Novel by Sayaka Murata.
Murata holds incels up to the fluorescent glow of the convenience store and let its cracks show. Shiraha’s world is built on outdated battle cries of survival-of-the-fittest masculinity, and yet… he is distinctly not surviving. Keiko, meanwhile, thrives—not in the way society might expect, but in her own quiet, rhythmic existence, content among prepackaged meals and store jingles. Where Shiraha flails against expectation, railing against his lack of social capital, Keiko simply sidesteps it altogether.
And that’s the magic of this book—it’s hilariously sharp in its observations, but never loud. It’s all in the details: the smooth efficiency of the store, the oddly soothing hum of fluorescent lights, the way Keiko fits so seamlessly into a system others see as temporary or unremarkable. There’s a delightful irony in how she is criticized for being too at peace, while Shiraha’s bitterness—aimed at the same societal machine—is somehow more acceptable. Murata doesn’t force the contrast, she just lets it simmer.
