Jessica Au

A mother and daughter travel from abroad to meet in Tokyo: they walk along the canals through the autumn evenings, escape the typhoon rains, share meals in small cafes and restaurants, and visit galleries to see some of the city's most radical modern art. All the while, they talk: about the weather, horoscopes, clothes, and objects, about family, distance, and memory. But uncertainties abound. Who is really speaking here - is it only the daughter? And what is the real reason behind this elliptical, perhaps even spectral journey? At once a careful reckoning and an elegy, Cold Enough for Snow questions whether any of us speak a common language, which dimensions can contain love, and what claim we have to truly know another's inner world.

Selected from more than 1,500 entries, “Cold Enough for Snow” won the Novel Prize, a new, biennial award offered by Fitzcarraldo Editions, New Directions (US) and Giramondo (Australia), for any novel written in English that explores and expands the possibilities of the form.

Cold Enough for Snow

Aina

Maybe it's good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy.

sundus

It was strange at once to be so familiar and yet so separated. I wondered how I could feel so at home in a place that was not mine.

The only question she'd asked once was whether, in winter, it was cold enough for snow, which she had never seen. 

I felt that nothing I had ever done had been alive in this way, but it seemed that I did not even know enough to ask the right questions. 

Dora Tominic

After a while, I was no longer cold, but only very tired. I had one vague, exhausted thought that perhaps it was all right not to understand all things, but simply to hold them.

At the inn, my mother was not in our room. I asked at the reception and the man there said that he had not seen her. He even went so far as to say that the room had only been booked for one person, me, not for two.

Rather, it was more like a rock that one might glimpse in the near distance: shaped just so by the wind or by rain or by time, such that its shallow angles and shadows represented a face in some inexplicable way, and so was all the more surprising and beautiful, because it was both an accident, and a symbol.

As soon as the train left the station, I felt a sense of relief. I wanted to walk in the woods and among the trees. I wanted not to speak to anyone, only to see and hear, to feel lonely.

And perhaps, I said to my mother, this too was what it had felt like to be in the earliest churches, when nature itself was still a force in the world, visceral and holy.

I was shocked, also, to learn that several of my classmates had already read these texts, and were familiar with their theories and interpretations. To them, the lecturer was not revelatory, but simply repeating ideas that were already very old. Not only that, they seemed to know many other things as well: films and books and plays and artists, whose names they dropped into conversation with an ease that signalled something. When a girl in my class spoke of a particular film in relation to Antigone, she did so smoothly and naturally, her eyes flicking across the room to see who else recognised this name. When her eyes went to me, I immediately looked down. How did they know all these people, all these works? How had they managed to read and watch so much in only the first few weeks of semester? The girl knew so much without needing to try, and she seemed complete, defined in some way that I wasn't.

But, witnessing her daughter, it was like remembering the details of a dream she once had, that perhaps, at some point in her life, there had been things worth screaming and crying over, some deeper truth, or even horror, that everyone around you perpetually denied, such that it only made you angrier and angrier. Yet now, my sister could not harness that feeling, only the memory of it, or not even that, but something even more remote.

They reminded me of the seasons and, in their bare, visible threads, of something lovely and honest that had now been forgotten, a thing we could only look at but no longer live.

anastasia

 Perhaps, I thought, my sister and I had grown up in a way that must have seemed equally foreign to my mother. Perhaps, over time, she found the past harder and harder to evoke, especially with no one to remember it with. Perhaps it was easier that way, so much so that after a while this new way became her habit, another thing she grew used to, like eating cereal for breakfast, or keeping your shoes on in other people's homes, or rarely speaking to another in your mother tongue.

In those moments I thought nothing, or if I thought at all it was unnameable. These moments never lasted; they were gone as quickly as they had come, so quickly I could never be sure that they had even happened. And then had to be on my way.

 I tried, and failed, to imagine her first months there. Had she been homesick? Had she been awed by the streets, the brick and weatherboard houses, so different to her own home? Had she been worn out not by the big changes, but, as is often the case, by countless smaller ones- the supermarkets that were so well stocked, but where you could not buy glass noodles, or the right kind of rice; the homes where porridge was something plain and tasteless, made with oats and milk instead of with thinly sliced scallions, bamboo shoots and black, hundred-year eggs; the roads where the people shouted at her from the cars when she crossed the street, for reasons she could not yet understand; the bank teller unable to understand her near-perfect, colonial English?

Back then, I had wanted every moment to count for something; I had become addicted to the tearing of my thoughts, that rent in the fabric of the atmosphere. If nothing seemed to be working towards this effect, I grew impatient, bored. Much later, I realised how insufferable this was: the need to make every moment pointed, to read meaning into everything.

Winner of the inaugural Novel Prize, an elegant and subtle exploration of the mysteries of our relationships to others

A mother and daughter travel from abroad to meet in Tokyo: they walk along the canals through the autumn evenings, escape the typhoon rains, share meals in small cafes and restaurants, and visit galleries to see some of the city’s most radical modern art. All the while, they talk: about the weather, horoscopes, clothes, and objects, about family, distance, and memory. But uncertainties abound. Who is really speaking here―is it only the daughter? And what is the real reason behind this elliptical, perhaps even spectral journey? At once a careful reckoning and an elegy, “Cold Enough for Snow” questions whether any of us speak a common language, which dimensions can contain love, and what claim we have to truly know another’s inner world.

Selected from more than 1,500 entries, “Cold Enough for Snow” won the Novel Prize, a new, biennial award offered by New Directions, Fitzcarraldo Editions (UK), and Giramondo (Australia), for any novel written in English that explores and expands the possibilities of the form.

Novel Ideas

He said that he remembered being down, the water rushing around his body, his face, his skull, but being oddly calm, thinking only that he should wait, wait and see what would happen next.

 I asked my mother what she believed about the soul and she thought for a moment. Then, looking not at me but at the hard, white light before us, she said that she believed that we were all essentially nothing, just series of sensations and desires, none of it lasting.

 Maybe it’s good, I said, to stop sometimes and reflect upon the things that have happened, maybe thinking about sadness can actually end up making you happy. 

Sarah Christine Gill

The last train was in forty minutes. I pulled the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and wrapped my arms around myself as I sat on the bench to wait. Eventually, I got up and bought a bottle of sake from one of the vending machines. It was clear and cold, tasting at first of alcohol and something vaguely sweet, before evaporating into nothing. 

On the mountains, I knew I was taking longer than I should. It was getting dark and everything ran, streaming towards the ground. And yet, even in my exhaustion, there was too a kind of sweetness. I thought of Laurie and of our many conversations about children. My lecturer had said to us once that parents were their children's fate, not only in the way of the tragedies, but in many smaller, no less powerful ways as well. I knew that if I had a daughter, she would live partly because of the way I had lived, and her memories would be my memories, and she would have no choice in that matter.

Cathy Trình

This was a novel about distance. Gaps that can never be bridged between us, context that is forever out of reach. "But all the same, I felt that there was somethine else, something fundamental, that I did not understand."

meillaya

I feel so many things about this book. Bukunya cukup membingungkan. Rasanya seperti berada dalam pikiran seseorang, and this someone is on their first life. Kayak banyak sekali isi pikirannya dan semua hal dipikirin, and it feels like they're being greedy about knowing something. Baca buku ini seperti lagi masuk ke dalam mimpi seseorang, alurnya seperti meloncat-loncat kesana kemari dan bikin buku ini menarik sekali.

Banyak banget pertanyaan-pertanyaan kecil dan pengamatan sehari-hari yang kesannya sepele, tapi lama-lama bikin mikir juga. Tokohnya tuh kayak lagi nyoba mengerti hidup, hubungan, dan dirinya sendiri, tapi semuanya terasa ngambang, gak pernah bener-bener ada jawaban pasti. Dan justru karena itu, bukunya terasa jujur sekali. Baca ini tuh kayak hanyut dalam pikiran yang tenang tapi dalem, kadang bikin mellow, kadang bikin mikir keras juga.

Perjalanan narrator bareng ibunya terasa sunyi, karena yang menarik justru apa yang gak diucapkan oleh narrator. Rasanya kayak narrator lagi coba nyambung sama ibunya lewat hal-hal kecil, sambil di dalam hatinya terus bertanya-tanya soal hubungan mereka, masa lalu, dan siapa mereka satu sama lain. Ada rasa sayang, tapi juga jarak, dan buku ini nunjukin itu dengan cara yang halus banget. There’s honestly too much things packed in this short novel. Yang suka mikir, yang suka filosofi, pasti suka buku ini!

I feel so many things about this book. Bukunya cukup membingungkan. Rasanya seperti berada dalam pikiran seseorang, and this someone is on their first life. Kayak banyak sekali isi pikirannya dan semua hal dipikirin, and it feels like they're being greedy about knowing something. Baca buku ini seperti lagi masuk ke dalam mimpi seseorang, alurnya seperti meloncat-loncat kesana kemari dan bikin buku ini menarik sekali.

Banyak banget pertanyaan-pertanyaan kecil dan pengamatan sehari-hari yang kesannya sepele, tapi lama-lama bikin mikir juga. Tokohnya tuh kayak lagi nyoba mengerti hidup, hubungan, dan dirinya sendiri, tapi semuanya terasa ngambang, gak pernah bener-bener ada jawaban pasti. Dan justru karena itu, bukunya terasa jujur sekali. Baca ini tuh kayak hanyut dalam pikiran yang tenang tapi dalem, kadang bikin mellow, kadang bikin mikir keras juga.

Perjalanan narrator bareng ibunya terasa sunyi, karena yang menarik justru apa yang gak diucapkan oleh narrator. Rasanya kayak narrator lagi coba nyambung sama ibunya lewat hal-hal kecil, sambil di dalam hatinya terus bertanya-tanya soal hubungan mereka, masa lalu, dan siapa mereka satu sama lain. Ada rasa sayang, tapi juga jarak, dan buku ini nunjukin itu dengan cara yang halus banget. There’s honestly too much things packed in this short novel. Yang suka mikir, yang suka filosofi, pasti suka buku ini!

lovely and reflective. cold enough for snow is a short yet deeply layered novella that explores human emotions, relationships, and the essence of loneliness. nothing about this felt simple to me, and i truly believe there is something for everyone in it. for such a short read, it took me an embarrassingly long time to finish—not because it was difficult, but because i couldn't help but pause, again and again, to sit with my thoughts.

reading this made me feel lighter. it made me want to hug my mom and my sisters. it made me feel like i was a step closer to understanding the things in me i can't quite grasp yet. reading this felt like home. most importantly, it made me feel seen.

an immigrant mother and her daughter, their surface-level conversations and interactions slowly unravel to reveal who they are when they are alone and when they come together. it is through the mundane that we truly come to see them. i love how certain pauses in their dialogue and interactions give way to reflective moments from the narrator, allowing the reader to form their own impression of their relationship.

in addition, the descriptions of the senses and the allusions to the weather made this reading experience even more enchanting. my most contemplative moments always seem to come right before a shift in the weather. the moments before snowfall or a thunderstorm feel like the entire world is holding its breath. this book captures that feeling perfectly. an enchanting read.

lovely and reflective. cold enough for snow is a short yet deeply layered novella that explores human emotions, relationships, and the essence of loneliness. nothing about this felt simple to me, and i truly believe there is something for everyone in it. for such a short read, it took me an embarrassingly long time to finish—not because it was difficult, but because i couldn't help but pause, again and again, to sit with my thoughts.

reading this made me feel lighter. it made me want to hug my mom and my sisters. it made me feel like i was a step closer to understanding the things in me i can't quite grasp yet. reading this felt like home. most importantly, it made me feel seen.

an immigrant mother and her daughter, their surface-level conversations and interactions slowly unravel to reveal who they are when they are alone and when they come together. it is through the mundane that we truly come to see them. i love how certain pauses in their dialogue and interactions give way to reflective moments from the narrator, allowing the reader to form their own impression of their relationship.

in addition, the descriptions of the senses and the allusions to the weather made this reading experience even more enchanting. my most contemplative moments always seem to come right before a shift in the weather. the moments before snowfall or a thunderstorm feel like the entire world is holding its breath. this book captures that feeling perfectly. an enchanting read.


Emma Bose

“After a while, I was no longer cold, but only very tired. I had one vague, exhausted thought that perhaps it was all right not to understand all things, but simply to see and hold them.”

azliana aziz

so much of this felt like someone took a magnifying glass into my brain.

I wish I had read this in one sitting. I felr the potential of strength, I just couldn't keep up because of the everyday life practicalities.

Blue and yellow of morning/winter light and shadow is what comes to mind. The mum's living for others reminds me of what is passed down among women in my family too. The only thing that comes naturally. I was so drawn to that little moment where the person in the hotel, when she asks about her mom, tells her she is there alone.

Disclaimer: this is not a review.

I wish I had read this in one sitting. I felr the potential of strength, I just couldn't keep up because of the everyday life practicalities.

Blue and yellow of morning/winter light and shadow is what comes to mind. The mum's living for others reminds me of what is passed down among women in my family too. The only thing that comes naturally. I was so drawn to that little moment where the person in the hotel, when she asks about her mom, tells her she is there alone.

charisa

4.5 rounded up! this felt very much like a study in observation — not only of objects (art! cups! plates! Greek texts! kimonos!), but also of relationships and human emotion. we follow the thoughts of a somewhat emotionally detached narrator, deconstructing her past and her relationship with her mother through softened memories and the framework of a shared trip to tokyo. i think "wandering" would be the best word to describe this novel.

Gia Palamos

Trish

Linda LaSalle

Really liked the central idea here which is, I think, about a child now grown trying to understand their parent as an adult and wanting their parent to 'get' them in return. Think this works really well framed by a trip the narrator has planned for her and her mother to take together, the contemplative pace and miniscule foreground detail of scenes as she attempts to find connections and meaning. Also: novella! A great and well-judged length for this story. 

...because! The detail level, which I get is the whole point, gets a bit repetitive and might have gotten unbearable in a longer book. Perhaps it could have been even shorter! Overall though, really enjoyed it and look forward to reading more Jessica Au!! 

Really liked the central idea here which is, I think, about a child now grown trying to understand their parent as an adult and wanting their parent to 'get' them in return. Think this works really well framed by a trip the narrator has planned for her and her mother to take together, the contemplative pace and miniscule foreground detail of scenes as she attempts to find connections and meaning. Also: novella! A great and well-judged length for this story. 

...because! The detail level, which I get is the whole point, gets a bit repetitive and might have gotten unbearable in a longer book. Perhaps it could have been even shorter! Overall though, really enjoyed it and look forward to reading more Jessica Au!! 

Fraser Simons

Sweet, sweet interiority. Plot seekers beware. This is a story of a child going on a trip with her mother to Tokyo and spending time together, primarily in a museum. And that’s if. Except that because of the interiority being so granular, it becomes a human experience. It is slow and rich and rhythmic, controlling the pace with sentence variation. 

The prose themselves are remarkable for their simplicity and, at key moments, dolling out specificity while otherwise being primarily accessible, clear, and concise. Once the style is situated the author deftly has the thoughts of the character analyze with verisimilitude the events that ought to be mundane, but when informed by the granularity of thoughts and the connects—especially to the art she is consuming—heighten the experience to a human, and universal one. 

It also does something I really like in my literature: placing, in a casual manner, exactly what the book is about in a way that makes a reader paying attention realize it, while the narrator does not. It creates a truism where every person, when framed and analyzed and voiced properly, becomes infinitely interesting and worthy of contribution to the general intellect. Then parallels it with the nourishing or enriching properties of consuming and being critical of art. Which, of course, this is as well.

Masterfully handled, I must say. Will be looking out for more from this author in the future.

Winner of the inaugural Novel Prize, an elegant and subtle exploration of the mysteries of our relationships to others

A mother and daughter travel from abroad to meet in Tokyo: they walk along the canals through the autumn evenings, escape the typhoon rains, share meals in small cafes and restaurants, and visit galleries to see some of the city’s most radical modern art. All the while, they talk: about the weather, horoscopes, clothes, and objects, about family, distance, and memory. But uncertainties abound. Who is really speaking here—is it only the daughter? And what is the real reason behind this elliptical, perhaps even spectral journey? At once a careful reckoning and an elegy, “Cold Enough for Snow” questions whether any of us speak a common language, which dimensions can contain love, and what claim we have to truly know another’s inner world.

Selected from more than 1,500 entries, Cold Enough for Snow won the Novel Prize, a new, biennial award offered by New Directions, Fitzcarraldo Editions (UK), and Giramondo (Australia), for any novel written in English that explores and expands the possibilities of the form.

Mario Menti 

An extremely moving novella - meditative, opaque, and yet full of very precise and beautiful observations; of nature, of everyday objects and scenes, of people, and of art. On the face of it a tale of a young woman and her mother visiting Japan together, it gets less and less clear how much of this story is actually real and how much is imagined.
There's a sentence towards the end almost explicitly warning you not to believe what you're reading, comparing writing to a painter painting over what was previously there: 

"It was only in this way that one could go back and change the past, to make things not as they were, but as we wished they had been, or rather as we saw it. I said, for this reason, it was better for her not to trust anything she read."

Au also manages some wonderful descriptions of Japan, that almost physically took me back there:

"The streets were so small that there were often no footpaths but rather white lines drawn on the asphalt to indicate where you could walk. Occasionally, we’d pass a cluster of convenience stores and small shops and coffee houses, which you could always spot at a distance by their brightly coloured vertical signs."

And about learning Japanese:

"I thought of learning Japanese, how childlike I still felt in the language, how I was capable only of asking for the simplest things. And yet, I persisted, because I dreamed one day of being able to say more. I thought of the instances when I had been able to converse in a string of sentences, like with the woman at the bookshop, and how good this had felt, how electric."

jiaqi kang

"[…] my boyfriend at the time […] was dedicated and had a chiselled face […]. He always worked hard at his studies and went to the gym regularly, and nothing about him offended me, and yet, I felt like we were essentially strangers. […] I thought that if I tried hard enough my effort would become real happiness, and then I would finally be able to stop having these thoughts. […] I had the vague thought I had been taught somehow that the best thing was still to be desired, even if you did not desire, even if you did not much like the person who desired you. Where I had learned this, I did not yet know."

GIRL IT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A LESBIAN. THAT DESIRE TO BE DESIRED THAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT IS COMPULSORY HETEROSEXUALITY. YOU ARE GAY.

Mother and daughter embark on a short holiday in Japan. Beautifully written, it is easy to see why this is an award winning novella. 
I got the feeling like I was reading the journal of the unnamed daughter but not in a invasive way. Her thought patterns felt jolty but really familiar, I felt I knew her every memory, or was her,  but also knew nothing about her. The book doesn't really have any dialogue, however it didn't feel like it was missing. 

This writing style is new to me, I am not sure if I absolutely love it, or the opposite, but I didnt want to stop reading it. It really captured a gentle moment of the connection and disconnection between mother and daughter

Cold Enough for Snow

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