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Cold Enough for Snow
A mother and daughter travel from abroad to meet in Tokyo: they walk along the canals through the autumn evenings, escape the typhoon rains, share meals in small cafes and restaurants, and visit galleries to see some of the city's most radical modern art. All the while, they talk: about the weather, horoscopes, clothes, and objects, about family, distance, and memory. But uncertainties abound. Who is really speaking here - is it only the daughter? And what is the real reason behind this elliptical, perhaps even spectral journey? At once a careful reckoning and an elegy, Cold Enough for Snow questions whether any of us speak a common language, which dimensions can contain love, and what claim we have to truly know another's inner world.
Selected from more than 1,500 entries, Cold Enough for Snow won the Novel Prize, a new, biennial award offered by Fitzcarraldo Editions, New Directions (US) and Giramondo (Australia), for any novel written in English that explores and expands the possibilities of the form.
Selected from more than 1,500 entries, Cold Enough for Snow won the Novel Prize, a new, biennial award offered by Fitzcarraldo Editions, New Directions (US) and Giramondo (Australia), for any novel written in English that explores and expands the possibilities of the form.
99 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2022
About the author
Jessica Au
3 books203 followersJessica Au is an Australian editor and bookseller, and author of the novels Cargo and Cold Enough for Snow.
Au won the inaugural Novel prize in 2020, the 2023 Victorian Premier's Prize for Literature, the Victorian Premier's Prize for Fiction and the Prime Minister's Literary Award for Fiction.
She is based in Melbourne and has worked as deputy editor at the quarterly journal Meanjin and as a fact-checker for Aeon magazine.
Au won the inaugural Novel prize in 2020, the 2023 Victorian Premier's Prize for Literature, the Victorian Premier's Prize for Fiction and the Prime Minister's Literary Award for Fiction.
She is based in Melbourne and has worked as deputy editor at the quarterly journal Meanjin and as a fact-checker for Aeon magazine.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,923 reviews
April 5, 2022
Wow! This was a real surprise for me. This book passed through my hands quite casually. I didn’t recognize the cover, the title, or the author – which is surprising considering how much time I spend looking at books on this site! And yet, I was completely drawn to it simply because of the title. I took it home on a whim. Reading it was a magical experience. It’s highly evocative, deeply contemplative and written with some really sublime prose. There’s a gentleness to it, and a bit of a haze much like the reader is seeing it all unfold through the drizzly rain that falls on this mother and daughter on their sojourn to Tokyo. For being a very slim novel, there’s a lot of heft to it – not necessarily plot-wise, but in the form of deeper thinking. There’s so much to uncover that it really could use a second reading, but I don’t have the luxury of that at the moment.
“I thought about how vaguely familiar this scene was to me, especially with the smells of the restaurant around me, but strangely so, because it was not my childhood, but my mother’s childhood that I was thinking of, and from another country at that. And yet there was something about the subtropical feel, the smell of the steam and the tea and the rain. It reminded me of her photographs, or the television dramas we had watched together when I was still young. Or it was like the sweets she used to buy for me, which no doubt were the sweets her mother used to buy for her.”
A daughter travels to Japan with her mother in an attempt to make some sort of connection with her. Both are in a land foreign to them, and the daughter thinks this will help them both to be on equal footing. How much of ourselves is connected to our parents due to biology alone? What pieces of a son or daughter can be said to have been shaped by the memories a parent has shared with us? How much distance comes between us due to generational gaps and education? The daughter, as narrator, imparts to us a feeling of loneliness while in the midst of trying to understand both herself and her relationship with her mother. Anyone that has ever tried to find some common ground with a parent, and perhaps failed, will feel this even more deeply. The mother will often smile or nod, while the daughter fails to verbalize what she is thinking. What is it that keeps us from fully communicating our inner selves to another? Is it perhaps the fear of being misunderstood, or worse, scorned?
“But who’s to say how anyone would act on a given day, not to mention the secret places of the soul, where all manner of things could exist?”
As the two women wander through Tokyo, visiting various sites, the daughter reflects back on moments in the past that seem to have brought her to this point in her life. Art plays a large role in shaping her thoughts. Mother and daughter visit an art museum, the daughter gazing at the Monet paintings and wishing that her mother would notice the same impressions of a dreamlike quality to the work. The daughter also recalls a time when she stayed at a professor’s home for several days, reminiscing over porcelain and other objects chosen with care. When she returns home, her own belongings seem cheap and randomly selected. Rather than providing serenity, they seem to create a sense of chaos. Oh, how I can relate to this feeling! Lately I’ve been staring at the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years, much of it not just my things. I want to chuck it all in the trash and start over. I would love to go completely minimalist. There is a sense of calmness in simple objects when not overwhelmed by the excess of superfluous junk.
“… something continued to elude me, both in the house and afterward, a feeling I could not quite shake… it felt like I was living my life from the outside in. I picked up objects that had long been mine – clothes, makeup, books – and at times it was as if they did not belong to me but were a stranger’s.”
What causes the distance between people, even those we are close to – our parents, our lovers, and our friends - differences in education, culture, language, and religious beliefs? The expansiveness that some of us crave, while others are perfectly content to carry on without the risks inherent with change? The daughter has been to college and has assimilated, while her mother is an immigrant, no longer having anyone with whom to share her memories of her homeland. Both women find themselves on foreign land during this excursion; both have the disadvantage of a language barrier. Yet the daughter yearns to understand the language in order to bring herself closer within the orbit of the people she finds herself among. She recalls the hunger for knowledge and passionate discussions she’s had with classmates.
“I thought of the instances when I had been able to converse in a string of sentences, like with the woman at the bookshop, and how good this had felt, how electric. I wanted more of those moments, to feel fluency running through me, to know someone and to have them know me.”
The more I think about it, the more amazed I am at the number of themes touched upon by Jessica Au. She does this in few words, but they continue to resound long after finishing. She offered me what initially felt like a soft nudge to reflect on life, but suddenly I was surprised by how deeply I had been plunged into a sea of introspection. In some ways, the entire novella evokes the feeling of a dream. Both the imagery and the nature of the narrator’s reflections impart this quality. The ending has an exquisite ethereal feel that left me both satisfied and a bit unsettled. Highly recommended for those who love to travel through quiet books, and those that like a splash of melancholy and a good share of contemplation in their reading adventures. I’ll have another, please!
“It was strange at once to be so familiar and yet so separated. I wondered how I could feel so at home in a place that was not mine.”
“I thought about how vaguely familiar this scene was to me, especially with the smells of the restaurant around me, but strangely so, because it was not my childhood, but my mother’s childhood that I was thinking of, and from another country at that. And yet there was something about the subtropical feel, the smell of the steam and the tea and the rain. It reminded me of her photographs, or the television dramas we had watched together when I was still young. Or it was like the sweets she used to buy for me, which no doubt were the sweets her mother used to buy for her.”
A daughter travels to Japan with her mother in an attempt to make some sort of connection with her. Both are in a land foreign to them, and the daughter thinks this will help them both to be on equal footing. How much of ourselves is connected to our parents due to biology alone? What pieces of a son or daughter can be said to have been shaped by the memories a parent has shared with us? How much distance comes between us due to generational gaps and education? The daughter, as narrator, imparts to us a feeling of loneliness while in the midst of trying to understand both herself and her relationship with her mother. Anyone that has ever tried to find some common ground with a parent, and perhaps failed, will feel this even more deeply. The mother will often smile or nod, while the daughter fails to verbalize what she is thinking. What is it that keeps us from fully communicating our inner selves to another? Is it perhaps the fear of being misunderstood, or worse, scorned?
“But who’s to say how anyone would act on a given day, not to mention the secret places of the soul, where all manner of things could exist?”
As the two women wander through Tokyo, visiting various sites, the daughter reflects back on moments in the past that seem to have brought her to this point in her life. Art plays a large role in shaping her thoughts. Mother and daughter visit an art museum, the daughter gazing at the Monet paintings and wishing that her mother would notice the same impressions of a dreamlike quality to the work. The daughter also recalls a time when she stayed at a professor’s home for several days, reminiscing over porcelain and other objects chosen with care. When she returns home, her own belongings seem cheap and randomly selected. Rather than providing serenity, they seem to create a sense of chaos. Oh, how I can relate to this feeling! Lately I’ve been staring at the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years, much of it not just my things. I want to chuck it all in the trash and start over. I would love to go completely minimalist. There is a sense of calmness in simple objects when not overwhelmed by the excess of superfluous junk.
“… something continued to elude me, both in the house and afterward, a feeling I could not quite shake… it felt like I was living my life from the outside in. I picked up objects that had long been mine – clothes, makeup, books – and at times it was as if they did not belong to me but were a stranger’s.”
What causes the distance between people, even those we are close to – our parents, our lovers, and our friends - differences in education, culture, language, and religious beliefs? The expansiveness that some of us crave, while others are perfectly content to carry on without the risks inherent with change? The daughter has been to college and has assimilated, while her mother is an immigrant, no longer having anyone with whom to share her memories of her homeland. Both women find themselves on foreign land during this excursion; both have the disadvantage of a language barrier. Yet the daughter yearns to understand the language in order to bring herself closer within the orbit of the people she finds herself among. She recalls the hunger for knowledge and passionate discussions she’s had with classmates.
“I thought of the instances when I had been able to converse in a string of sentences, like with the woman at the bookshop, and how good this had felt, how electric. I wanted more of those moments, to feel fluency running through me, to know someone and to have them know me.”
The more I think about it, the more amazed I am at the number of themes touched upon by Jessica Au. She does this in few words, but they continue to resound long after finishing. She offered me what initially felt like a soft nudge to reflect on life, but suddenly I was surprised by how deeply I had been plunged into a sea of introspection. In some ways, the entire novella evokes the feeling of a dream. Both the imagery and the nature of the narrator’s reflections impart this quality. The ending has an exquisite ethereal feel that left me both satisfied and a bit unsettled. Highly recommended for those who love to travel through quiet books, and those that like a splash of melancholy and a good share of contemplation in their reading adventures. I’ll have another, please!
“It was strange at once to be so familiar and yet so separated. I wondered how I could feel so at home in a place that was not mine.”
March 28, 2022
No other book I have read this year - [or in many years] - has spoken so deeply, deeper than deep — to my soul — than this book!
I ache!
“The wind had pulled her hair, which she had pinned up that morning, causing short, loose strands to flutter about her face in a way that felt somehow freeing”.
Ha….
…. and me? I don’t feel free at all.
Her mother said that when she was growing up, she had never thought of herself in isolation, but rather as inextricably linked to others.
“Nowadays, she said, people are hungry to know everything, thinking that they could understand it all, as if enlightenment were just around the corner. But, she said in fact there was no control, and understanding would not lessen any pain. The best we could do in this life was to pass through it, like smoke through the branches, suffering, until we either reached a state of nothingness, or else suffered elsewhere. She spoke about other tenets, of goodness and giving, the accumulation of
kindness like a trove of wealth. She was looking at me then, and I knew she wanted me to be with her on this, to follow her, but to my shame I found that I could not and worse, that I could not even pretend. Instead I looked at my watch and said that visiting hours were almost over, and that we should probably go”.
“As soon as the train left the station, I felt a sense of relief. I wanted to walk in the woods and among the trees. I wanted not to speak to anyone, only to see and hear, to feel lonely”.
“Outside we could hear the wind was strong, but inside it was still. I remember thinking as we ate, how such happiness could come from such simple things”.
“I stopped to rest and look at the view. Through the sheets of rain, the landscape looked almost like a screen painting that we had seen in one of the old houses. It had been made up of several panels, and yet the artist had used the brush only minimally, making a few careful lines on the paper. Some were strong and definite, while others bled and faded, giving the impression of vapor. And yet, when you looked, you saw something: mountains, dissolution, form and color running forever downward”.
“I thought again about how no one knew how deep the lake really was, and how I cannot stop thinking of this”.
I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS BOOK….
….and tears? You have no idea!!!
Don’t ask more of me - not today - to write my thoughts and feelings - or to share more—-
Other than I hope I can convey- I don’t believe any other book could do to me what this book just did.
Yes it’s beautiful… Yes it’s beautifully written… Yes it’s sad… Yes it’s deep… And deeper…
And profound… And brilliant… reflective … quiet - extraordinary… filled with profound hopelessness — and profound hopefulness …
Neither > hopeful, or hopeless > do I feel satisfied with [But I can’t explain this with words]
I can’t even imagine reading any other book right now.
To anybody who read this review- my friends— my wonderful friends the people here who I really deeply cherish—
And to anyone else that perhaps reads my reviews who I don’t even know….
I want to say I’m sorry for all the times that I’m inconsistent about being here online—
I’m sorry if I don’t read others reviews enough -
I’m sorry if I don’t respond to comments quick enough-
I’m sorry if I’m not the best friend—
I’m sorry I can’t be here to have a more lengthy conversation with others who have read this book—
I HAVE TO GO!!!
I have some very busy days ahead but I couldn’t not share something after having finished this!!
So I wrote this as quickly as possible and it’s certainly not perfect but I just want to say how powerful and wonderful this book is.
I’d love to give it to everyone I know and I definitely would like to send it to both of my daughters.
I’ll be crying on and off - perhaps I’m stupid-nuts -
It was just a F—ing book!!
Yet, it feels like so much more!
Thank you to those who read it before me!!! Your reviews moved me. YOU move me!
I ache!
“The wind had pulled her hair, which she had pinned up that morning, causing short, loose strands to flutter about her face in a way that felt somehow freeing”.
Ha….
…. and me? I don’t feel free at all.
Her mother said that when she was growing up, she had never thought of herself in isolation, but rather as inextricably linked to others.
“Nowadays, she said, people are hungry to know everything, thinking that they could understand it all, as if enlightenment were just around the corner. But, she said in fact there was no control, and understanding would not lessen any pain. The best we could do in this life was to pass through it, like smoke through the branches, suffering, until we either reached a state of nothingness, or else suffered elsewhere. She spoke about other tenets, of goodness and giving, the accumulation of
kindness like a trove of wealth. She was looking at me then, and I knew she wanted me to be with her on this, to follow her, but to my shame I found that I could not and worse, that I could not even pretend. Instead I looked at my watch and said that visiting hours were almost over, and that we should probably go”.
“As soon as the train left the station, I felt a sense of relief. I wanted to walk in the woods and among the trees. I wanted not to speak to anyone, only to see and hear, to feel lonely”.
“Outside we could hear the wind was strong, but inside it was still. I remember thinking as we ate, how such happiness could come from such simple things”.
“I stopped to rest and look at the view. Through the sheets of rain, the landscape looked almost like a screen painting that we had seen in one of the old houses. It had been made up of several panels, and yet the artist had used the brush only minimally, making a few careful lines on the paper. Some were strong and definite, while others bled and faded, giving the impression of vapor. And yet, when you looked, you saw something: mountains, dissolution, form and color running forever downward”.
“I thought again about how no one knew how deep the lake really was, and how I cannot stop thinking of this”.
I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS BOOK….
….and tears? You have no idea!!!
Don’t ask more of me - not today - to write my thoughts and feelings - or to share more—-
Other than I hope I can convey- I don’t believe any other book could do to me what this book just did.
Yes it’s beautiful… Yes it’s beautifully written… Yes it’s sad… Yes it’s deep… And deeper…
And profound… And brilliant… reflective … quiet - extraordinary… filled with profound hopelessness — and profound hopefulness …
Neither > hopeful, or hopeless > do I feel satisfied with [But I can’t explain this with words]
I can’t even imagine reading any other book right now.
To anybody who read this review- my friends— my wonderful friends the people here who I really deeply cherish—
And to anyone else that perhaps reads my reviews who I don’t even know….
I want to say I’m sorry for all the times that I’m inconsistent about being here online—
I’m sorry if I don’t read others reviews enough -
I’m sorry if I don’t respond to comments quick enough-
I’m sorry if I’m not the best friend—
I’m sorry I can’t be here to have a more lengthy conversation with others who have read this book—
I HAVE TO GO!!!
I have some very busy days ahead but I couldn’t not share something after having finished this!!
So I wrote this as quickly as possible and it’s certainly not perfect but I just want to say how powerful and wonderful this book is.
I’d love to give it to everyone I know and I definitely would like to send it to both of my daughters.
I’ll be crying on and off - perhaps I’m stupid-nuts -
It was just a F—ing book!!
Yet, it feels like so much more!
Thank you to those who read it before me!!! Your reviews moved me. YOU move me!
February 9, 2022
Winner of the Novel Prize 2020
Cold Enough for Snow begins as a hypnotic travelogue—soothing, almost meditative in its cadences and imagery of a rainy Tokyo—and develops into a haunting, poignant elegy.
To me, ‘Ishiguro-esque’ is the best descriptor for this slim volume. It reminds me most of A Pale View of Hills and even the titles evoke a similar feeling, almost like a line of haiku. The narrator, an Australian woman travelling with her mother in Japan, is classic Ishiguro: a little melancholy, a little pompous, aloof in a broken, alienated kind of way. Not so much ‘unreliable’ as she is under an illusion; as the story evolves it drops subtle hints at her blinkered state.
Elision is the order of the day here. Unwanted texts, sent by a customer at the restaurant where she waitresses, clearly distress the narrator a great deal but are never described beyond simply ‘messages’. Meanwhile, Au devotes lyrical, attentive paragraphs to a collection of textiles in a museum, porcelain bowls, a hotel room. These are deft choices—what to evoke in precise, elegant detail; what to leave up to the reader’s imaginings—that make this book much larger in the mind than its page count should allow.
This ability to reverberate, to create echoes in the mind and to linger with you after you finish reading, is also reminiscent of Ishiguro’s novels. But Au has created something all her own here, a thoughtful, elliptical work whose uncomplicated prose style belies its depth. 4.5 stars
Cold Enough for Snow begins as a hypnotic travelogue—soothing, almost meditative in its cadences and imagery of a rainy Tokyo—and develops into a haunting, poignant elegy.
To me, ‘Ishiguro-esque’ is the best descriptor for this slim volume. It reminds me most of A Pale View of Hills and even the titles evoke a similar feeling, almost like a line of haiku. The narrator, an Australian woman travelling with her mother in Japan, is classic Ishiguro: a little melancholy, a little pompous, aloof in a broken, alienated kind of way. Not so much ‘unreliable’ as she is under an illusion; as the story evolves it drops subtle hints at her blinkered state.
Elision is the order of the day here. Unwanted texts, sent by a customer at the restaurant where she waitresses, clearly distress the narrator a great deal but are never described beyond simply ‘messages’. Meanwhile, Au devotes lyrical, attentive paragraphs to a collection of textiles in a museum, porcelain bowls, a hotel room. These are deft choices—what to evoke in precise, elegant detail; what to leave up to the reader’s imaginings—that make this book much larger in the mind than its page count should allow.
This ability to reverberate, to create echoes in the mind and to linger with you after you finish reading, is also reminiscent of Ishiguro’s novels. But Au has created something all her own here, a thoughtful, elliptical work whose uncomplicated prose style belies its depth. 4.5 stars
April 6, 2022
This novella will appeal to a reader who likes to immerse in contemplation. Jessica Au's Cold Enough for Snow is comprised solely of observation and contemplation, and features fine, quiet prose.
The plot, which is quite uneventful as plots go, follows a trip that a mother and daughter take to Japan. The daughter has planned it all out. They look at porcelain, go to galleries, eat noodles, and occasionally interact, but it all seems to somewhat miss the mark. They are almost like two ghosts who walk through each other rather than two women related by flesh and blood.
Despite the fact that it is only 90-something pages, it isn't a book you'll rush through. Not only is the mood a melancholic, meditative, leisurely one, but the structure forces you to slow down too. The paragraphs are long and full of detailed observation so there's a density there. Also, there isn't a single line of dialogue to be found. Any dialogue is summarized rather than actually taking place which creates a dreamlike effect. Is this "conversation" even happening? Is any of it happening? Or is it all in the mind of our narrator, who has so many things going through her mind - thoughts, feelings, things that have happened to her, or to others.
The writing is elegant. However, sometimes I found the many observations to be a bit much, with detailing of every little movement and mundane activity. Rather than drawing me in, I felt the heaviness of the details. At times, I couldn't help but long for more of a connection to the characters, rather than living in the world of thoughts. I longed for more of a muscularity to the plot and the story - the abstractness didn't pull me in, despite many lovely insights and topics on which the author touched.
I believe I admire this book more than I enjoyed it, but I'm glad that I read it, even if it felt like I was looking at it through a milky glass window pane.
3.25 stars
The plot, which is quite uneventful as plots go, follows a trip that a mother and daughter take to Japan. The daughter has planned it all out. They look at porcelain, go to galleries, eat noodles, and occasionally interact, but it all seems to somewhat miss the mark. They are almost like two ghosts who walk through each other rather than two women related by flesh and blood.
Despite the fact that it is only 90-something pages, it isn't a book you'll rush through. Not only is the mood a melancholic, meditative, leisurely one, but the structure forces you to slow down too. The paragraphs are long and full of detailed observation so there's a density there. Also, there isn't a single line of dialogue to be found. Any dialogue is summarized rather than actually taking place which creates a dreamlike effect. Is this "conversation" even happening? Is any of it happening? Or is it all in the mind of our narrator, who has so many things going through her mind - thoughts, feelings, things that have happened to her, or to others.
The writing is elegant. However, sometimes I found the many observations to be a bit much, with detailing of every little movement and mundane activity. Rather than drawing me in, I felt the heaviness of the details. At times, I couldn't help but long for more of a connection to the characters, rather than living in the world of thoughts. I longed for more of a muscularity to the plot and the story - the abstractness didn't pull me in, despite many lovely insights and topics on which the author touched.
I believe I admire this book more than I enjoyed it, but I'm glad that I read it, even if it felt like I was looking at it through a milky glass window pane.
3.25 stars
February 17, 2024
I was ready to love this. It came highly recommended by readers whose tastes I share, and is about a mother and adult daughter traveling together to Japan as an attempt to connect.
I feel like the author was trying for the painful irony of the Harry Chapin song, “Cat’s Cradle,” with her own spin on reaching across an emotional divide towards a parent. Here, it is the divide created when a parent is a foreigner in the very land where her child was raised. The mother grew up in rural China before moving with her daughter to Australia, and she feels closer to her culture when they visit Japan.
The story works like memory works, sifting through the daughter’s mind: intellectually, and aesthetically, it accomplishes a lot. I value these accomplishments. And it’s written in gorgeous prose. The problem for me was the willy-nilly weaving through time in snapshot memories of ordinary moments. They charmed me, but I wasn’t moved.
The song, Cat’s Cradle, moved me the first time I listened to the words, so why not this? The book, Hot Milk, immersed me in its fever-dream feel between mother and daughter, so why didn’t I feel much here? Maybe I was never invited into the daughter’s heart, and couldn’t grasp much of the mother at all. The mother felt like a cardboard stand-in for what’s real by someone who’s lost her mind to grief, and that may have been intentional, even artful. But I prefer a scrappy mess of emotions, or a longing that lurks beneath the cold. Instead, I was left unmoored, and felt that the whole attempt at creating distance due to a difference in culture was overshadowed by the feeling that both women were just incapable of love. Looks like it was the Cat’s Cradle affliction after all.
I feel like the author was trying for the painful irony of the Harry Chapin song, “Cat’s Cradle,” with her own spin on reaching across an emotional divide towards a parent. Here, it is the divide created when a parent is a foreigner in the very land where her child was raised. The mother grew up in rural China before moving with her daughter to Australia, and she feels closer to her culture when they visit Japan.
The story works like memory works, sifting through the daughter’s mind: intellectually, and aesthetically, it accomplishes a lot. I value these accomplishments. And it’s written in gorgeous prose. The problem for me was the willy-nilly weaving through time in snapshot memories of ordinary moments. They charmed me, but I wasn’t moved.
The song, Cat’s Cradle, moved me the first time I listened to the words, so why not this? The book, Hot Milk, immersed me in its fever-dream feel between mother and daughter, so why didn’t I feel much here? Maybe I was never invited into the daughter’s heart, and couldn’t grasp much of the mother at all. The mother felt like a cardboard stand-in for what’s real by someone who’s lost her mind to grief, and that may have been intentional, even artful. But I prefer a scrappy mess of emotions, or a longing that lurks beneath the cold. Instead, I was left unmoored, and felt that the whole attempt at creating distance due to a difference in culture was overshadowed by the feeling that both women were just incapable of love. Looks like it was the Cat’s Cradle affliction after all.
March 31, 2022
What an extraordinary novella, not only for the gorgeous prose on every level but also for the feeling it gave me. I felt lifted. I felt wiser. The narrator is intensely observant of both her environment and her inner worlds. She describes her family in ways that aren't always complementary, but are always full of love. The descriptions of mood and place are outstanding and revealing. Au perfectly channels the sensibility of a young person trying to understand the world in a deeper way.
Cold Enough for Snow reminds me of other recent favorites including Three O'Clock in the Morning by Gianrico Carofiglio and Optic Nerve by María Gainza--if you loved those, then you will love this--but it has a, well, the best word for it really is 'love'--it has a love of life and language that, for me, catapulted it beyond even these great favorites.
Cold Enough for Snow reminds me of other recent favorites including Three O'Clock in the Morning by Gianrico Carofiglio and Optic Nerve by María Gainza--if you loved those, then you will love this--but it has a, well, the best word for it really is 'love'--it has a love of life and language that, for me, catapulted it beyond even these great favorites.
January 14, 2022
Jessica Au's award winning novella is a dense and ambiguous focus on family, memories, and a mother, born in rural China, raised in Hong Kong, and leaving for an unknown country (since Au is Chinese-Australian, it seems logical to assume that it is Australia) where she raises two daughters who attend Catholic school. A daughter invites her reluctant mother, from whom she has been distant for some considerable time, on a trip to Japan. They meet in Tokyo, going on to Osaka and Kyoto, removing their footwear and putting on slippers to see museum exhibitions, of pots and vases, fabrics and visiting galleries, with reflections on art in a richly detailed narrative. However, how far can we trust the daughter's account? Her mother barely speaks, a ghostly presence, is she even there? There is a reference later on about clearing out her mother's home later on.
Interspersed in the story are non-linear memories, of family in Hong Kong, an Uncle with heart problems, working as a waitress in a restaurant, and her medic sister, who when young had a raging temper, and has 2 children. We are given a glimpse of just how much her world opened up at college, her idolisation of a lecturer and appreciation of other students, her first encounter with Greek literature, the myths and legends, house sitting, and parties. She has recently moved apartment with her partner, Laurie, his father a sculptor, the two of them having conversations as to whether they should have children. In Japan, we see the mother and daughter seeking to connect, a vast cultural, philosophical and beliefs abyss between them. This is a common experience within immigrant families, the daughter admitting she has never given much thought as to what it must have been like for her mother to move and live in Australia.
This is a story of art, family, being an immigrant, and identity, of unreliable memories, with the mirroring of 'pentimento', the changing of the past to makes things appear not as they were, but more of how we wish them to be. The beautiful, precise prose atmospherically echoes the remoteness, cold and distance that marks much of the relationship between mother and daughter. This is a fascinatingly unsettling read, where you can never be sure of what is real and what is not, and for me the writing was the highlight. I have to say personally I would prefer to have a more emotional connection with the characters in a book, but would nevertheless recommend this novella to other readers . Many thanks to the publisher for an ARC.
Interspersed in the story are non-linear memories, of family in Hong Kong, an Uncle with heart problems, working as a waitress in a restaurant, and her medic sister, who when young had a raging temper, and has 2 children. We are given a glimpse of just how much her world opened up at college, her idolisation of a lecturer and appreciation of other students, her first encounter with Greek literature, the myths and legends, house sitting, and parties. She has recently moved apartment with her partner, Laurie, his father a sculptor, the two of them having conversations as to whether they should have children. In Japan, we see the mother and daughter seeking to connect, a vast cultural, philosophical and beliefs abyss between them. This is a common experience within immigrant families, the daughter admitting she has never given much thought as to what it must have been like for her mother to move and live in Australia.
This is a story of art, family, being an immigrant, and identity, of unreliable memories, with the mirroring of 'pentimento', the changing of the past to makes things appear not as they were, but more of how we wish them to be. The beautiful, precise prose atmospherically echoes the remoteness, cold and distance that marks much of the relationship between mother and daughter. This is a fascinatingly unsettling read, where you can never be sure of what is real and what is not, and for me the writing was the highlight. I have to say personally I would prefer to have a more emotional connection with the characters in a book, but would nevertheless recommend this novella to other readers . Many thanks to the publisher for an ARC.
February 4, 2023
A finely written novella, carefully observed and full of meditations on what shapes lives and generations, set against a beautifully described background of a visit to Japan
And yet, I persisted, because I dreamed one day of being able to say more.
While reading I felt in the art galleries, in the home of the lecturer of the narrator and most of all, alone in the Japanese mountains with some drizzling rain
Jessica Au manages a high level of immediacy in a short book, with Cold Enough for Snow not just transporting the reader in a physical sense but also into the history of the narrator who travels to Japan with her mother. Class and the difficulty to engage effectively with one's parents are definitely themes, as are reflections on how art can be interpreted and be enjoyed. The inability to fully express oneself comes back multiple times:
I had one vague, exhausted thought that perhaps it was all right not to understand all things, but simply to see and hold them.
I definitely would be down for longer pieces of work from Jessica Au!
And yet, I persisted, because I dreamed one day of being able to say more.
While reading I felt in the art galleries, in the home of the lecturer of the narrator and most of all, alone in the Japanese mountains with some drizzling rain
Jessica Au manages a high level of immediacy in a short book, with Cold Enough for Snow not just transporting the reader in a physical sense but also into the history of the narrator who travels to Japan with her mother. Class and the difficulty to engage effectively with one's parents are definitely themes, as are reflections on how art can be interpreted and be enjoyed. The inability to fully express oneself comes back multiple times:
I had one vague, exhausted thought that perhaps it was all right not to understand all things, but simply to see and hold them.
I definitely would be down for longer pieces of work from Jessica Au!
August 17, 2023
3.5*
“Maybe it’s good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.”
“Maybe it’s good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.”
January 17, 2022
Cold Enough for Snow is a beautifully-observed, deceptively simple piece, brief but dense, pared down yet at the same time rich and intricate. On the surface it’s a straightforward story told in the first person by a daughter reflecting on her relationship with her mother, one that’s both frustratingly distanced and unavoidably intimate. They meet up in Japan for a holiday, spend time walking through quiet streets, visiting art galleries and shrines. Their conversations are curiously one-sided dominated by the daughter’s eagerness to share her insights with her mother about everything they encounter, in an almost-teacherly manner. As their time together passes, memories of the past start to unfold in the narrator’s mind. Gradually their life stories are uncovered, the mother’s birth in a small village – presumably in mainland China – and her childhood and youth in Hong Kong, the daughter’s slow parting with her family, her new life stirred by desires opened up by study and by experiences that are vastly removed from those of her mother’s. A mother who left Hong Kong for a country where she could no longer speak in her original Cantonese, close to her children but separated by the gulf created by their different languages and cultural settings.
It’s an enigmatic novel, with an underlying air of melancholy, that sometimes has the feel of a tone poem, with elements in the text suggesting that circumstances may be other than they appear. At one point the narrator talks to her mother about pentimento, the way in which a finished painting may hold hidden traces of earlier versions, a figure or a form obscured, something small perhaps or something significant enough to change its entire meaning. Writing the narrator says can be the same way, a glossing over or a reworking to transform reality into what we wished it might have been, and for that reason it’s not to be trusted. One wish that seems significant here is the daughter’s longing to overcome a sense of dislocation, the splitting that occurs between generations when a parent’s an immigrant, uprooted and cut off from their history. It’s also a highly visual piece, numerous vivid, detailed references are made to art, nature, the scenery and sounds of Japan. In this way Jessica Au foregrounds the act of seeing, sometimes this works as metaphor but at others it’s more about immediacy and the whole process of being in the world.
I found myself totally immersed in Au’s writing, her prose is nuanced, fluid and sensitive, admirably disciplined, offering up a meticulously constructed representation of two lives in miniature - at a little over ninety pages this is closer in scale to a novella than a full-fledged novel. Au, a Chinese Australian writer who’s worked as a bookseller, editor and journalist, won the inaugural Novel Prize with this, her second book, and as part of that Cold Enough for Snow will be published simultaneously in the U.K. by Fitzcarraldo Editions, in the U.S. by New Directions and in Australia by Giramondo, as well as made available in translation in a range of territories, and on the strength of this she more than deserves the recognition that this should bring.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Fitzcarraldo Editions for an arc
Rating: 4.5
It’s an enigmatic novel, with an underlying air of melancholy, that sometimes has the feel of a tone poem, with elements in the text suggesting that circumstances may be other than they appear. At one point the narrator talks to her mother about pentimento, the way in which a finished painting may hold hidden traces of earlier versions, a figure or a form obscured, something small perhaps or something significant enough to change its entire meaning. Writing the narrator says can be the same way, a glossing over or a reworking to transform reality into what we wished it might have been, and for that reason it’s not to be trusted. One wish that seems significant here is the daughter’s longing to overcome a sense of dislocation, the splitting that occurs between generations when a parent’s an immigrant, uprooted and cut off from their history. It’s also a highly visual piece, numerous vivid, detailed references are made to art, nature, the scenery and sounds of Japan. In this way Jessica Au foregrounds the act of seeing, sometimes this works as metaphor but at others it’s more about immediacy and the whole process of being in the world.
I found myself totally immersed in Au’s writing, her prose is nuanced, fluid and sensitive, admirably disciplined, offering up a meticulously constructed representation of two lives in miniature - at a little over ninety pages this is closer in scale to a novella than a full-fledged novel. Au, a Chinese Australian writer who’s worked as a bookseller, editor and journalist, won the inaugural Novel Prize with this, her second book, and as part of that Cold Enough for Snow will be published simultaneously in the U.K. by Fitzcarraldo Editions, in the U.S. by New Directions and in Australia by Giramondo, as well as made available in translation in a range of territories, and on the strength of this she more than deserves the recognition that this should bring.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Fitzcarraldo Editions for an arc
Rating: 4.5
November 16, 2023
Winner now of both the 2023 Prime Ministers Literary Award for Fiction and the Victorian Prize for Literature.
This novel was the inaugural winner of The Novel Prize, which is a new, biennial award for a book-length work of literary fiction written in English by published and unpublished writers around the world. As well as a cash prize the winner gets simultaneous publication in the UK and Ireland by the London-based Fitzcarraldo Editions, in Australia and New Zealand by Sydney publisher Giramondo, and in North America by New York’s New Directions. The prize rewards novels which explore and expand the possibilities of the form, and are innovative and imaginative in style.
Strictly though I think this is best seen as a novella – the actual text being only 86 pages
The story (at least on surface value) is of a woman (from an unnamed English speaking country (which fairly clearly seems to be Australia) who takes a holiday with her mother – her mother having been born in a rural Chinese village but then grown up in Hong Kong before moving to the English speaking country with her young family (including the narrator’s sister). The trip is the first time the mother and daughter have seen each other for some time, and the narrator has planned an artistically inclined itinerary around Tokyo (then Osaka and Kyoto).
Their trip together and the narrator’s descriptions of some of the art she sees provides the setting for a range of recollections from the narrator – sometimes from her own life, sometimes from family stories she remembers, sometimes from stories she is recounting second hand from her sister with a very Cuskian style (for example “She had not expected, she said”).
The reader is also aware of a certain ambiguity in the narrative – something just slightly off kilter. The mother figure is only seen through the eyes and thoughts of the narrator, her speech only rendered indirectly, but while that is part of the style in which the book is written, a further distancing of the mother from direct reality seems to lurk at the fringes of the text together with some passages which seem to already refer to events involving clearing the mother’s flat or others (such as my opening quote) when the mother’s appearance seems indeterminate and her physical existence almost ephemeral.
One begins to question if the narrative we are being told really did happen (for example was the narrator really on her own for the trip and thinking of her mother) or even if it did happen if it is being rewritten and reimagined some time in the future (perhaps after the mother’s death). This would fit some of the family stories told in the text – where the narrator’s recollection of them seem different to the memories of others, to some of the main themes in the art that the two (or one) view, as well as the narrator’s attempts to relate visual art to her own writing.
Stylistically the book seems to me to borrow heavily from early Ishiguro – with its careful constraint and elegance, as well as explicit consideration of restrained Japanese style art and pottery. A crucial part of the book appears to be when the narrator reflects on her job working as a waitress in a top end restaurant reaching for much the same mood and style as the novel – and I was intrigued then (given my early Ishiguro comparisons) to read:
If I had a criticism of the book it would be that the novella is a little too slight for my tastes. Firstly I do not in general terms really appreciate the minimalist aesthetic that the narrator clearly enjoys and which the novella seems based around. Secondly I think if a book is to be effective at this length then it needs to have the superfluous material chiseled away Michelangelo style – and yet I felt here there was some unnecessary detail (for example in some of the art sections) – I would contrast the book with Natasha Brown’s brilliant “Assembly” where she has said that she wrote around a sentence a day and considered every word for its importance and impact.
Overall though I found this an enjoyable and worthwhile read.
My thanks to Fitzcarraldo for an ARC via NetGalley
Her face had changed since the times I had seen her last. She had always been youthful, so much so that I realised this was tied very closely to my image of her. Yet during the trip, I would look at her profile, her face when it was tired or resting, and realise that she was now a grandmother. Then, just as quickly, I would forget this again, seeing only the same image of her as I had throughout my childhood, which was strangely fixed, only to have this broken again some days later.
This novel was the inaugural winner of The Novel Prize, which is a new, biennial award for a book-length work of literary fiction written in English by published and unpublished writers around the world. As well as a cash prize the winner gets simultaneous publication in the UK and Ireland by the London-based Fitzcarraldo Editions, in Australia and New Zealand by Sydney publisher Giramondo, and in North America by New York’s New Directions. The prize rewards novels which explore and expand the possibilities of the form, and are innovative and imaginative in style.
Strictly though I think this is best seen as a novella – the actual text being only 86 pages
The story (at least on surface value) is of a woman (from an unnamed English speaking country (which fairly clearly seems to be Australia) who takes a holiday with her mother – her mother having been born in a rural Chinese village but then grown up in Hong Kong before moving to the English speaking country with her young family (including the narrator’s sister). The trip is the first time the mother and daughter have seen each other for some time, and the narrator has planned an artistically inclined itinerary around Tokyo (then Osaka and Kyoto).
Their trip together and the narrator’s descriptions of some of the art she sees provides the setting for a range of recollections from the narrator – sometimes from her own life, sometimes from family stories she remembers, sometimes from stories she is recounting second hand from her sister with a very Cuskian style (for example “She had not expected, she said”).
The reader is also aware of a certain ambiguity in the narrative – something just slightly off kilter. The mother figure is only seen through the eyes and thoughts of the narrator, her speech only rendered indirectly, but while that is part of the style in which the book is written, a further distancing of the mother from direct reality seems to lurk at the fringes of the text together with some passages which seem to already refer to events involving clearing the mother’s flat or others (such as my opening quote) when the mother’s appearance seems indeterminate and her physical existence almost ephemeral.
One begins to question if the narrative we are being told really did happen (for example was the narrator really on her own for the trip and thinking of her mother) or even if it did happen if it is being rewritten and reimagined some time in the future (perhaps after the mother’s death). This would fit some of the family stories told in the text – where the narrator’s recollection of them seem different to the memories of others, to some of the main themes in the art that the two (or one) view, as well as the narrator’s attempts to relate visual art to her own writing.
As we walked, she asked me about my work. I didn’t answer at first, and then I said that in many of the old paintings, one could discover what was called a pentimento, an earlier layer of something that the artist had chosen to paint over. ….I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past, to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.
Stylistically the book seems to me to borrow heavily from early Ishiguro – with its careful constraint and elegance, as well as explicit consideration of restrained Japanese style art and pottery. A crucial part of the book appears to be when the narrator reflects on her job working as a waitress in a top end restaurant reaching for much the same mood and style as the novel – and I was intrigued then (given my early Ishiguro comparisons) to read:
Inside, everything was done with a certain formality, a certain sense of weight and precision, as if to create a floating world.
If I had a criticism of the book it would be that the novella is a little too slight for my tastes. Firstly I do not in general terms really appreciate the minimalist aesthetic that the narrator clearly enjoys and which the novella seems based around. Secondly I think if a book is to be effective at this length then it needs to have the superfluous material chiseled away Michelangelo style – and yet I felt here there was some unnecessary detail (for example in some of the art sections) – I would contrast the book with Natasha Brown’s brilliant “Assembly” where she has said that she wrote around a sentence a day and considered every word for its importance and impact.
Overall though I found this an enjoyable and worthwhile read.
My thanks to Fitzcarraldo for an ARC via NetGalley
June 27, 2022
“Cold Enough For Snow” is a beautifully written story about the difficulty of connecting to a love one, not for want.
A mother and adult daughter visit Japan for a quick trip and a hopeful connection to each other, at least from the daughter’s perspective. What we read is that the narrator (daughter) wants “to know someone and to have them know me.” Yet, there is a detachment, a separateness, that flows through their actions, making authenticity difficult.
The narrator tells us of the tales her mother told of her family. Yet when asked, her mother exclaims that she never told those tales. Even her sister has differing memories. As the two women go through the streets of Japan, exploring, it’s almost as if they are in parallel play. They are together, yet largely in their own thoughts. This is a contemplative read.
This is a beautifully written story; the reason to read this is to experience the prose:
“The door made a frame of her against the outside, and she sat as a statue might have sat, with her hands folded peacefully in her lap and her knees and feet together, so that there was no part of her body that was not touching, and so that she could have been make out of a single stone.”
This is a quiet read, to be read slowly and deliberately.
A mother and adult daughter visit Japan for a quick trip and a hopeful connection to each other, at least from the daughter’s perspective. What we read is that the narrator (daughter) wants “to know someone and to have them know me.” Yet, there is a detachment, a separateness, that flows through their actions, making authenticity difficult.
The narrator tells us of the tales her mother told of her family. Yet when asked, her mother exclaims that she never told those tales. Even her sister has differing memories. As the two women go through the streets of Japan, exploring, it’s almost as if they are in parallel play. They are together, yet largely in their own thoughts. This is a contemplative read.
This is a beautifully written story; the reason to read this is to experience the prose:
“The door made a frame of her against the outside, and she sat as a statue might have sat, with her hands folded peacefully in her lap and her knees and feet together, so that there was no part of her body that was not touching, and so that she could have been make out of a single stone.”
This is a quiet read, to be read slowly and deliberately.
May 1, 2022
A Chinese woman and her elderly mother have a holiday in Japan where they do touristy things and then go home. That’s honestly it. Jessica Au’s Cold Enough for Snow might be the most boring novella ever written.
I kept waiting for the near-comatose prose to reveal a point - anything - as to why this novel was published to begin with, but no. It really is just a dull woman relating the most ordinary of trips in the blandest, most lifeless possible way.
Occasionally she mentions things about her past like working in a restaurant during university and that she enjoyed studying literature at university, or she’ll mention an anecdote about her boring uncle or even more boring, most non-character ever, mother doing something like buying ice-cream. What does any of this rubbish mean? Who knows. Who cares! Not me.
It’s almost like a parody of what you expect when you think of Literary Fiction: tedium and dreariness masquerading as profundity and depth. And it’s just nothing. Cold Enough for… zzz… is instantly forgettable “fiction”. Utterly pointless, unimpressive crap from start to finish. I recommend reading something more exciting like a dishwasher instruction manual or squinting at some clouds to see if they form letters instead.
I kept waiting for the near-comatose prose to reveal a point - anything - as to why this novel was published to begin with, but no. It really is just a dull woman relating the most ordinary of trips in the blandest, most lifeless possible way.
Occasionally she mentions things about her past like working in a restaurant during university and that she enjoyed studying literature at university, or she’ll mention an anecdote about her boring uncle or even more boring, most non-character ever, mother doing something like buying ice-cream. What does any of this rubbish mean? Who knows. Who cares! Not me.
It’s almost like a parody of what you expect when you think of Literary Fiction: tedium and dreariness masquerading as profundity and depth. And it’s just nothing. Cold Enough for… zzz… is instantly forgettable “fiction”. Utterly pointless, unimpressive crap from start to finish. I recommend reading something more exciting like a dishwasher instruction manual or squinting at some clouds to see if they form letters instead.
December 13, 2022
This is a minimalist work, exquisitely so. The narrator, a young woman, is meeting her mother in Tokyo, the pair not having seen each other for some time. Reading this book is like watching the still surface of a pond. The stillness is what we see, although what is moving below the surface may not be visible. This is an ephemeral book where what is on the page may or may not be what is truly happening. Aesthetically, in places this is reminiscent of minimalist Japanese art, with an attention for detail and plenty left unsaid. It is a fantastic debut from Jessica Au. The text won the inaugural Novel Prize, leading to its joint publication by Fitzcarraldo, Giramondo, and New Directions.
December 18, 2022
Australian novelist Jessica Au turns mindfulness into an aesthetic principle, making minor observations the star of the show and thus elevating them to keys to an emotional reality - but I'm not sure it's always all that deep. The book tells the story of a young woman and her mother: The mother emigrated to Australia when she was young, raised two daughters there, and later returned to Hongkong. The daughter still resides in Melbourne. Now, the two women who grew up in different worlds and even with different native languages (Cantonese and English) venture to take a journey to Japan, from Tokio to Osaka and on to Kyoto.
This main narrative arc is interspersed with flashbacks into the past of the young woman, our narrator, while the mother remains remote, almost an enigma: There is a lot of observation, but hardly any true communication, although the daughter tries to bridge the gap. As the mother hopes that it will be cold enough for snow - she has never seen snow in her life - both women long to learn about the unknown in the other. The daughter even comes up with a travel program to create experiences and thus common memories, but she seems to try too hard. While both women have a tendency to adapt and please, they cannot find each others identities. Maybe the understanding, the knowledge they are looking for is unattainable.
The whole text remains lofty and detached, clean, but not precise - and that's clearly intentional. The descriptions of Japan are sparse and embedded in a stream-of-consciousness that ponders familial relations and intergenerational heritage, the woman's romantic relationship and occurrences like dealing with an overbearing customer at work - all mindfully, attentively rendered, infused with a longing for connection. Is it enough to observe?
And my quarrel with the text accordingly mirrors my issues with the mindfulness movement: While paying close attention, also to everyday events, has advantages, not everything is that significant - sometimes the effect is slightly pretentious. Sure, I see the parallels between Au and Katie Kitamura as well as Rachel Cusk, but the latter two write books that feel more substantial to me. The minimalism and self-sufficiency that infuses these pages do not make for satisfying prose when it comes to this reader.
This main narrative arc is interspersed with flashbacks into the past of the young woman, our narrator, while the mother remains remote, almost an enigma: There is a lot of observation, but hardly any true communication, although the daughter tries to bridge the gap. As the mother hopes that it will be cold enough for snow - she has never seen snow in her life - both women long to learn about the unknown in the other. The daughter even comes up with a travel program to create experiences and thus common memories, but she seems to try too hard. While both women have a tendency to adapt and please, they cannot find each others identities. Maybe the understanding, the knowledge they are looking for is unattainable.
The whole text remains lofty and detached, clean, but not precise - and that's clearly intentional. The descriptions of Japan are sparse and embedded in a stream-of-consciousness that ponders familial relations and intergenerational heritage, the woman's romantic relationship and occurrences like dealing with an overbearing customer at work - all mindfully, attentively rendered, infused with a longing for connection. Is it enough to observe?
And my quarrel with the text accordingly mirrors my issues with the mindfulness movement: While paying close attention, also to everyday events, has advantages, not everything is that significant - sometimes the effect is slightly pretentious. Sure, I see the parallels between Au and Katie Kitamura as well as Rachel Cusk, but the latter two write books that feel more substantial to me. The minimalism and self-sufficiency that infuses these pages do not make for satisfying prose when it comes to this reader.
January 3, 2024
2.5/5
W świetle innych portretów relacji matek i córek ten jawi mi się wyjątkowo nijako — czułam się trochę nie na miejscu, wpuszczona na przyjęcie czy przedstawienie w teatrze, które trwa od jakiegoś czasu i nieznajomość początku czy szczegółów wyklucza mnie z towarzystwa.
W świetle innych portretów relacji matek i córek ten jawi mi się wyjątkowo nijako — czułam się trochę nie na miejscu, wpuszczona na przyjęcie czy przedstawienie w teatrze, które trwa od jakiegoś czasu i nieznajomość początku czy szczegółów wyklucza mnie z towarzystwa.
November 17, 2023
Winner of the 2023 Prime Minister's Literary Award for Fiction and the Victorian Premier's Literary Award in the Fiction and Overall categories and shortlisted for the 2023 Miles Franklin Award
As we walked, she asked me about my work. I didn’t answer at first, and then I said that in many of the old paintings, one could discover what was called a pentimento, an earlier layer of something that the artist had chosen to paint over. Sometimes, these were as small as an object, or a colour that had been changed, but other times, they could be as significant as a whole figure, an animal, or a piece of furniture. I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past, to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.
Jessica Au's Cold Enough for Snow won the inaugural Novel Prize, run by Giramondo, New Directions and Fitzcarraldo Editions, and is a very worthy recipient of the award. It opens:
When we left the hotel it was raining, a light, fine rain, as can sometimes happen in Tokyo in October. I said that where we were going was not far–we would only need to get to the station, the same one that we had arrived at yesterday, and then catch two trains and walk a little down some small streets until we got to the museum.
The narrator of the novel is a young woman, on a trip to Japan with her mother, in October although whenever I’d asked her what she’d like to visit in Japan, she’d often said she would be happy with anything. The only question she’d asked once was whether, in winter, it was cold enough for snow, which she had never seen.
The narrative strand of the novel is relatively slight, the two women travelling to various museums and galleries in Tokyo, and then on to Osaka and Kyoto. But the true story comes from the anecdotes, memories and recounted conversations the narrator shares with her mother, and which lead her off into reflections of her own.
As the novel progresses, we learn a little of the family back story. The narrator's mother was born in a rural village but moved to Hong Kong, where the narrator was born. But when the narrator was young the family moved to an English speaking country (I assumed Australia, although not named) and the narrator grew up with English as her primary language.
The prose is beautifully polished and the effect (perhaps significantly) elegiac
Earlier, he had pointed out the wild orchids growing in the cracks in the rocks, and I noticed in him, as with Laurie, the ability to pick out the small details of the world, or to see things that others might miss. It was, I suspected, something he did unconsciously, or automatically, not realising how it would return later in the sculptures he made, or the things he said. But then again, perhaps he did know, and cultivated it, as one nurtured a new plant.
And, in a relatively non-linear series of recollections, there are several recurrent motifs, including East Asian porcelain, at first much coveted in the West but later imitated, clothes (typically elegant but understated) as a literal or metaphorical uniform, and the contemplation of art. As our narrator remarks: I felt that if only I could connect these things better, then I might truly have come to realise something.
There are flavour here of the ambiguous prose of one of Gabriel Josipovici’s narrators, told in the indirect fashion of Rachel Cusk’s Faye and the restrained prose of Kazuo Ishiguro, whose Never Let Me Go the author once singled out as her favourite novel; commenting “The way he uses narrative structure, with those drips of detail and memory, completely floored me the first time I read it. Even the title, which, when you think about it, holds such beautiful sadness – it’s a command for something that can never really be done.”
But Jessica Au carves out something quite beautiful and unique. And kudos (Cuskian pun acknowledged) to the publishers behind the prize for awarding it to a perfectly formed brief novel rather than the hefty tomes that seem to grab most literary attention.
4.5 stars and a strong contender for the Women's Prize.
Some quotes from the recurrent motifs:
Art (and the narrator's mother who can at times be strangely absent):
The fabrics were hanging in a long room, such that you could look at all of them at once or each on its own. Some were small but some were so large that their tails draped and ran over the floor like frozen water and it was impossible to imagine them being worn or hanging in any room but this one. Their patterns were at once primitive and graceful, and as beautiful as the garments in a folktale. Looking at the translucency of the overlapping dyes reminded me of looking upwards through a canopy of leaves. They reminded me of the seasons and, in their bare, visible threads, of something lovely and honest that had now been forgotten, a thing we could only look at but no longer live. I felt at the same time mesmerised by their beauty and saddened at this vague thought. I walked across the pieces many times and waited in the room for my mother. When she did not appear I went and explored the rest of the house alone and, in the end, found her waiting for me outside, sitting on the stone bench next to the stand where I had clipped our umbrellas.
East Asian porcelain, and the West:
By then, I had also learned about the history of the blue and white porcelain, which had existed in some form or another in both the lecturer’s house and mine. I had been flipping through a book on East Asian art at someone’s house, a friend of a friend, whom I did not know well, when I had come across an image of two vases that were also blue and white. Everyone else was talking in the kitchen, but I had stopped turning the pages and bent over the image. I recognised the pattern immediately, only there was a clear difference with these vases: the shapes were somehow finer, with smooth shoulders and elegant lines, the white milkier, and the blue lighter and faded, as if applied with a brush. I read there about how the porcelain had been made for hundreds of years in China, and how it was traded not only as far as Europe, but also the Middle East, appearing in the paintings of Rembrandt van Rijn, or as tablets inscribed with verses from the Qur’an. I read about how, for a long time, porcelain was much prized, in part because the secret to its composition was still a mystery. The wares were exported to Europe and some came to feature Dutch houses or Christian iconography alongside lotus petals and traditional ruyi borders. These, made specially to order, were named Chine de commande. Later, the secret to porcelain-making was discovered in Germany, and England, and Chinese porcelain became less singular and less needed.
Understated dress:
It had been a beautiful restaurant, once famous in fact, and though dated, it still retained some of this aura, with dim, carefully lit rooms and dark polished floors. Inside, everything was done with a certain formality, a certain sense of weight and precision, as if to create a floating world. Our uniforms were black aprons and black shoes, and ivory-coloured shirts with cloth buttons and a small mandarin collar, just enough to give a vague sense of what was once referred to as the Far East. We had been instructed to wear light make-up every night, and to wear our hair up, which I did, carefully and precisely, before each shift. The other waitresses were all women in their early twenties and thirties, and at the time they had seemed to me to be impossibly and uniquely adult. I remember that it was expected that we would work hard, and that we would take the reputation of the restaurant seriously, as if its fame could be sustained a little while longer, if only we all believed in it, like a religion, or a faith.
As we walked, she asked me about my work. I didn’t answer at first, and then I said that in many of the old paintings, one could discover what was called a pentimento, an earlier layer of something that the artist had chosen to paint over. Sometimes, these were as small as an object, or a colour that had been changed, but other times, they could be as significant as a whole figure, an animal, or a piece of furniture. I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past, to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.
Jessica Au's Cold Enough for Snow won the inaugural Novel Prize, run by Giramondo, New Directions and Fitzcarraldo Editions, and is a very worthy recipient of the award. It opens:
When we left the hotel it was raining, a light, fine rain, as can sometimes happen in Tokyo in October. I said that where we were going was not far–we would only need to get to the station, the same one that we had arrived at yesterday, and then catch two trains and walk a little down some small streets until we got to the museum.
The narrator of the novel is a young woman, on a trip to Japan with her mother, in October although whenever I’d asked her what she’d like to visit in Japan, she’d often said she would be happy with anything. The only question she’d asked once was whether, in winter, it was cold enough for snow, which she had never seen.
The narrative strand of the novel is relatively slight, the two women travelling to various museums and galleries in Tokyo, and then on to Osaka and Kyoto. But the true story comes from the anecdotes, memories and recounted conversations the narrator shares with her mother, and which lead her off into reflections of her own.
As the novel progresses, we learn a little of the family back story. The narrator's mother was born in a rural village but moved to Hong Kong, where the narrator was born. But when the narrator was young the family moved to an English speaking country (I assumed Australia, although not named) and the narrator grew up with English as her primary language.
The prose is beautifully polished and the effect (perhaps significantly) elegiac
Earlier, he had pointed out the wild orchids growing in the cracks in the rocks, and I noticed in him, as with Laurie, the ability to pick out the small details of the world, or to see things that others might miss. It was, I suspected, something he did unconsciously, or automatically, not realising how it would return later in the sculptures he made, or the things he said. But then again, perhaps he did know, and cultivated it, as one nurtured a new plant.
And, in a relatively non-linear series of recollections, there are several recurrent motifs, including East Asian porcelain, at first much coveted in the West but later imitated, clothes (typically elegant but understated) as a literal or metaphorical uniform, and the contemplation of art. As our narrator remarks: I felt that if only I could connect these things better, then I might truly have come to realise something.
There are flavour here of the ambiguous prose of one of Gabriel Josipovici’s narrators, told in the indirect fashion of Rachel Cusk’s Faye and the restrained prose of Kazuo Ishiguro, whose Never Let Me Go the author once singled out as her favourite novel; commenting “The way he uses narrative structure, with those drips of detail and memory, completely floored me the first time I read it. Even the title, which, when you think about it, holds such beautiful sadness – it’s a command for something that can never really be done.”
But Jessica Au carves out something quite beautiful and unique. And kudos (Cuskian pun acknowledged) to the publishers behind the prize for awarding it to a perfectly formed brief novel rather than the hefty tomes that seem to grab most literary attention.
4.5 stars and a strong contender for the Women's Prize.
Some quotes from the recurrent motifs:
Art (and the narrator's mother who can at times be strangely absent):
The fabrics were hanging in a long room, such that you could look at all of them at once or each on its own. Some were small but some were so large that their tails draped and ran over the floor like frozen water and it was impossible to imagine them being worn or hanging in any room but this one. Their patterns were at once primitive and graceful, and as beautiful as the garments in a folktale. Looking at the translucency of the overlapping dyes reminded me of looking upwards through a canopy of leaves. They reminded me of the seasons and, in their bare, visible threads, of something lovely and honest that had now been forgotten, a thing we could only look at but no longer live. I felt at the same time mesmerised by their beauty and saddened at this vague thought. I walked across the pieces many times and waited in the room for my mother. When she did not appear I went and explored the rest of the house alone and, in the end, found her waiting for me outside, sitting on the stone bench next to the stand where I had clipped our umbrellas.
East Asian porcelain, and the West:
By then, I had also learned about the history of the blue and white porcelain, which had existed in some form or another in both the lecturer’s house and mine. I had been flipping through a book on East Asian art at someone’s house, a friend of a friend, whom I did not know well, when I had come across an image of two vases that were also blue and white. Everyone else was talking in the kitchen, but I had stopped turning the pages and bent over the image. I recognised the pattern immediately, only there was a clear difference with these vases: the shapes were somehow finer, with smooth shoulders and elegant lines, the white milkier, and the blue lighter and faded, as if applied with a brush. I read there about how the porcelain had been made for hundreds of years in China, and how it was traded not only as far as Europe, but also the Middle East, appearing in the paintings of Rembrandt van Rijn, or as tablets inscribed with verses from the Qur’an. I read about how, for a long time, porcelain was much prized, in part because the secret to its composition was still a mystery. The wares were exported to Europe and some came to feature Dutch houses or Christian iconography alongside lotus petals and traditional ruyi borders. These, made specially to order, were named Chine de commande. Later, the secret to porcelain-making was discovered in Germany, and England, and Chinese porcelain became less singular and less needed.
Understated dress:
It had been a beautiful restaurant, once famous in fact, and though dated, it still retained some of this aura, with dim, carefully lit rooms and dark polished floors. Inside, everything was done with a certain formality, a certain sense of weight and precision, as if to create a floating world. Our uniforms were black aprons and black shoes, and ivory-coloured shirts with cloth buttons and a small mandarin collar, just enough to give a vague sense of what was once referred to as the Far East. We had been instructed to wear light make-up every night, and to wear our hair up, which I did, carefully and precisely, before each shift. The other waitresses were all women in their early twenties and thirties, and at the time they had seemed to me to be impossibly and uniquely adult. I remember that it was expected that we would work hard, and that we would take the reputation of the restaurant seriously, as if its fame could be sustained a little while longer, if only we all believed in it, like a religion, or a faith.
November 12, 2021
I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past, to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.
Seemingly simple on the surface, this becomes an increasingly slippery text where as the reader I was questioning the status of what I was reading. We're in the head of the narrator who recounts a journey with her mother in Japan - but as all the speech is indirect and we never actually hear the mother speak, there are possibilities that she is no more than a freighted figure imagined by her daughter. Especially telling (and puzzling) is a scene where the two women stay at a small hotel and when the daughter asks where her mother is, the staff say only she checked in alone...
The writing is interior and controlled with a kind of hypnotic rhythm to it, and the early travelogue with visits to Japanese art galleries becomes increasingly interrupted by the narrator's memories of the past, and of her family. The atmosphere is enigmatic and slightly melancholy or elegiac and the end when it comes is abrupt and unsettling.
More novella that full novel, this is mysterious and richer than it first appears. Short but not at all straightforward, this is one of those pieces of writing where I finished it and immediately wanted to reread it.
Many thanks to Fitzcarraldo Editions for an ARC via NetGalley.
March 12, 2022
You can almost smell and feel snow before it arrives.The combination of cold and humidity produces a different scent in the air that stimulates the senses in anticipation of the upcoming weather.Jessica Au’s novel “ Cold Enough for Snow” is aptly titled. This thoughtful and quiet work is filled with sensory descriptions and careful observations that link the physical world to unarticulated human emotions.
On the surface the plot is spare and simple. An unnamed narrator invites her mother to vacation with her in Japan. They travel from their respective cities which are not specified but most probably located in Australia. Upon meeting in Tokyo, they visit art galleries and shrines and share meals in restaurants. Their conversations are delivered through the daughter’s first person voice and are dominated by the daughter’s perceptions. The mother seems almost spectral in her presence and reactions.
Gradually, through disjointed non sequential snippets, the women’s backstories seep out. The mother, born on mainland China, grew up in Hong Kong. She left Hong Kong and relocated to a country where she could no longer communicate in her native Cantonese tongue. The daughter grew up exploring new horizons through educational and cultural awakenings in an environment markedly different than the one that nurtured her mother. They only communicate in the mother’s second language. Gradually a sense of distance develops that frays their bonds of connection.
One gains an awareness of the women’s relationship mainly by inference, filling in elliptical leaps during conversational interludes. Mother and daughter walk and talk about banal things as their thoughts shift back and forth in time. Associations with weather, objects and food trigger short bursts of memory as the women quietly search for a sense of connection to each other.
The author employs nuanced and visually descriptive prose to present a view of generations seeking a connection that overcomes the fissures created by immigration, age and differing cultural horizons. While the mother and daughter have incomplete conversations, they somehow seem more drawn together by sharing small, inconsequential moments. Possibly they leave their journey with the same sense of sensory and emotional anticipation that one feels before it snows.
On the surface the plot is spare and simple. An unnamed narrator invites her mother to vacation with her in Japan. They travel from their respective cities which are not specified but most probably located in Australia. Upon meeting in Tokyo, they visit art galleries and shrines and share meals in restaurants. Their conversations are delivered through the daughter’s first person voice and are dominated by the daughter’s perceptions. The mother seems almost spectral in her presence and reactions.
Gradually, through disjointed non sequential snippets, the women’s backstories seep out. The mother, born on mainland China, grew up in Hong Kong. She left Hong Kong and relocated to a country where she could no longer communicate in her native Cantonese tongue. The daughter grew up exploring new horizons through educational and cultural awakenings in an environment markedly different than the one that nurtured her mother. They only communicate in the mother’s second language. Gradually a sense of distance develops that frays their bonds of connection.
One gains an awareness of the women’s relationship mainly by inference, filling in elliptical leaps during conversational interludes. Mother and daughter walk and talk about banal things as their thoughts shift back and forth in time. Associations with weather, objects and food trigger short bursts of memory as the women quietly search for a sense of connection to each other.
The author employs nuanced and visually descriptive prose to present a view of generations seeking a connection that overcomes the fissures created by immigration, age and differing cultural horizons. While the mother and daughter have incomplete conversations, they somehow seem more drawn together by sharing small, inconsequential moments. Possibly they leave their journey with the same sense of sensory and emotional anticipation that one feels before it snows.
April 1, 2022
A quiet, beautiful story about a mother and daughter visiting Japan together. There are touching moments and a sense of sadness, although nothing particularly sad happens. The story is told through the daughters eyes, we hear no conversation so it's hard to get to know the character of the mother as we don't hear her voice. The mother and daughter clearly love each other but the reader feels a separation between them, the daughter tries to think of things they can do together, things she thinks her mother might enjoy. We hear how the mother had wanted a different life for her daughters and she had achieved this but consequently the daughter feels estranged from her mother in some ways and has understandable cultural differences. It seemed that her mother lives through her offspring and seemed happiest when buying small gifts to take back with her.
The memories and descriptions were evocative, smells, tastes, feelings. Although the story doesn't say, I was left with the feeling the daughter feared having children herself in case they felt the same way about her, the part where she imagines what will need doing when her mother is no longer living made me feel that she didn't want to step into her shoes.
Despite the slightly melancholy feel, this wasn't a sad read and was absorbing and touching in its own way.
The memories and descriptions were evocative, smells, tastes, feelings. Although the story doesn't say, I was left with the feeling the daughter feared having children herself in case they felt the same way about her, the part where she imagines what will need doing when her mother is no longer living made me feel that she didn't want to step into her shoes.
Despite the slightly melancholy feel, this wasn't a sad read and was absorbing and touching in its own way.
December 11, 2023
داستانِ زنی که بههمراه مادرش تصمیم میگیرند سفری چند روزه به توکیو داشته باشند. مادر و دختری که هر کدام در یک کشورِ انگلیسی زبان و دور از هم زندگی میکنند و این سفر را بهانهای میدانند تا به هم نزدیکتر شوند و یادی از گذشته کنند. آنچه در ادامه روایت میشود، مثل ورق زدن یک آلبوم عکس است و شما با تجربیات ذهنی راوی و گردش در افکار و خاطرات او همراه میشوید. داستانی که در پسزمینهاش، باران و مه و سرما بخش جداییناپذیرِ آنند و گاهی منتظری تا ببینی که آیا هوا آنجا آنقدر سرد میشود که روزی برف ببارد یا نه؟
در سرتاسرِ داستان، خودم را دیدم و احساساتِ مشترکی که با راوی داشتم. برایم سرشار از رنج بود و لذت. از آنجایی که خواندنش، من را با واقعیتِ زندگی مواجه میکند و این واقعیت روی دوشم کمی سنگینی میکند!
در سرتاسرِ داستان، خودم را دیدم و احساساتِ مشترکی که با راوی داشتم. برایم سرشار از رنج بود و لذت. از آنجایی که خواندنش، من را با واقعیتِ زندگی مواجه میکند و این واقعیت روی دوشم کمی سنگینی میکند!
February 18, 2022
A beautiful book, shrouded in milky light and silence.
Review to come.
Review to come.
December 6, 2023
تمام مدت یه غمی رو توش احساس میکردم و تا آخرین لحظه منتظر یه اتفاق ناراحتکننده بودم. چقدر فضاشو دوست داشتم. چقدر در عین سادگی زیبا بود. لطیف و روون. چقدر دوستش داشتم!
March 4, 2022
For me, this was one of those book where I wanted to highlight an awful lot of quotes. There are, in particular, several quotes that seem ripe for borrowing when reviewing the book.
For example, pg 14:
”As we walked, I explained to my mother a little of what to expect, being careful not to give away too much detail, to leave things to be discovered.”
Which covers the gradual unveiling during the story.
Or, pg 18:
”Maybe it's good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.”
Because reading this book did actually make me feel happier despite the elegiac prose and melancholy nature of a lot of the narrative.
Then, pg 62:
”Inside, everything was done with a certain formality, a certain sense of weight and precision, as if to create a floating world.”
This is the narrator talking about the restaurant in which she works, but the description perfectly fits the style of the book, even down to the mention of a “floating world” which conjures images of Ishiguro and that seems an appropriate comparison to make.
And, finally for this review, pg 92:
”As we walked, she asked me about my work. I didn't answer at first, and then I said that in many of the old paintings, one could discover what was called a pentimento, an earlier layer of something that the artist had chosen to paint over. Sometimes, these were as small as an object, or a colour that had been changed, but other times, they could be as significant as a whole figure, an animal, or a piece of furniture. I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.”
This final quote seems to capture the essence of the book.
The basic set up for the novella (it’s only 86 pages, so “novel” is stretching things a bit) is a daughter and her mother meeting up for a kind of cultural trip from Tokyo to Kyoto, the first time they have seen one another for a long time. Their trip and the things they go to see while in each location trigger a whole series of memories for the narrator both of things from her own life and of things in the lives of her family members. And some of these recollections, in line with my final quote above, seem to “write over” other recollections: there’s a growing feeling as you read that the narrator is perhaps not all that reliable, although it simultaneously becomes increasingly difficult to put your finger on where it all doesn’t fit together.
I really enjoyed reading this. I liked the writing style. I liked the growing ambiguity/uncertainty. I like the overall atmosphere. I liked that my first thought on finishing the book was “I want to read that again”.
For example, pg 14:
”As we walked, I explained to my mother a little of what to expect, being careful not to give away too much detail, to leave things to be discovered.”
Which covers the gradual unveiling during the story.
Or, pg 18:
”Maybe it's good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.”
Because reading this book did actually make me feel happier despite the elegiac prose and melancholy nature of a lot of the narrative.
Then, pg 62:
”Inside, everything was done with a certain formality, a certain sense of weight and precision, as if to create a floating world.”
This is the narrator talking about the restaurant in which she works, but the description perfectly fits the style of the book, even down to the mention of a “floating world” which conjures images of Ishiguro and that seems an appropriate comparison to make.
And, finally for this review, pg 92:
”As we walked, she asked me about my work. I didn't answer at first, and then I said that in many of the old paintings, one could discover what was called a pentimento, an earlier layer of something that the artist had chosen to paint over. Sometimes, these were as small as an object, or a colour that had been changed, but other times, they could be as significant as a whole figure, an animal, or a piece of furniture. I said that in this way too, writing was just like painting. It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read.”
This final quote seems to capture the essence of the book.
The basic set up for the novella (it’s only 86 pages, so “novel” is stretching things a bit) is a daughter and her mother meeting up for a kind of cultural trip from Tokyo to Kyoto, the first time they have seen one another for a long time. Their trip and the things they go to see while in each location trigger a whole series of memories for the narrator both of things from her own life and of things in the lives of her family members. And some of these recollections, in line with my final quote above, seem to “write over” other recollections: there’s a growing feeling as you read that the narrator is perhaps not all that reliable, although it simultaneously becomes increasingly difficult to put your finger on where it all doesn’t fit together.
I really enjoyed reading this. I liked the writing style. I liked the growing ambiguity/uncertainty. I like the overall atmosphere. I liked that my first thought on finishing the book was “I want to read that again”.
March 3, 2023
This was an exquisitely written novella of a visit to Japan of a mother and daughter. The descriptions of places in Japan were beautifully done and many of the side stories most interesting. But overall it felt like a dream where you are travelling, yet never seem to be able to make the proper connections to finish your journey. So many side tracks to the past and other places, that by the end, the core story barely makes it through. It won the Novel award and the writing shows promise.
A library ebook by Ms Au, who lives in Melbourne. 3.5 stars
A library ebook by Ms Au, who lives in Melbourne. 3.5 stars
March 25, 2023
Ta książka miała w sobie coś intrygującego. Szczególnie interesowały mnie wszystkie momenty matka-córka. Ostatecznie jednak zastanawiam się... czy ja ją zrozumiałem. XDD
Ocena: 3,o.
Ocena: 3,o.
July 21, 2022
This is a novella by the Australian author Jessica Au, a little over 90 pages. It involves a mother and daughter visiting Japan for a holiday, although it is only the daughter who narrates. The prose is spare and luscious and beautifully written: like this description of a visit to a Monet exhibition:
“They had seemed to me then, as now, like paintings about time. It felt like the artist was looking at the field with two gazes. The first was the gaze of youth, awakening to a dawn of pink light on the grass and looking with possibility on everything, the work he had done just the day before, the work he had still to do in the future. The second was the gaze of an older man, perhaps older than Monet had been when he painted them, that was looking at the same view, and remembering these earlier feelings and trying to recapture them, only he was unable to do so without infusing it with his own sense of inevitability. Looking at them, I felt a little like I felt sometimes after reading a certain book, or hearing a fragment of a certain song.”
This is basically a bit of sightseeing, some reminiscence with reflections on relationships and yet it does work. The atmosphere is created as much by absence as presence and is filtered through the daughter. It has been described as spectral and enigmatic:
“Through the sheets of rain, the landscape looked almost like a screen painting that we had seen in one of the old houses. It had been made up of several panels, and yet the artist had used the brush only minimally, making a few careful lines on the paper. Some were strong and definite, while others bled and faded, giving the impression of vapour. And yet, when you looked, you saw something: mountains, dissolution, form and colour running forever downwards.”
There are lots of flashbacks and this is as much about the past as the present. The narrator reflects on parts of her past and on fears of being on the outside:
“When a girl in my class spoke of a particular film in relation to Antigone, she did so smoothly and naturally, her eyes flicking across the room as if to see who else recognised this name. When her eyes went to me, I immediately looked down. How did they know all these people, all these works? How had they managed to read and watch so much in only the first few weeks of the semester? The girl knew so much without seeming to try, and she seemed complete, defined in some way that I wasn’t.”
There is a line between being trite and dull and being understated. For me, Au is on the right side of it. I probably read this at the right time, being off work at the moment as I was able to take my time with nothing to make me rush. There are reflections and odd thoughts scattered throughout, for example, this on some fabrics in a museum:
“Their patterns were at once primitive and graceful, and as beautiful as the garments in a folktale. Looking at the translucency of the overlapping dyes reminded me of looking upwards through a canopy of leaves. They reminded me of the seasons and, in their bare, visible threads, of something lovely and honest that had now been forgotten, a thing we could only look at but no longer live. I felt at the same time mesmerised by their beauty and saddened at this vague thought. “
I am sure there are those who will hate this, but I wasn’t one of them.
“They had seemed to me then, as now, like paintings about time. It felt like the artist was looking at the field with two gazes. The first was the gaze of youth, awakening to a dawn of pink light on the grass and looking with possibility on everything, the work he had done just the day before, the work he had still to do in the future. The second was the gaze of an older man, perhaps older than Monet had been when he painted them, that was looking at the same view, and remembering these earlier feelings and trying to recapture them, only he was unable to do so without infusing it with his own sense of inevitability. Looking at them, I felt a little like I felt sometimes after reading a certain book, or hearing a fragment of a certain song.”
This is basically a bit of sightseeing, some reminiscence with reflections on relationships and yet it does work. The atmosphere is created as much by absence as presence and is filtered through the daughter. It has been described as spectral and enigmatic:
“Through the sheets of rain, the landscape looked almost like a screen painting that we had seen in one of the old houses. It had been made up of several panels, and yet the artist had used the brush only minimally, making a few careful lines on the paper. Some were strong and definite, while others bled and faded, giving the impression of vapour. And yet, when you looked, you saw something: mountains, dissolution, form and colour running forever downwards.”
There are lots of flashbacks and this is as much about the past as the present. The narrator reflects on parts of her past and on fears of being on the outside:
“When a girl in my class spoke of a particular film in relation to Antigone, she did so smoothly and naturally, her eyes flicking across the room as if to see who else recognised this name. When her eyes went to me, I immediately looked down. How did they know all these people, all these works? How had they managed to read and watch so much in only the first few weeks of the semester? The girl knew so much without seeming to try, and she seemed complete, defined in some way that I wasn’t.”
There is a line between being trite and dull and being understated. For me, Au is on the right side of it. I probably read this at the right time, being off work at the moment as I was able to take my time with nothing to make me rush. There are reflections and odd thoughts scattered throughout, for example, this on some fabrics in a museum:
“Their patterns were at once primitive and graceful, and as beautiful as the garments in a folktale. Looking at the translucency of the overlapping dyes reminded me of looking upwards through a canopy of leaves. They reminded me of the seasons and, in their bare, visible threads, of something lovely and honest that had now been forgotten, a thing we could only look at but no longer live. I felt at the same time mesmerised by their beauty and saddened at this vague thought. “
I am sure there are those who will hate this, but I wasn’t one of them.
April 3, 2022
This little book (less than 100p) is about an Australian woman taking her mother on a trip to Japan in autumn, much of the time it is raining. It’s very atmospheric, told in the first person, reminiscences of her own life and her mothers fill in the spaces between the narration of the mother/daughter interactions in Japan. Themes of culture, differences across the generations, memory, art and literature, communication and understanding. It was a lovely and evocative read, much deeper than it appears.
May 27, 2022
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Cold Enough for Snow is a slight novella narrated and characterized by a crisp prose. Despite the introspective nature of this work (there are no dialogues and the few conversations that occur are summarized by our narrator), I felt a certain distance from the narrator and her musings had a remoteness to them that I was never quite able to immerse myself into her story. That is not to say that this was not an enjoyable read. It brought to mind authors such as and Rachel Cusk as well as María Gainza (Optic Nerve is a personal favourite of mine). These kinds of books are not plot or necessarily character driven but they present us with a series of observations regarding art, travel, places/spaces, memory, connection, and human nature. Similarly to Jhumpa Lahiri's Whereabouts, the people that our nameless narrator speaks of remain unnamed, and the vagueness surrounding her and others struck me as very much intentional. The narrator, who lives in, you guessed it, an unnamed country, and her mother, who is based in Hong Kong, meet up in Tokyo for a holiday.
The narrator describes the various landscapes and locales she visits, all the while thinking back to her and her mother’s pasts. We are given brief glimpses into their lives that are often somehow connected to their present journey. This is the kind of novella that is more about creating and sustaining a certain nostalgic mood than of presenting us with a particularly immersive story. While I did appreciate the narrative’s melancholic and reflective atmosphere, I did find my attention wandering away from our protagonist’s contemplations and introspections. Her relationship with her mother often fades into the background, sidelined in favour of eloquent observations that don’t really leave a lasting impression. The title in many ways is rather apt as this novella is in many ways like snow. At first, you are taken in by how beautiful it is but within a couple of hours (or days), well, the snow has melted. That is to say, the beauty of Cold Enough for Snow is of a temporary nature.
Still, if you are a fan of travel journals or the authors I mentioned above you may find this to be your kind of read.
“Maybe it's good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.”
Cold Enough for Snow is a slight novella narrated and characterized by a crisp prose. Despite the introspective nature of this work (there are no dialogues and the few conversations that occur are summarized by our narrator), I felt a certain distance from the narrator and her musings had a remoteness to them that I was never quite able to immerse myself into her story. That is not to say that this was not an enjoyable read. It brought to mind authors such as and Rachel Cusk as well as María Gainza (Optic Nerve is a personal favourite of mine). These kinds of books are not plot or necessarily character driven but they present us with a series of observations regarding art, travel, places/spaces, memory, connection, and human nature. Similarly to Jhumpa Lahiri's Whereabouts, the people that our nameless narrator speaks of remain unnamed, and the vagueness surrounding her and others struck me as very much intentional. The narrator, who lives in, you guessed it, an unnamed country, and her mother, who is based in Hong Kong, meet up in Tokyo for a holiday.
“It was strange at once to be so familiar and yet so separated. I wondered how I could feel so at home in a place that was not mine.”
The narrator describes the various landscapes and locales she visits, all the while thinking back to her and her mother’s pasts. We are given brief glimpses into their lives that are often somehow connected to their present journey. This is the kind of novella that is more about creating and sustaining a certain nostalgic mood than of presenting us with a particularly immersive story. While I did appreciate the narrative’s melancholic and reflective atmosphere, I did find my attention wandering away from our protagonist’s contemplations and introspections. Her relationship with her mother often fades into the background, sidelined in favour of eloquent observations that don’t really leave a lasting impression. The title in many ways is rather apt as this novella is in many ways like snow. At first, you are taken in by how beautiful it is but within a couple of hours (or days), well, the snow has melted. That is to say, the beauty of Cold Enough for Snow is of a temporary nature.
Still, if you are a fan of travel journals or the authors I mentioned above you may find this to be your kind of read.
“I had wanted every moment to count for something. I had become addicted to the tearing of my thoughts, that rent in the fabric of the atmosphere. If nothing seemed to be working towards this effect, I grew impatient, bored. Much later, I realised how insufferable this was: the need to make every moment pointed, to read meaning into everything. ”
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