew up reading with Mizuki Shigeru’s manga which were the main inspiration for his designs for Pokémon in the mid-1990s. Around that same time, the influence of yōkai manifested in the films of Studio Ghibli fand across various other forms of contemporary Japanese mass media.
The folklore, art, and films of Japan are fascinating, and they all feature yōkai! So, I really enjoyed researching their historical and contextual significance for an article originally published in The Signifier and then on Substack, exploring the spooky Japanese arts that have recorded the surreal world of yōkai for centuries. It was a fascinating piece to research and write and I hope that those with an interest in such things will enjoy sharing the journey - from woodblock prints to Blu-ray box sets.
Yuri’s comment:
As you saw in the recent cross-posted article, Remy and I share some common interests, and his perspective is fascinating. Just as he found Kyary Pamyu Pamyu as his Oshi, I hope you will find a Japanese artist or writer who becomes your Oshi!
Hideo Kojima didn't make Ring - is that an error?
So many of the commentators are devotees of horror! I feel almost as if I am missing something, something significant. But perhaps since I can, and do, generate feelings of anxiety and dread at will, I am not so attracted to obtaining more. Thank you for including me in this omnibus. I am honored to be placed among them. I note that my piece was probably first because of chronological order, but it also had the beneficial result that the reader was rewarded with the better contributions further on. And I get more substacks to subscribe to!