Response to UFO in Kushiro

Why are we attracted to stories in which bad things happen—and even stories with unhappy endings? The first reason that comes to mind is one likely shared by most readers: no one I know likes to read about characters in a better state than themselves (hooray for schadenfreude). We look for difficult emotions and events in stories so we can relate to them, and often we enjoy reading about people in worse situations to feel better about our own, or just to experience something new; I loved reading those perilous survival stories I knew I was so far removed from in grade school. I also remember hunting down Bridge to Terabithia in the third grade simply so I could read the chapter where Jessie learns of Leslie’s death—it was just so different than all the other children’s stories. Fairy tales (or the superficially analyzed Disney version) that close with pink bows atop pink carriages are too optimistic; in reality, not all villains get punished, and virtually no poor girls land princes—no matter how beautiful they may be.

            Rarely do we think twice about good things that have happened to us, and it seems as if the bulk of everyday conversation is comprised of complaints (at least, in college?). I get annoyed of listening to friends or family spiel the same list of grievances on end, and I’m guilty of the same, but somehow I never tire of reading about characters who experience bad things in a well-written novel; I even sympathize more, and not necessarily because their fictional situation might be more dire. And had these real-life friends presented their complaints in story form, perhaps I would have liked it better too—listening or reading to something carefully thought out touches me at a greater intensity; there is more material, space, and more heart with which to connect. Why do we like movies and stories that make us cry? I’m not entirely certain, but there is something special to be said about both the story and the reader/listener when tears are shed.

            As for how mystery drives “U.F.O. in Kushiro”…I liked how there was not a single question to be pursued throughout the story, but several. What about the earthquakes triggered Komura’s wife to leave, why did she marry him in the first place, how did the women recognize Komura, and what was in the box? There was such an eerie, supernatural element to the story (helped by the U.F.O., of course, and only rendered stranger by the bell/bear/sex incident), that I actually found myself struck with a somewhat heart-stopping, a-ha! moment when Shimao tells Komura she knows what is in the box. Komura becomes so angry because he recognizes a sudden flash of truth in what Shimao said—he lacks something vitally human inside him—and I believed her for a similar second because that’s what the element of mystery in the story had primed for me; perhaps Shimao did possess mystical powers. “U.F.O.” is not the standard mystery or crime novel in which a specific case is neatly solved, so for me, the device of mystery served the story by opening up more avenues of interpretation regarding its message.