Autumn Light: Season of Fire and Farewells

Halfway through the book, Iyer recounts his awe at hearing a friend's perceptions about Japan. “I'd never see that in a million years”, he confesses to his friend–who bemusedly reminds Iyer that those are Iyer's own words, from the book he wrote after first moving to Japan decades ago. That, to me, sums up the killer flaw in the book: Iyer can no longer recreate the Beginner's Mind necessary to connect with a reader.

His words are lovely. The mood of the book is lightly haunting, melancholy, appropriate for its subject matter: reflections on our middle age and mortality, particularly how we're affected by the deaths of those in our lives. But it's also much more, or seems to be, except I couldn't really grasp it: twenty years in Japan have changed Iyer's perspective, and his cultural references and assumptions make little sense to this western reader. Peoples' attitudes, their rituals, interests, I just couldn't grok.

There's one more thing that infused the book, and I'm not sure if it's deliberate or if Iyer is even aware of it: loneliness. I could not find any trace of human connection throughout the entire book: not in the shallow appearances-focused lives of those around him; not in his family or friends; not even in his perplexing relationship with his wife. There's no... heart? Two weeks after finishing, I'm still not sure what it was that I found missing. I just found it all so sad.

But then again maybe it's me and I'm just missing something important.