Anyone who knows a thing or two about Japanese people knows they get “particular” when telling a story. That particularity is baked in — the kind of small-mindedness that lacks any grand scale, constantly getting weepy over the most trivial shit. There’s actually a word for this in Japanese: mono no aware, which Chinese renders as 物哀. Basically, you see anything at all and get inexplicably sad. For pretentious artsy kids that’s maybe OK, but if it’s the only register you ever play, you’ve run out of tricks. Mono no aware isn’t just in the usual stories — it’s more in how Japanese people tell stories. Endlessly wistful and mournful, a hundred twists and turns, and after a hundred laps around the track you still haven’t gotten back to the starting point. The reader gets anxious, and all that circling still lands you on some utterly unremarkable ending, which easily leaves you feeling embarrassed and angry. Yes, I’m embarrassed and angry again. Miss Wang, bring me my Italian cannon, I’m opening fire.