Vibrant, Sleepless Nights in Budapest and Berlin
Kawakami Mieko

At the end of summer, heading into autumn, I went on a fairly long book tour. For about three weeks I partook in a range of literary festivals and events, gave readings, and signed copies of my books, all while doing lots of interviews. Mantua, Budapest, Munich, Kufstein, Zurich, Berlin, and Hamburg—the tour spanned seven cities in five countries and was packed from one day to the next. Through it all I spoke at ten venues and sat down with twenty-five media outlets. It was a rich experience, each day filled to the brim.

What always strikes me about international literary festivals is not only the sheer scale, but the fact that they happen every year, like clockwork. Summoning a host of authors from home and abroad, the organizers assign each and every one of them a minder and take care of all arrangements for their travel and their stay. Witnessing things go off like this without a hitch, I can’t help but sit back in amazement, wondering how they make it happen. Plus, all the events start on time! Authors and readers flow in a steady stream from one place to the next, whether it’s a ceremony, a meet-and-greet, or—as is the case nowadays—some kind of social media content being captured, which has only intensified the pace. None of this could happen without the efforts of the hosts and publishers, the sponsors and local staff, and the league of volunteers eager for a taste of the literary world. Honestly, it’s like watching a miracle unfold.

This time around, there was something different about how the events landed for me personally. This may sound backwards, but I’d come to feel that doing these literary festivals, and working with different editors all over the world, was no longer so exceptional. This normalcy, in turn, made the tour extra-special for me.

Ten or more years ago I might go to symposiums or literary festivals from time to time, but in those days I moved through the paces as a “Japanese novelist” and not much more. Now, though, these events are much more personal. I show up as myself, in my own skin, and interact with people I’ve been working with for years—people who share a vision that together we’ve made into a reality. Thanks to the familiarity of these longstanding relationships, when I make it to a festival it doesn’t really feel like I’ve travelled to some faraway place, as strange as that may sound. It’s not like I’m some veteran traveler; ordinarily, I barely ever leave the house. But I’m happy to say that this particular tour felt, at least in that sense, wholly unexceptional, like a natural extension of my writing practice.

I felt this most keenly in Budapest and Berlin. The stop in Budapest wasn’t for a festival but simply to promote my latest book. While my other books have been translated into many languages, for readers in Hungary still I’m just a foreign author, someone who writes in Japanese. Promotional tours are hard enough to do at home, let alone in another country, what with booking all the media appearances and events. And yet, each day of the tour went so smoothly. Starting around 9:00 or so, I was led through a host of interviews from all the biggest papers and then welcomed at delightful events every night.

Like a lot of people, I’ve done all different kinds of work and so it’s not lost on me on just how tough it is to get a bookstore to stock even one title, how hard it is to make sure that it actually sells, and how difficult it is to secure coverage from even a single outlet. Throughout my stay in Hungary, the sincere enthusiasm with which my Hungarian publisher, Park, and the Japan Foundation welcomed me and my work was abundantly clear. But what really brought these exchanges to life was my translator Ingrid Mayer. As if it wasn’t amazing enough how she worked day and night without a break, she went the extra mile helping me feel comfortable and cared for throughout the experience. Each day, I was honestly on the verge of tears.

This part is a little difficult to convey, but I think (at least, I’d like to think) that all of us were feeling the same kind of emotion—whether it was the delightful conversations had with journalists by day, or the amazing success of an evening event where 300 people filled a 100-seat venue to standing room only capacity. The crowd was such that some people had to leave. I’ve been back in Japan for some time now, but my memories of that night in Budapest, and of all who supported me, don’t feel so far away. The bond that connects us is that strong. After all, we’re just a flight away, and we’re still working together, now as always.

Then there was Berlin. In the German-speaking world, I’ve spent a great deal of time with my German translator Katja Busson, allowing me to connect with countless readers. DuMont, my German publisher, has served as an attentive and thoughtful home for my work since their release of my novel Breasts and Eggs.

I attended all kinds of interviews and events in Berlin, too, but the main objective was the international literature festival. Onstage at the venue, facing a crowd of 1,000 readers, I felt enveloped by a kind of enthusiasm I’d never felt before. Afterward, I spent two and a half hours signing books, every copy of which sold out. All kinds of people came over to say hello at the after-party. Thanks to DuMont and the Japan Foundation, it was a vibrant night I’ll never forget.

Many of the readers who come up to me to say hello are doing all they can to keep it together. And some of them might even start to cry. These meetings are a fresh reminder of how all of us, regardless of nation or language, of gender or age, are just doing our best to get by in the one life we’ve been given, whatever our circumstances might be. We can’t really understand each other by comparing this or that. We’re all of us just living our lives, navigating life’s many difficulties.

There are as many authors as stars in the sky and more books than you could read in an entire lifetime. Through some twist of fate, I wound up writing books, and people have wound up reading them. At the same moment in history. What’s that all about? It’s an unanswerable question that motivates me and propels me forward. It makes me want to tell someone, or perhaps no one in particular, that I’ll try harder next time, I’ll do better work. Maybe it’s beyond words, more of a feeling, but that feeling kept me up all night in Budapest and Berlin, and every city that I visited on tour. I’ll never forget it. September 2025 was a special time for me. I’m sure I’ll keep returning to these memories, and I hope I can see everybody again soon.