Happy Wednesday, everyone! Wednesdays also mean WWW Wednesday updates. WWW Wednesday is a bookish meme hosted originally by SAM@TAKING ON A WORLD OF WORDS. 

The mechanics for WWW Wednesday are quite simple: you just have to answer three questions:

  1. What are you currently reading?
  2. What have you finished reading?
  3. What will you read next?
www-wednesdays
What are you currently reading?

It is already the middle of the week—well, it’s already Thursday. Yet again, it’s a late WWW Wednesday update. Haha. Nevertheless, how has your week been? I hope it’s going well and heading in your desired direction. Woah. Time is indeed flying fast! We’ve already crossed the midpoint of the year, which also means I’m about to become a year older. I hope the year has been going well for everyone. I hope you’re being showered with blessings and good news. May the rest of the year be prosperous—brimming with wealth, but more importantly, with good physical and mental health. I hope everyone is already making progress on their goals. If the year has gone otherwise, I hope you’ll experience a reversal of fortune in the months to come. In terms of reading, I am well ahead of my goal, but I’ve been lagging behind in my reading challenges. As such, my focus in the second half of the year will be on catching up with those.

After spending the first six months of the year reading exclusively works by Asian writers, I’m now pivoting towards European literature. I’ve commenced this journey with Abigail, my second novel by Magda Szabó. I first encountered the Hungarian writer in 2019. The Door was a memorable experience, prompting me to look forward to reading more of her work. Earlier this year, I came across Abigail, and when I learned it was written by Szabó, I immediately knew I wanted to read it. Originally published in Hungarian in 1970, the novel charts the adventures of Georgina “Gina” Vitay, the daughter of a general. Her story begins when she moves from the capital to the fictional town of Árkod in the easternmost part of Hungary. There, she is to attend the Matula Institute, a traditionally Calvinist school.

Gina is essentially the odd one out at school. She didn’t endear herself to the other girls when, on just her second day, she exposed them to the headmaster. As the story progresses, we begin to learn why her father sent her to this obscure school. But who is the titular Abigail? Apparently, she is a statue in the garden—named Abigail by the schoolgirls. However, she is more than just a statue; she is surrounded by legends and stories. The girls write her letters, which the statue-cum-mystery figure mysteriously responds to and resolves. So far, it’s an interesting read and offers a different dimension of Szabó’s oeuvre. I’m already halfway through the book, and I’m looking forward to seeing how it unfolds—particularly the mystery surrounding Abigail.

What have you finished reading?

I ended June with something of a bang. Thanks to the momentum I built toward the second half of the month, I was able to complete two books in the past week. The first of these is by a writer whose oeuvre I had not previously explored. It was only recently that I came across Sabahattin Ali. Through online booksellers, I discovered his most beloved work, Madonna in a Fur Coat. Apparently, this was the book that earned him several accolades. Beyond his literary achievements, Ali was also a prominent activist who, at several points in his career, was arrested for works deemed libelous. He was ultimately murdered in April 1948, though his case never fully reached a conclusion. All of this piqued my curiosity about his body of work, and Madonna in a Fur Coat seemed like the perfect springboard.

Originally published in 1943 as Kürk Mantolu Madonna, Madonna in a Fur Coat transports readers to pre–Second World War Ankara. At the heart of the story is Raif Efendi. His tale begins when the unnamed narrator—unemployed and living in poverty—gains employment at a firm after being recommended by a friend. There, he shares an office with Efendi, an unassuming man who had worked at the company for years but had never advanced professionally. Despite his quiet demeanor, Efendi intrigues his new colleague. When the narrator visits Raif during an illness, Raif asks him to destroy a notebook hidden in a drawer. However, he first grants the narrator permission to read it—on the condition that it is destroyed afterward. The contents of this notebook form the backbone of the novel. Ten years earlier, Raif had been in Berlin, sent by his father to learn soap making (his family owned a soap manufacturing business that he was expected to inherit). But in Berlin, Raif became more interested in reading and wandering than in factories. During one of his gallery visits, he came across a painting he referred to as Madonna in a Fur Coat.

The painting was a self-portrait by Maria Puder, whom he would later meet during one of his nightly outings. Hoping to see her again, Raif continued visiting the same place—and his efforts paid off. They became good friends and began spending more time together. It was a fated encounter between two delicate and sensitive souls, though their relationship felt more platonic than romantic. Still, it was fate that eventually pulled them apart. Brimming with melancholy and regret for lost love and missed moments, Madonna in a Fur Coat is a story of opportunities that slipped away. It was a quick read—one I wished had lasted longer, thanks to the beauty of Ali’s writing and the emotions that reverberate through every page.

Concluding my foray into Asian literature is another work from one of my favorite literary traditions: Japanese literature. Over time, Japanese literature has emerged as perhaps my favorite part of the literary world. It has introduced me to several unforgettable writers—among them, Kōbō Abe. A true staple of the region, Abe was first introduced to me through numerous “must-read” lists. The Woman in the Dunes, a recurring presence on such lists, was my first encounter with his work. It was, to say the least, an intriguing read. I would say the same for Kangaroo Notebook, although its grotesqueness can be quite discomfiting.

Now, I return with yet another book by Abe—born Kimifusa Abe—titled The Ruined Map, which offers yet another dimension of his unique literary voice. Originally published in 1967 as 燃え尽きた地図 (Moetsukita chizu), the novel masquerades as a work of detective and mystery fiction. The story is narrated by an anonymous detective from the T______ Detective Agency. His services are engaged by a beautiful but alcoholic woman whose husband, Hiroshi Nemuro, has been missing for six months. Nemuro, a 34-year-old section head at a fuel wholesaler, vanished without a trace. But the long delay in hiring a detective raises questions—why wait so long? What are the real intentions behind locating Nemuro now? The only clue provided by Nemuro’s wife is a map—the titular “ruined map.” His brother-in-law adds that Nemuro was a skilled mechanic who bought broken-down cars, repaired them, and sold them at a profit. With the cryptic map as his guide, the detective begins his search. But the map, he quickly realizes, barely makes any sense. Of course, this is Abe’s world—one where very little does. One must wade through the hodgepodge.

Along the way, we also learn about the detective himself. He is essentially a drifter. This realization turns the novel from a straightforward mystery into something far more introspective—an existentialist narrative, in line with Abe’s other works. The detective drinks heavily, is experiencing marital troubles, and even admits that his powers of observation aren’t exactly brilliant. Still, he is determined to find Nemuro. Will he ever get to the bottom of the case? But it’s not just the detective who is lost. Most of the characters in The Ruined Map are adrift in one way or another. What’s fascinating about the novel is its gradual transformation—from a mystery story into a psychological exploration. Abe is often a polarizing writer, but The Ruined Map gave me yet another window into his thought-provoking, unsettling oeuvre.

What will you read next?