Beginning in 2018, a Japanese person might log on to YouTube only to find a video featuring a thin figure clothed entirely in black. A white papier-mache mask—blank, with holes for eyes and mouth and a peak for the suggestion of the nose—provides the only contrast. The figure speaks in an artificially processed, saccharine voice and posts enigmatic, sometimes uncomfortable videos. One shows the figure awkwardly playing music on a child’s toy piano. Another features the figure receiving an odd and disquieting Christmas gift from a barely visible and sinister Santa-san.
In 2019, journalist and writer Peter Hessler traveled with his family to China. He’d gotten a gig as a teacher of writing—nonfiction writing in particular—in what he’d hoped would be a sequel to his 2001 book River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze. But plans changed—radically. At the very end of 2019, the COVID-19 virus emerges in Wuhan, leading to chaos as officials frantically try to figure out how to control the new disease.
It is a cliché that retiring academics look forward to some variation of “finally getting some research done”, freed of the daily tasks that come with a university career. William Steele retired from International Christian University in Tokyo in 2018, and his newest book, Rethinking Japan’s Modernity, draws upon a career of teaching 19th- and 20th-century Japanese history, and a personal collection of prints and images.
Millennials: The word conjures the tired cliches of internet ragebait: avocado toast and participation trophies. For a long time, millennials were a stereotype of feckless, tech-addicted youth, yet the oldest of us are now in our early 40s. But what of millennials in North Korea? Here, stereotypes of a coddled generation do not apply, and reliable information is not easily accessed. How has North Korea reacted to the information age, the ubiquity of the mobile phone, and the millennial development of its neighbor to the south? These are the questions that Suk-young Kim, author of numerous books on the cultures of North and South Korea, sets out to answer in her most recent book.
Nánhǎi 南海, the South Sea, took on a new dimension for the Chinese after the capital Kaifeng fell to the Jurchen in 1127, precluding contacts north of the Yellow River. The retreating Southern Song dynasty (1127-1274) had to turn to the South China Sea, as it is now universally called, to provide a new outlet for the country’s manufacturing prowess. Zhejiang emerged then as the political, economic and cultural heartland, with Hangzhou as the new capital; while the coastal provinces of Guangdong and Fujian, cradle of Chinese shipwrights and seafarers, spearheaded a veritable, if peaceful, maritime expansion. Until the 9th-10th centuries, China’s maritime trade was mainly conducted by foreigners—Arabs, Persians, Indians, Southeast Asians—on their own vessels, with the Chinese starting to take an active role afterwards.
Karissa Chen’s debut novel, Homeseeking, a sweeping family saga set across eight decades, is informed in part by her grandfather’s story. In her author’s note, she writes that she became interested in Chinese exiles in Taiwan a couple decades ago, just after her grandfather’s death. One of the images from her grandfather’s belongings was a photo of her grandfather crying before his mother’s grave in Shanghai. He was especially distraught because he hadn’t seen his mother since he left China just before the Communist victory in 1949 and was unable to return more than half a century later, after his mother passed away.
Experimental Times is an in-depth ethnography of the transformation of Bengaluru/Bangalore from a site of “backend” IT work to an aspirational global city of enterprise and innovation. The book journeys alongside the migrant workers, technologists, and entrepreneurs who shape and survive the dreams of a “Startup India” knitted through office work, at networking meetings and urban festivals, and across sites of leisure in the city.