UFO in Kushiro Response

            When was the last time you daydreamed about having a thoroughly uneventful day, where you woke up, went to class, did some work, and went to bed?  You’ve probably never had such a daydream; I know I haven’t.  Instead, you have daydreamed about the extremes of life, exploring the highs (What if he asked me out?  What if I won an Oscar?) and the lows (What if my dog died?  What if we broke up?).  The human imagination is drawn to the limits of our experiences, where we discover depths of emotion that we do not encounter in our everyday lives.  In a way, we use our imaginations to prepare ourselves for the most painful and ecstatic moments we will experience, to “practice” those feelings (thought they only become real when the events actually occur). 

            Reading about people who have terrible things happen to them, then, is an extension of our preparation for our own rough times.  When we read about the terrible grief Oroonoko felt at the death of Imoinda, we vicariously experience the same fraction of that pain that we would experience in our daydreams and can thus begin to (though certainly not fully) fathom some of the deepest pain a human being can experience.  We thus start to experience something deeply human that we may not have encountered before: pure emotion. 

            “UFO in Kushiro” is initially driven by mystery in the traditional sense, i.e. by the reader’s curiosity about certain unexplained events that he/she assumes will make sense by the end of the work.  However, as the pages turn and explanations remain lacking (the impetus for Komura’s wife leaving and the box’s contents are never revealed), the reader becomes disillusioned; this is not a traditional mystery that will have a tidy, clear ending.  The openness of the ending thus does not come as a surprise or disappointment; given the progression of the rest of the story, it feels inevitable. 

            What, then, compels the reader to keep going once they realize that this is not an event-driven mystery?  I would argue that mystery of the main character, Komura, is in fact the driving force behind the story.  When we first hear Komura’s wife’s description of him as “a chunk of air” (6), the reader is suddenly forced to realize how empty our protagonist is.  He is described in terms of his job, good looks, and sex life; after marriage, he is content with being nothing more than a likeable salesman.  Even his wife cannot muster higher praise than the bland descriptors of “good and kind and handsome” (6).  However, we are offered a tantalizing hint of the questions he asked before his marriage, alluding to the more intriguing and philosophical person that Komura once was.  We keep reading to see if that person will return now that his wife is gone and if that person will be more than a chunk of air.  This mystery, of who Komura is beyond his bland current self, begins to reach resolution at the end of the story.  After failing to have sex with Shimao, he begins to display emotion and personality for the first time.  He reflects on if a salmon made of nothing but skin still has something inside and displays emotions like curiosity and anger.  The reader is finally being given a view of Komura as more than a flat automaton; he is an angry and sad philosopher lost in himself.  Having begun to resolve that mystery of character, the story can end without completely disappointing the reader.  The ending thus wraps up the main question of the story; since there can be no beginning without an end, the story ends the life of the old, flat Komura and allows the old Komura to be “just at the beginning” (28).