![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() In 2016, Murata published Convenience Store Woman, a novel narrated by a contentedly unambitious Smile Mart worker who achieves greater fulfillment performing her rote duties as an employee than aspiring to marriage or motherhood. Many of her female characters feel distant from their bodies, both in mechanics and in purpose. “Even now I feel like my body and I don’t understand each other.” Murata, the author of more than a dozen novels and story collections, writes often from this place of alienation. ![]() “In high school, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sweat,” she says. After all, she’s not sure her body works like those of other humans. Maybe the subtle sheen is a source of pride for Murata, I think. Looking at Murata’s long, collared black dress and black tights, I feel even hotter, but she seems unaffected, apart from a gentle glisten across her forehead. Today, visitors are sparse it seems we’re the only ones foolish enough to be out at noon. It’s an oppressively humid summer day in Tokyo, the sun hidden by a thick blanket of gray, and we’re taking a stroll at the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, a 116-year-old park that becomes dense with crowds during the sakura blossom. By the time I meet Sayaka Murata, on a recent afternoon in June, the back of my linen dress is damp. ![]()
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