記録することは、忘れることへの抵抗である。
To record is to resist forgetting.
There is a place on the canal where time has not noticed what happened to the rest of the city. The counter is lacquered dark from decades of elbows. They still use cloth napkins. I have been coming here since 2019 and I have never ordered anything but the same blend, and the same man has never asked me what I want.
続きを読む →The argument for paper is not romantic. It is ergonomic. A notebook does not notify you. It does not suggest what you should write next. It does not remember your typing speed or your word count. It simply waits.
続きを読む →Kombu and katsuobushi in cold water overnight. In the morning, the kitchen smells like the sea floor. This is what I mean when I say Japanese cooking is patient. Not slow — patient. There is a difference.
続きを読む →A ceramics teacher once said: the imperfect bowl is the honest bowl. I think about this whenever I delete a sentence.
Rain on Shimokitazawa. Everyone sheltering in the same narrow doorway. Nobody talking. The kind of silence you can only share with strangers.
Bought a second-hand copy of 方丈記 at a stall on Koenji. Eighty pages on the virtue of a small space. Read it in one sitting in a space far too large.
The best ramen I have had this year was served by someone who did not smile at me. I think that is a compliment to the ramen.
Every translation is an argument. Every argument is a choice. I have been thinking about this since reading Murakami in both directions.
Cicadas. Then nothing. Then autumn.
本舗 is a personal record. No newsletter. No comments. No algorithm. Written from Tokyo, occasionally from elsewhere. Updated when there is something worth saying and not updated when there is not.
書くことは考えることである。このサイトはその練習帳。