Satoshi Yagisawa "Days at the Morisaki Bookshop"
“I don’t think it really matters whether you know a lot about books or not… what matters far more with a book is how it affects you.”
A classic slice-of-life story about a Japanese woman faced with very typical (yet universally relatable) life circumstances—and her rather original way out of them. Honestly, this feels like a quiet dream for every overworked office employee in Japan: quitting everything and starting anew in a cozy little bookshop.
We follow the life of our main character, Takako, and along the way reflect on timeless themes: love, friendship, the meaning of life—but also more grounded questions: How do you survive heartbreak? How do you open up again? How do you feel accepted? What can you do when there’s seemingly nothing to be done? Where do you go when you’re at a dead end? And, most importantly—can a simple book help you decide your future?
Takako’s heart is broken. Jobless and in a depressive slump, she ends up moving into the second floor of her uncle’s used bookshop after some convincing. What follows is a gentle unfolding: we meet the shop’s regulars, the neighborhood characters, and the quiet rhythm of this tucked-away place. Each person she encounters nudges her toward change, and the books—her new best friends—remind her how complex and meaningful life can be.
Will this new environment help her heal? Pull her out of depression and apathy? And if it does—will that be the end of her story, or just the beginning?
Personally, I love books about small businesses—people building something for themselves and their local community, and feeling accomplished in the quiet sense, without chasing the next big goal or measuring success by others’ standards. That’s the perspective I often bring to stories like this, even if they aren’t explicitly about that.
And of course, being a story about a bookstore, we understand just how deeply books shape the lives of the people who enter.
The Morisaki Bookshop becomes a “third place,” a space where lives briefly intersect, change course (even just a little), and continue with a bit more clarity.
This is a warm, comforting, slightly melancholic, and very Japanese read. I recommend curling up with a blanket and a hot cocoa before you begin—and who knows, maybe you’ll unexpectedly find an answer to the question that’s been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.