Who Gets to Choose Simple Living? A Reflection on The Abundance of Less

I finished The Abundance of Less today. I don’t think I’ll read this book from start to finish again. There are parts of the book that I might read again because some of the people in it have inspired me one way or another. Their lives were at peace and consistent over time. That has remained with me.

What I liked most was how some of them lived without separating things. There was no separation between work, art, and everyday life. Making meals, growing food, making art or writing, or carving wood all come from the same place. There was no clear line between survival and meaning and I can see why that might be appealing because it feels solid and complete.

Some of the people in the book choose to live with less. They kept their needs minimal. They worked with their hands and they were aware of their surroundings. Living that way takes discipline but it brings clarity. You know what you need and what you don’t. However, a tension that was hard to ignore grew as I read on.

In the Afterword chapter, the author mentioned one of his book reading sessions when someone asked if these people were just surviving at a basic level of survival. That question lingered because it sounded familiar. Where I come from, many people already live that way. It’s not a philosophy or a decision made after reflecting on it. That’s just how life is.

I come from an Iban background. My grandparents were paddy farmers who lived in longhouses. They grew their own food and they depended on the land. Life in the longhouse community was close and practical. It wasn’t considered meaningful or spiritual. It was simply necessary and it wasn’t easy. Farming is hard work and the yield is sometimes uncertain. There are limits to what you can access, especially education and healthcare. Many people in these communities wish to have a stable income. They need money to send their kids to school or pay for healthcare. They want to repair their homes or build new ones. They want to help their elderly parents. These concerns are genuine and constant.

When I read about people who want to live a simpler life, I see two separate realities. Some people choose to live with less. And some people have always lived with less. The difference is in the choosing. Choice allows you to choose that life and leave whenever you want to. Choice lets you regard it as meaningful. If something goes wrong, it allows you to return to a system that supports you. But without that choice, that same life would look very different.

In the Afterword, the author asks if small “green” changes to one’s lifestyle are really meaningful. They say that these changes let people stay comfortable while calling it sustainability. The concern is real, especially when certain changes are made more for show than for a good reason. But this perspective doesn’t take into account that not everyone can make big adjustments to their lives. Some people can’t move away from the city, change jobs, or move closer to nature. They can’t make those kinds of adjustments because of their jobs, finances, and other circumstances in their lives.

For them, small changes let them do things within their limits. Making small changes like consuming less, being more mindful, or doing less harm to the environment can still reflect a genuine effort to live with awareness. These decisions may not seem like enough from the outside, but they are based on what a person can realistically change at that point in their life.

This doesn’t mean that the people in the book are wrong. I understand what they’re attempting to achieve. I can see the benefits of living with purpose and cutting back on things I don’t need. I can see they care about the land and their communities. But I can’t ignore the other side either. Moving to a city or looking for a job that pays cash does not mean giving up on values. People are just responding to their circumstances. They are trying to make their life more stable by making decisions based on what they need.

Both ways of living arise from different needs and situations and are shaped by different circumstances. One is often chosen and can be left behind. The other is lived without the option to leave. That difference should not be overlooked. To be frank, this book did not give me a model to follow. It just offered me another perspective to consider and it made me think more about my own life and what I already value. It also made me think about how some ways of living are described and seen in a higher regard.

I will remember certain chapters of this book. The chapters about Asha Amemiya, Akira Ito, Koichi Yamashita, and Wakako Oe are worth reading. They are not offering answers, but rather something that can fuel my inspiration. I will return to those chapters when I need a reminder of some kind of discipline or attention. I will also give my perspective the same weight because it also means something important to me.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

A Word for Living Between Places

I came across The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows several years ago. I found the Youtube channel first. I remember watching one video late at night. It was called Sonder: The Realization That Everyone Has A Story. The narrator’s voice was calm and unhurried. He described the word “sonder,” and I knew I had felt that feeling before but I couldn’t describe it. Here’s an excerpt taken from the book that describes sonder:

SONDER (the awareness that everyone has a story):

You are the main character. The protagonist. The star at the center of your own unfolding story. You’re surrounded by your supporting cast: friends and family hanging in your immediate orbit. Scattered a little further out, a network of acquaintances who drift in and out of contact over the years.

But there in the background, faint and out of focus, are the extras. The random passersby. Each living a life as vivid and complex as your own. They carry on invisibly around you, bearing the accumulated weight of their own ambitions, friends, routines, mistakes, worries, triumphs, and inherited craziness.

When your life moves on to the next scene, theirs flickers in place, wrapped in a cloud of backstory and inside jokes and characters strung together with countless other stories you’ll never be able to see. That you’ll never know exist. In which you might appear only once. As an extra sipping coffee in the background. As a blur of traffic passing on the highway. As a lighted window at dusk.

That word stayed in my mind and every time I’m out in the crowd watching strangers passing by, I would think of sonder.

Just like sonder, the rest of the words in that book describe small and specific experiences. They do not refer to objects or actions. They name moments that are easy to overlook because they do not demand attention. Reading them made me more aware of how much I move through life without naming what I feel.

Today’s prompt asks what I would want named after me. I thought about it for a while. I could not think of any place or object that felt right. Those things feel distant from how I experience my life day to day. And I do not relate to them in a meaningful way.

And I thought about the book. I would love to be an entry in such a book. A word feels closer because it can hold something that is lived but not always spoken. It can remain small and still carry meaning. It does not need visibility to exist.

I have been writing about living between places. I am Iban. I grew up in Sarawak, and I have lived in Kuala Lumpur for many years now. My life is here and I am raising my family here. I know the places, the roads, the routines, and the pace of this city.

When I return to the longhouse, I notice the difference. I’m fluent in Iban, but sometimes I pause to find the right word. The rhythm is familiar, but I am not fully inside it anymore. I am received with warmth, but there is also a sense that I have come from somewhere else.

That experience has remained with me, but it does not belong to a single location. It moves with me wherever I go. It shows up in small, ordinary moments like in the food I cook. In the stories I tell my children. In the way I think about the place where I come from.

Over time, I have come to see this as a connection that continues across distance. It is not always visible, but it is present. If I were to name that experience, I would keep it simple.

livselaka (n.)
the quiet state of living between places, where connection remains even when belonging is incomplete

A Return

What is one word that describes you? Just one word? If it’s only a word, then I feel it seems too narrow for something that changes as much as a person. One word makes it sound like something is set in stone. I don’t think I’ve ever been that. I sat with it for a while to find the right word. Finally, the word that came to mind was “return”.

It’s less about a return to something untouched and more about picking up something I set down for a while. I’ve found myself reaching for my sketchbooks again in the past few weeks.

I go through old paintings, rewrite poetry, change the margins, and print pages. The tasks are simple but they require my full attention. Every little decision affects the outcome and time passed by silently as I focused on each task.

I recently blogged about the process of producing my zines and art cards. These are real and tangible things and unlike digital work, this is a slower way of working and nothing happens instantly. That post was a result of sitting at the table and crafting the zines, whereas this post is when I start to let them go and release them to the world. It’s been a while since I last put my work out on Etsy. I went on a hiatus when other things in life got in the way.

However, my art sat there waiting for me to return and produce something for the shop. It feels odd to come back to it now. I need time to readjust and relearn how to do some of the things, like working on Canva. I don’t want to make everything at once. I’m putting together one zine at a time, assembling each one carefully. I don’t force myself or think too far ahead on future projects. It is enough to just work on what is in front of me. So, I launched my Etsy shop again today.

It sits there quietly for now with five simple listings. All of them are the printable versions of my zines. They sit there waiting for the algorithm to index them and finally appear on the search results. No matter how excited and proud I am about them, I don’t feel the need to announce it loudly to the world. The act of listing them on the shop and making them public is enough for me.

I realized how familiar the process felt as I worked on the listings. The tasks of writing descriptions, picking titles, and putting pages in order are the things I have done in the past. However, I’m doing things now with a different way of thinking. There is less doubt while making small decisions and I go through them without overthinking.

The work itself hasn’t changed much. It is still made of the same things: words, ink, graphite, and paper. What has changed is my approach to it. I’m not trying to make something big and complicated. I’m just working on one zine at a time, finishing it, and moving on to the next.

There are still certain things that are unclear. I don’t know how people will react to it or how often I will add more listings. Right now, I’m not trying to answer those questions. I just let it be and do not stress myself about the outcome. For now, I am here again, sitting at the table, working on my art and poems. The shop is open and life flows on. It all feels like a “return” or homecoming, somehow.

The Essence of a Smaller Life

Daily writing prompt

If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?

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I have been reading The Abundance of Less by Andy Couturier. I’m only on the first few chapters, but the people he writes about stay with me long after I’ve put the book down. They live in the countryside of Japan, far away from the fast pace of cities and the demands of the digital world. The scenery isn’t what draws me in. What attracts me is how gracefully they go about their days. For anyone curious about the author’s thinking, his interview with Kyoto Journal offers a thoughtful look into the ideas behind the book: https://kyotojournal.org/conversations/making-a-life-not-merely-a-living/#top

Here are some of the people featured in this book:

San Oizumi is a potter who makes tea bowls, builds small structures, and allows his work to take the time it needs. His life unfolds at its own pace, shaped by intentional choices rather than external pressure.

Osamu Nakamura is a woodblock craftsman who carves slowly and on purpose keeps his world small. He rereads the same books for years. He commits to depth and does so quietly.

Atsuko Watanabe is an activist and mother who plans her days around what she can accommodate, not what she accumulates.

Kogan Murata, a Zen practitioner, sings the same songs repeatedly to make him more at ease with himself.

The artist Akira Ito studies ordinary objects and folk art. He sees the beauty in the work of unknown hands and in the little things that life leaves behind.

Gufu Watanabe, a traveler and journal keeper, writes down mundane things like a meal, a corner of a room, or the light on a plant just because they are there.

Koichi Yamashita, the gardener, understands how long one meal actually takes when you follow its beginnings back to the soil. Everything slows when traced back to its true starting point.

And throughout his life, Masanori Oe keeps asking the same questions, letting the act of asking change him instead of expecting clear answers.

They all live in different ways, but there is something that connects them. That connection doesn’t come from a common rule or way of thinking. It is a way of being with one’s own life. Their choices are calm and measured. They follow a rhythm that is shaped by staying focused. Everyone has a small world inside them, and their interior lives feel wide.

As I read, I have no desire to replace my life with theirs. What I want is the core of their choices: a way to get through the day without rushing to the next thing. It is a way of working that doesn’t require you to prove the worth of your work or put on a show for anyone else. I am drawn to the inner posture that lies beneath their rural setting.

I live in a city where I am surrounded by noise and responsibilities. My days are shaped by family, work, and all the challenges of living in a city. Sometimes I experience something similar to what these people embody, like when I go back to writing or my art without the need to explain myself. I sense it when I commit to my small routines and when I choose to keep my world manageable. The external environment may be different, but the intention seems to be the same.

The essence I admire exists independently of place. It has more to do with how time is held, what is noticed, and what is allowed to matter. I have no intention of becoming these people. A quieter rhythm has begun to take shape in my days, influencing how I move through the life I already inhabit.

Reading at My Own Pace

Some months I read with hunger. Other times, a book sits unopened for weeks, waiting for me to catch up to whatever it’s trying to say. I used to feel guilty about it, for not finishing or for moving too slowly. Now, I treat it like a ritual. The book finds me when I’m ready or it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m not competing with anyone.

This year, my to-read shelf is more invitation than obligation. I don’t care about finishing stacks. I want each page to be a gentle interruption, like rain on my balcony while I’m working or the way dusk slips through the window when I’m too busy to notice it.

Fiction

Hear the Wind Sing by Haruki Murakami
This is Murakami’s first novel. It is short and understated. Some people said it wasn’t as good as the rest, but I don’t care. I’m drawn to where his work began, long before the fame. I expect quiet nights, music, and empty spaces.

Getting Lost by Annie Ernaux
I love Ernaux. Her writing style is very clinical.’ This book is a raw diary of obsession and doubt. Ernaux writes with clarity about longing and uncertainty. The subject matter is personal and direct.

Poetry

Take Me With You by Andrea Gibson
I started to pay attention to Gibson’s work after discovering her on Instagram. She was bravely battling cancer and was very public about her struggles, but it was her message that touched me the most. This collection opens into pain, love, and vulnerability. Gibson doesn’t disguise what hurts. I want to spend time with poems that stay close to real feeling.

The Madness Vase by Andrea Gibson
Another book by Gibson. These poems circle fear, survival, and tenderness. The language stays plain, even when the emotions are complex and raw.

Yoga & Body

Every Body Yoga by Jessamyn Stanley
I return to yoga after abandoning my practice several years ago. I figured I need a gentler form of exercise so my perimenopausal body can cope. And since I am struggling with my larger body, I naturally gravitate to Jessamyn Stanley. Stanley welcomes every level of experience. Her voice stays grounded and open. I’m looking for guidance that doesn’t expect perfection.

Yoke: My Yoga of Self-Acceptance by Jessamyn Stanley
A collection of essays on making peace with your own body. Stanley is candid about what that process has looked like for her.

Japanese Philosophy & Non-Fiction

Wabi Sabi by Beth Kempton
I’m reading this now. I have gravitated to Eastern philosophy since I began to deconstruct my Christian faith. Kempton explores imperfection and beauty in ordinary life. Reading this book gives me a peaceful feeling.

Kokoro by Beth Kempton
This book considers “heart” and spirit in Japanese culture. She writes with clarity and restraint.

Freedom Seeker by Beth Kempton
Kempton traces the slow return to self beneath noise and duty. I love her, Wabi Sabi, so I think this book will resonate with me as a dogmatic religious dissenter.

The Way of the Fearless Writer by Beth Kempton
A book on writing with less fear and more presence. I’m curious what she sees that I don’t yet.

The Baby on the Fire Escape by Julie Phillips

I am so looking forward to reading this one. I think this is the first book I found on this subject. It’s a study of women who made art while raising children. It gathers stories of how creativity and care live beside each other.

I am a slow reader because I want to savor the text and let the message sink into my heart. There are days I chase after answers, but sometimes I just want to reflect on the beauty of a good line. I know these books will keep me company. They will remind me I’m not the only one who desires or questions things.

Maybe you read like this too, like a habit. If you do, I hope you find something on your shelf that waits for you and meets you quietly, without asking you to be anywhere else.

Passing Stories Along | A Visit to BFBW Subang Parade

Books are expensive in Malaysia. Anyone who reads a lot already know this. A single paperback can cost as much as a meal for two people at times. And when you’re trying to pay your bills, parenting, buy groceries, or just get through the month, buying a new book feels like a luxury that’s easy to postpone.

That’s why I’ve always liked used bookstores. Yesterday I went to a small, quiet bookstore in Subang Parade called BFBW – Books for a Better World. I wrote a short post about it on Threads, but the visit stayed with me. The variety of titles and the reasonably priced books weren’t the only factors. It was the mood and what the place stands for.

The bookstore is small. There aren’t any cozy corners or mood lighting for photos. There were just clean white shelves, a blue donation box with a cartoon bear on it, and fluorescent lights above. There were no frills in the room, and the floor was just cement. But it still felt good, simple, welcoming, and real.

What made it feel meaningful was the sense that every book had already lived a life. Each one had been read, or maybe left unread, carried in someone’s bag, or left waiting on a nightstand. They were now waiting for someone else to bring them home. That continuity, stories passed from person to person, makes used books unique and special.

I ended up buying three books for RM10 each. One was Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I’ve wanted to read for a long time. KL Noir was another one that caught my eye because of its subtitle: “Without shadows, there can be no light.” The last one was Life Inside My Mind, a book of essays by different writers about mental health. That one hit home.

These books weren’t in perfect shape. One had corners that were folded. The edges of the other one had faded. But that didn’t matter. I liked that they had been somewhere before me. Someone else had opened these pages and read them, or maybe they didn’t. It’s possible that the book was passed on without being read. It had traveled in any case.

That’s one of the little things that make used bookstores so nice. When you buy a book, you’re getting more than just a book; you’re getting a piece of someone else’s journey. It gives the book a deeper meaning that new books don’t always have.

At the front of the store, BFBW also has a donation box where people can leave books they don’t need anymore. The donated books aren’t just sold again; they’re also given to literacy programs and charities. Communities, schools, and small libraries benefit directly. It’s a simple system that supports access to reading.

While standing there, I reflected on my own bookshelves at home and the books I have kept but no longer read. Some of those books meant something to me at one time, but now they’re ready to go. I also bought books on a whim and never read them all the way through. I realized that giving them away could give them a new life.

It reminded me that sharing stories is more than just writing and publishing. It’s also about letting go and letting a book continue its journey by giving it to someone else. By letting go, we are passing on what helped us in the past or what we never got around to reading.

As a mother and a writer/artist, I often think about the kind of legacy I want to leave behind. This includes not only my own work but also the values I pass on. I want my kids to grow up in a world where they can get their hands on books. Where knowledge and imagination aren’t limited by price and where stories travel. Bookstores like BFBW make that vision feel possible.

If you live in the Klang Valley and have books that are in good shape, whether they are fiction, nonfiction, or children’s books, think about giving them away. Or take a little time to look around and pick up a few. You might find something you didn’t expect. You might rediscover the joy of reading without pressure.

I’m glad I stopped by. I left with three books and the feeling that I was part of something bigger. You are not just a reader but a link in a generous chain of people passing stories along. It really is that simple sometimes.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

A Review of The Earthquake Bird Movie Adaptation | The Book vs The Movie

After reading Susanna Jones’ novel The Earthquake Bird, I felt compelled to rewatch the 2019 Netflix adaptation. The film, directed by Wash Westmoreland and starring Alicia Vikander, Riley Keough, and Naoki Kobayashi, takes creative liberties with its source material while maintaining its dark, melancholic atmosphere. Despite some changes, I found the directors’ ability to capture the story’s haunting atmosphere impressive. However, the ending deviates radically from the book, providing viewers with the closure that the author purposefully denies. Despite the clean conclusion, I couldn’t help but believe that the book’s emotional ambiguity was more fitting. However, the film still provides an intriguing representation of Jones’ writing.

Watching it again provided me a new perspective on how the film adapted certain key components and departed from the original.

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Lucy: A Different Lucy, A Different Background

The most noticeable distinction in the movie is Lucy’s nationality. Lucy Fly, the novel’s protagonist, is a British expat living in Tokyo. Lucy in the film is Swedish. Alicia Vikander’s portrayal of Lucy is captivating, capturing the character’s subdued and brooding qualities as envisioned in the book. That part seemed to be tailor-made for Vikander, who portrays Lucy as cold but fiercely vulnerable. She is the film’s foundation, and no one else could have played the character as convincingly.

Teiji: A Beautiful Mystery with a Dark Side

In the movie, Naoki Kobayashi plays Lucy’s love interest, the intriguing photographer Teiji Matsuda. Kobayashi’s Teiji is colder and more detached from the one in the book. His calm demeanor conceals a mild but unmistakable hostility, which adds tension to his interactions with Lucy. He is more indifferent to Lucy in the movie, which makes it plain that she is little more than a muse and a physical comfort to him. Where the novel’s Teiji shows glimmers of tenderness, the film removes those layers, exposing a man who is equally compelling and creepy.

The filmmakers altered Teiji’s backstory, having him raised by an aunt instead of his mother. This change adds a layer of mystery to his character, but it’s an easy element to overlook amid Teiji’s ambiguous personality.

Lily Bridges: A Scene-Stealer

Riley Keough as Lily Bridges steals the scene. Lily in the movie is flirty and outgoing but slightly needy. At one point, she even suggested she slept in between Teiji and Lucy, a moment that perfectly captures her brazen personality. Keough brings Lily to life in a way that matches how I envisioned her in the book: vibrant, needy, and ultimately tragic. Her presence adds a volatile energy to the story, and her dynamic with Lucy and Teiji is one of the more compelling aspects of the film.

A Cinematic Key Moments

The film’s cinematic storytelling enhances some passages from the book while layering the tension and beauty. One such moment comes when Lucy realizes that Teiji’s love has turned toward Lily during their time on Sado Island. The shift is slight but devastating, and the filmmakers pull it off with precision. The cinematography nicely captures Lucy’s mounting discomfort and the way it frames her isolation against the backdrop of Japan’s breathtaking landscape.

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The other standout element in the film is Teiji’s apartment. Unlike the novel’s minimalist description, the film makes his living space a dingy and cluttered space mirroring his mysterious character. The apartment is almost a character in its own right, its junkyard atmosphere and eerie photographs lining the walls contributing to the film’s noir aesthetic.

The Earthquake Bird: A Haunting Force

One thing does get heightened in the movie: the titular “earthquake bird” reference. The bird is more vaguely referenced in the book, but the movie brings it to life, its haunting bird calls punctuating the moments of silence that follow an earthquake. That auditory detail adds another layer of unease, making the story’s themes of guilt and displacement all the more tangible.

Cinematography and the Haunting Soundtrack

The movie’s cinematography is breathtaking. It manages to capture the beauty of 80s Japan while also infusing it with a sense of foreboding. With such a subdued color palette and reserved framing, there’s even a noir-like feel to the film that works for its psychological aspects. Whether it is the bustling streets of Tokyo or the silent, windy fields of Sado Island, every shot seems meticulously crafted.

A special mention should also go to the haunting soundtrack. Composed by Atticus Ross, Leopold Ross, and Claudia Sarne, the music heightens the tension and melancholy of the story, settling into your head long after the last credits roll. It’s the kind of score that amplifies the emotional weight of every scene, transforming the movie into an immersive experience.

The Ending

The most significant departure from the book is the ending. The novel leaves a lot of questions unaddressed, requiring readers to contend with the ambiguity of Lucy’s guilt and the motives behind Teiji’s actions, but the movie prefers a more definite resolution. Without giving too much away, the movie does a good job of resolving some things and giving viewers a sense of closure. I admire the clarity, but I did find myself yearning for the unresolved tension of the book’s ending. That uncertainty seemed truer to the story’s themes.

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Final Thoughts

The Earthquake Bird movie is a rich, visually deep, and emotionally haunting adaptation of Susanna Jones’s novel. While it diverges from the novel in some ways, it opens the story in new directions that could not have happened in the book. Alicia Vikander shines as Lucy. She succeeded in capturing the character’s multifaceted nature with ease and intensity. Naoki Kobayashi and Riley Keough deliver equally compelling performances. While some changes, such as Lucy’s nationality or Teiji’s backstory, seemed inconsequential, others, like the ending, significantly changed the tone of the story. The film’s portrayal of Teiji as a slightly colder character brought a darker edge to the story too. These differences notwithstanding, the movie stays true to the original novel’s exploration of guilt, obsession, and identity.

If you’ve read the book, the film is an intriguing reinterpretation of the story. If you haven’t, the film is still a tense and tight psychological thriller that stands on its own. Either way, it’s worth watching it for its breathtaking cinematography, haunting soundtrack, and outstanding performances. It felt like when I watched the movie, it was like a different perspective on the novel—familiar but different, unsettling but beautiful. It’s a story I’ll carry with me, in both its written and cinematic forms.

Book Review | A Weekend with Susanna Jones’s The Earthquake Bird

Last weekend, I finally had the chance to read Susanna Jones’s novel, The Earthquake Bird. It was a long-awaited opportunity. I watched the movie adaptation on Netflix back in 2019, and it left a lasting impression on me. I was enchanted by the haunting atmosphere, the layered characters, and the psychological tension. And that left me wanting to dig up the original source material. But since the novel was published in 2001, it was difficult to find a copy. That is, until recently. The second I discovered it, I knew I needed to revisit Lucy Fly’s story, this time in the author’s own words.

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an intense experience. The novel immerses you in Lucy’s fragmented memories and unreliable narration, plunging you deep inside her mind. As I turned the pages, I could feel her guilt, her isolation, and her complicated relationships with the people around her. The raw emotional force of Jones’s spare, precise prose lingers long after you close the book.

Plot Summary of The Earthquake Bird

The Earthquake Bird is set in Tokyo, following Lucy Fly, a British expatriate who works as a translator and whose solitary existence is upturned when she becomes the prime suspect in the murder of fellow expat and her newfound friend, Lily Bridges. Lucy is the narrator, recounting her life, her entanglement with a mysterious Japanese photographer, Teiji Matsuda, and her intricate, troubled friendship with Lily.

The novel intertwines themes of guilt, cultural dislocation, and the indistinct boundary between love and obsession. The novel unfolds through Lucy’s recounts of the events leading up to Lily’s death, but her memories are disjointed and unreliable, leading readers to wonder how much of her version of reality can be believed. With its haunting atmosphere and complex character dynamics, The Earthquake Bird is as much a psychological portrait as a murder mystery.

Lucy’s Third-Person Narration

One of the most striking aspects of the novel is Lucy’s tendency to refer to herself in the third person when recounting her past. This shall seem, at first, an odd and disorienting narrative choice. But as I delved further, it was obvious that this was a conscious mirroring of Lucy’s psychological state. Her disconnection from her own memories reflects her emotional detachment, a coping mechanism she’s developed through her traumatic experiences and unbearable sense of guilt.

Lucy’s belief that she brings disaster and death to those around her is a recurring theme. She bears the burden of past tragedies, believing she is somehow to blame. This third-person narration creates a distance between her present self and her past actions, as though she’s attempting to disassociate from the person she used to be. This narrative technique enhances the haunting quality of the novel, immersing readers in Lucy’s splintered self.

The Mystery of Teiji

Lucy’s relationship with Teiji is at the core of the story, and it is as mysterious as the man himself. Despite being his girlfriend, Lucy realizes how little she truly knows about him. She doesn’t even know his last name. Surprising moments like Teiji’s casual mention of his love for mopping floors and washing up, or Lucy’s hearing him sing, remind us that people are always more complicated than we imagine. There are facets of Teiji that remain hidden from Lucy, even after they’ve spent a great deal of time together.

This realization resonated with me deeply. It’s a humbling reminder that we never fully know someone, no matter how close we are or how long we’ve been in each other’s lives. People have depths, and their inner worlds often remain a mystery. For Lucy, this lack of understanding becomes both a source of fascination and frustration, adding tension to their already strained relationship.

Chapter 12: Grief and Betrayal

If I had to pick a favorite part of the novel, it would be Chapter 12. In this chapter, Lucy is grieving the loss of her lover while grappling with the emotional aftermath of Teiji and Lily’s betrayal. What most impressed me was the way Jones portrayed Lucy’s pain so subtly. The chapter doesn’t linger on Lucy’s heartbreak explicitly, but her suffering is all but tangible in every sentence. The emptiness that she feels, the way in which her world appears to collapse in on itself—it’s all there, woven into the fabric of the narrative.

Jones’s ability to evoke such deep emotions without resorting to melodrama is truly masterful. It made me feel Lucy’s pain as if it were my own. It’s a testament to the power of understated writing—show, don’t tell.

My Thoughts on Lily Bridges

Lily Bridges is a character that elicits mixed feelings. From the start, Lucy is wary of her. Lily’s wimpy, needy attitude irritates Lucy, and it’s not hard to see why. However, Lucy secretly relishes Lily’s need for her. For someone like Lucy, who frequently feels invisible and isolated, Lily’s dependence on her makes her feel smart and capable. This dichotomy makes for an intriguing dynamic between the two women.

But I couldn’t help but disapprove of Lucy’s decision to include Lily in her private time with Teiji. If I were Lucy, I’d be even more territorial. I would not feel good about the idea of my man getting too friendly with a female friend, especially someone I am not personally fond of. And still, Lucy’s decision to allow Lily into her world says so much about who she is. It reflects her desire for validation and her struggle to navigate the dynamic of friendship and intimacy.

A Story That Haunts You

The reason The Earthquake Bird is so compelling is because it tackles guilt and identity. Lucy’s perception of herself is that she is a natural-born destroyer, that her very existence brings harm to the people she loves. It’s a guilt that permeates all facets of her life, from her relationships to how she sees her own worth.

The novel also takes up the theme of cultural displacement. As an expatriate in Japan, Lucy sometimes feels like an outsider, caught between two worlds. This alienation only exacerbates her identity crisis, heightening the poignancy of her struggles.

Final Thoughts

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an unforgettable experience. Susanna Jones has created a haunting and provocative novel, with a protagonist of such complexity whose presence reverberates long after the last page has been turned. Lucy Fly is not a loveable character; she’s full of imperfections and fear, making her narrative even more relatable.

If you’ve only seen the Netflix adaptation, then I recommend checking out the book. Although the film impressively conveys the tone of the story, the novel is a deeper exploration of Lucy’s mind and the labyrinthine relationships that make up her landscape. It’s a story about guilt, love, betrayal, and the fragmented nature of identity—a story that lingers with you, quietly unsettling, long after you turn the last page.

I’ll be reviewing the Netflix adaptation in a separate post, where I’ll explore how the movie differs from the book and whether it captures the same depth and nuance. Now, though, I’m glad to have finally read the novel. It was worth the wait, and, I suspect, a story I’ll return to, discovering different layers and meanings each time I do so.

Why I’ll Always Come Back to The English Patient

Daily writing prompt

What book could you read over and over again?

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Some books become landmarks in your life. It becomes more than something you read when you return to its pages again and again, like a familiar scent or a half-remembered dream. For me, that book is The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.

I got my copy in 1997 while waiting for my night shift to start. I was 20 at the time, working part-time while studying for my IT diploma. My shift began at 6 p.m. and finished at 6 a.m. the following day. After dinner, I went to a nearby bookshop and picked up the novel. The film adaptation was playing in cinemas at the time, but I didn’t watch it until years later. I read the book during my breaks at work, but it took me a long time to finish it.

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Ondaatje’s prose was difficult. It didn’t care for neatness. The narrative was fragmented, the rhythm unpredictable—the whole narrative is a long lyrical poem. But I stuck with it, turning each page slowly, sometimes painfully. And I’m glad I did. While others found it disjointed, that was precisely what drew me in. It was too poetic for the mainstream, too fragmented for easy consumption, and too sensual for readers who prioritize plot. That’s what I enjoyed about it then—and still do.

When I went to university to pursue my IT degree, The English Patient became a silent friend. I read it during long, lonely afternoons in my hostel room as a soothing escape from the chaos of university life. Through Ondaatje’s pages, I could retreat to the worn walls of Villa San Girolamo, into the burned silence of the English Patient, and the sun-drenched memories of the Cave of Swimmers. I must have read the book ten times throughout the years.

The story unfolds in the same way that memory does: disorganized, sensory, and half-lit. We learn about the English Patient’s past before, during, and after WWII. Of Katharine Clifton and their forbidden love. Of Hana, the grieving nurse who cares for him in the villa. Of Caravaggio, the thief turned British spy with missing thumbs. Of Kip, a gentle Indian sapper who dismantles bombs and falls in love with Hana despite their cultural differences.

The patient’s only possession is a battered, annotated copy of Herodotus’ Histories that survived the flames when his plane crashed in the desert. The crash badly burned him and caused amnesia. He couldn’t remember his name and lost his identity, but his voice led many to believe he was English. In time, we learn he is actually László de Almásy, a Hungarian cartographer and desert adventurer. Almásy’s character is loosely based on a real-life counterpart, Count László Almásy, a Hungarian aristocrat and explorer.

I remember reading passages aloud to my lover during late-night chats. We watched the movie adaptation on VCD, but I hated it. It lacked the haunting lyricism of the novel. The lushness of Ondaatje’s words cannot be translated to screen. His sentences breathe, linger, and seep in. They don’t just move the story forward. They remain in you long after you finish the novel.

I haven’t read the book in years. Maybe it’s time to read it again. Some parts of me have changed; others haven’t. I suspect the story will read differently now, the way all great books do when you return to them older and bruised with life.

There’s one passage that’s followed me for years, so much so that I placed it on my About Me page:

“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”

This quote refers to Katharine Clifton, but I feel it suits me as well.

There are many other lines that have stayed with me through the years. There are too many to list, but here are a few that still haunt me:

“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover’s name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

The English Patient is not a book you finish or a book you can read casually. It’s a book you carry, absorb, and savor.

And I’ll keep returning to it.

As long as I need to remember how language can ruin you.

And heal you.

And leave you haunted in the best way.

Book Review | Simple Passion by 2022 Nobel Laureate, Annie Ernaux

I have been wanting to read books by the French author, Annie Ernaux, since she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2022, but I never got around to it until about a week ago. I was scrolling through my reading list on Everand and came across Ernaux’s book, Simple Passion. Since the book is short, 80 pages, I gave it a go. It took me one afternoon, in between daily routines, to finish it.

I’ve been a Scribd, and later Everand’s subscriber since 2018.

I’m blown away. Some books tell a story. Simple Passion does not. Instead, it captures her obsession with a man in its purest form. In this book, Ernaux presents a raw, unembellished account of her affair with a married man. This is an autofiction. Yes, it’s autobiographical with elements of fiction woven into the story.

The affair took place in the 80s, and I made a quick calculation. Ernaux would be in her late 40s when these events took place. Ernaux was divorced with two sons. The man was a lot younger, and I thought that was hot, but I digress.

Ernaux’s writing is fragmented, which surprised me. They bear resemblance to my (fiction) writing style. Ernaux’s narrative is not chronological. It’s like she’s jotting down memories and insights as they come to her. This rawness is what makes Simple Passion so devastatingly honest. She confesses:

I am incapable of describing the way in which my passion for A developed day by day. I can only freeze certain moments in time and single out isolated symptoms of a phenomenon whose chronology remains uncertain—as in the case of historical events.

Like I mentioned, this is my first Ernaux book. I wouldn’t say I love the language (perhaps the translation from French loses something), but I do admire the way she lays her experience bare. Ernaux wrote without using big, bombastic words and without self-pity. She stripped unnecessary details, and it’s brutal in the best way.

Her grief after her lover leaves for his home country is palpable. However, Ernaux doesn’t indulge us with the details of her feelings. She shows us instead through her actions, through her emptiness in her daily routine, and through the strange ways she tries to keep him close even in his absence.

One day, lying on my stomach, I gave myself an orgasm; somehow I felt that it was his orgasm.

It’s as if they were one entity, inseparable, even when apart.

And then there’s the bargaining. The desperate, irrational belief that she could will him back:

If he calls me before the end of the month, I’ll give five hundred francs to a charity.

She clings to the past by recreating moments as if reliving them could make moments repeat themselves:

If I went somewhere I had been to last year, when he was here—to the dentist or a staff meeting—I would wear the same suit as before, trying to convince myself that identical circumstances produce identical effects and that he would call me that evening.

Her lover did end up calling her one day, a week after the Gulf War was declared. After months of grieving for her lover, she finally got her closure. They had one last moment together, and that was the end of it. What remains now is her grief—for him and for the person she was when she was with him.

I had decided to learn his language. I kept, without washing it, a glass from which he had drunk.

I grieved with her. Not because I have lived her story, but because I have lived a version of it. I, too, have known an all-consuming love that was never meant to last. I have felt the bittersweet ache of moving forward without someone who once defined my existence. I have wondered, in private moments, what life would have been like if it had been him. If our child had been his. If he remembers me in passing thoughts, or comparing others to me. These are the kinds of things we don’t speak aloud, not even to our closest friends, but they remain, surfacing in the most unexpected moments.

One of the most striking passages in the book is this:

I do not wish to explain my passion, that would imply that it was a mistake or some disorder I need to justify—I just want to describe it.

In my opinion, this is what makes Ernaux’s writing so powerful. She does not seek redemption or understanding. She does not attempt to explain away her feelings. She simply describes them, and in doing so, she gives permission to readers to experience them in their own terms.

Ernaux did not write this book to boast about herself or her lover. She wrote it as a gift to those who have felt this same kind of passion and loss. In her own words, it’s an offering. As all great writers do, Ernaux knew that certain experiences are universal no matter how unique they seem.

I haven’t written a book about him, neither have I written a book about myself. All I have done is translate into words the way in which his existence has affected my life. An offering of a sort, bequeathed to others.

And that is exactly what Simple Passion feels like to me—an offering. It lingers in my mind even days after I turned the final page.

Note: There is a movie adaptation if you are interested. It was released in 2020. I haven’t watch it but here’s the trailer. In the novel, Ernaux described that her lover look a bit like Alain Delon which was wow.