I first came across this book through a couple of recent podcasts. In one, a lawyer and debater I deeply respect recommended it. In another, the host interviewed the author. While I wasn’t particularly impressed by that interview, the book itself lingered in my mind, and eventually, I decided to give it a read.
The setting immediately caught my attention because Yoshii Shinobu lived – and deliberately chose to continue living – in an extremely compact space of just eight square meters. It was functional in the barest sense: there was a kitchen with a simple stove, a bed, a table, and a toilet. But it was far from sufficient for a comfortable life, with no refrigerator and no shower. I can’t imagine mentally surviving in a room like that, which made the book all the more intriguing to me.
A compact living space like this pushed Shinobu to engage more with society to meet her basic needs – eating, bathing, and finding entertainment. As the author explains in the book, she deliberately chose this option over a larger, fully equipped apartment in a more suburban area because she loved city life. Located in a prime area, the space gave her easy access to the kinds of experiences that mattered most to her – movies, shows, exhibitions – as well as abundant food options and nearby bathhouses. Without this outward-facing, socially embedded way of living, this book would not have existed.
It was a fast, smooth read. The author wrote as if she were sitting beside you, casually telling her story. I enjoyed the stories about the strangers-turned-friends she met outside her eight-square-meter room, at the curry house she worked part-time, at the bath houses, or at those cafes she accidentally came across. She never tried to overemphasize any particular point, and that made the stories feel even more natural and genuine.
I found myself in tears when she wrote about the life of the elderly man who owned a café that opened at four in the morning and closed by nine. I also felt a strong urge to meet the independent woman who ran the elegant café known for its incredible fishball stew. Through these encounters, I learned so much about everyday life in Tokyo – how bathhouses operate, what independent movie theaters and comedy houses are like, and how the recycle regulations were as well as the impact on people.
What impressed me most was how deeply she valued these connections with strangers. She didn’t just talk to them in passing; she made a conscious effort to maintain those relationships. Every so often, she would initiate a call or send a message to check in, to meet up, and to share what each of them had been experiencing lately. That kind of intentional connection feels increasingly rare, especially after COVID. People seem more detached now, and even friendships connect less frequently – many interactions have become purely transactional. At least I have been doing a very poor job in maintaining those genuine relationships.
Ultimately, as long as a person is happy, the specifics of their living situation matter less than how they feel as a member of society. The author came across as happy, content, and genuinely optimistic about the life ahead. I believe her connection to her surroundings – to the people and rhythms of the city – helped shape who she became. And in many ways, that sense of connection is exactly what we all need.
SweetS 