Kids interview Banana Yoshimoto
by Charactorium · Banana Yoshimoto (1964 — ?) · Literature · Culture · 5 min read
Two twelve-year-old students, on a school trip, pushed open the door of a small quiet café in Tokyo. There, a lady with a gentle smile was waiting for them in front of a steaming cup of tea. It was Banana Yoshimoto, and she had the whole morning for them.
—Banana is a weird name! Why are you named after a fruit?
You're right, it's not my real name, it's a pseudonym. I really liked banana flowers. Imagine a very simple flower, both delicate and a little strange, neither quite girl nor quite boy. That mystery appealed to me. I chose it long before I was known, at a time when I was still searching for who I was. Banana protected me a bit, you see? No one could know anything about me just from that name. A flower is fragile, but it grows everywhere. I think I wanted to be like that: gentle, but able to live.
A flower is fragile, but it grows everywhere.
—Was your dad famous? What was it like having a dad like that?
Yes, my father, Takaaki Yoshimoto, was a very great thinker in Japan. Some even called him 'the giant of Japanese thought.' Imagine growing up next to someone whose ideas everyone reads! It wasn't always easy. His books were full of big, difficult theories. I didn't want to do that. I wanted to talk about simple things: a sadness, a cup of tea, the loneliness of an evening. So I built my own little world, very gentle, far from his big essays. You can love your father and take a completely different path, you know.
You can love your father and take a completely different path.
—How old were you when you wrote your first book?
I was twenty-three, still a student! At Nihon University in Tokyo, we had to submit a graduation thesis. Many wrote serious things. I submitted a novel: Kitchen. It was 1987. And then something crazy happened. That little text won a prize, then it was published, then it sold millions of copies. Imagine: I hadn't even finished my studies, and people all over the world were crying as they read my story. I was happy, but a little scared too. Everything was happening so fast.
—Why is your book called Kitchen? That's a funny title.
Ah, that's my favorite question! You see, in my book, a young girl loses her grandmother. She finds herself all alone, with a big hole in her heart. And the only place she feels good is the kitchen. At the very beginning of the novel, she says the kitchen is her favorite place in the whole world. Any kitchen, big or small, old or new. Why? Because that's where you prepare food, where you take care of others. When you're in great pain, cooking rice can save you a little. The kitchen is a warm refuge against sadness.
When you're in great pain, cooking rice can save you a little.
—Is it true your character sleeps next to the fridge? That's so weird!
Yes, it's true! And I understand it seems weird to you. But listen. When you're very scared at night, when you're sad, you look for a reassuring sound, something alive. The refrigerator hums softly, nonstop, like a little heart beating in the house. My heroine falls asleep near it because that hum keeps her company. It doesn't judge her, it doesn't leave. For me, the simple objects in the house can become friends when you're alone. A fridge, a pot, a cutting board... they are presences that console us.
—What was Japan like when you were young? Were there problems?
When I was a teenager, in the 1980s, my country seemed very rich. It was called the 'economic bubble.' Imagine a balloon that you blow up, blow up, blow up: everyone was making money, buying, buying. People thought they were very happy. And then, around 1991, the balloon burst all at once. Many families lost everything. The following years were called the 'lost decade.' Sad, disappointed young people shut themselves at home, sometimes for years: that's called hikikomori. All that loneliness, that disappointment, that's what fills my books. I write for those hearts.
We thought we were blowing up a balloon of happiness, and one day it burst.
—Is it true you write at night? When do you sleep then?
Yes, the night is my time. During the day, there's noise, people, a thousand things to do. But when night falls over Tokyo, everything becomes silent. That's when I sit in front of my computer and write. I search for my sentences one by one, I rework them until they sound right, like when you tune an instrument. The silence of the night, I often describe it in my novels, because I truly live it. So yes, I sleep late in the morning! But everyone has their secret hour. Mine is when the city sleeps.
Everyone has their secret hour; mine is when the city sleeps.
—Where do you write down your ideas? Do you have a special notebook?
Yes, I always carry a little notebook with me. During the day, I walk around, sit in a café, and observe. A gesture, a light falling on a wall, the smell of soup... I write everything down. These are my treasures! In the evening, these little notes become stories. And you know what else I like? The conbini, those small convenience stores open all night, lit like lanterns. When you're alone and can't sleep, you can go in, buy a hot tea. In my books, they are refuges for sad people. Everyday life, if you look closely, is full of poetry.
Everyday life, if you look closely, is full of poetry.
—Your stories are a little sad but also gentle. Why?
What a lovely observation! You've sensed something important. In Japan, we have a very old expression: mono no aware. It's hard to translate. It roughly means: feeling that beautiful things don't last, and finding that both sad and magnificent. Imagine cherry blossoms: they are splendid, but they fall after a few days. Precisely because they go away, we find them even more precious. My stories are like that. Death, grief are present. But there is also much gentleness and love. Life is fragile, and that's what makes it beautiful.
Life is fragile, and that's exactly what makes it beautiful.
—They say you love Italy. What do you like about it?
Oh yes, I love Italy very much! I go there often, to Rome, Florence, the hills of Tuscany. Why? The light, first. It's warm, golden, different from Tokyo's. And people take time to eat, talk, laugh together around a table. Time doesn't run the same way. When I leave Japan, I see my own country with fresh eyes, from farther away. That helps me write. A bit like you: when you go on a school trip, far from home, you understand better where you come from. Traveling is learning to know yourself better.
When you leave home, you see your house with fresh eyes.
—Your books are read in many countries. How does that make you feel?
It touches me deeply, you know. Kitchen has been translated into more than thirty languages, and even adapted twice into film! When I wrote that little text at twenty-three, I never imagined that a child, very far from Japan, would one day read it. That means one wonderful thing: sadness, loneliness, love are feelings that everyone knows, everywhere. A Japanese girl crying over her grandmother, you can understand her even if you don't speak my language. That's my greatest happiness: that my simple stories have brought hearts together across the world.
The simplest stories are the ones that bring hearts together across the world.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Banana Yoshimoto's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.