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A review by tidestomoon
The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World by Laura Imai Messina
4.0
Some books are stories. Others are experiences. The Phone Box at the Edge of the World is the kind that sits with you quietly and then leaves you changed when you’re finished with it.
This book is beautiful. Not because it hides away from grief but because it leans into it. It’s beautiful in the way people manage to smile again after heartbreak. Beautiful in the way Yui and the people around her find slivers of joy in everyday life, through conversation, through talking into the receiver of the phone booth and sometimes, just by sitting still and breathing in the world. The writing itself feels like walking through mist. There’s hope tangled in the sorrow.
But this book is also ugly. Ugly in the sense that it shows us reality. There is no sugarcoating the weight of grief here. The deaths feel real. The disasters are real. The silence between characters is loud. You’re reminded again and again that this story is rooted in truth. It carries the sharpness of real life, and the grief doesn’t disappear just because the page turns.
The writing also makes this book truly special. Written in third’s person’s point of view, it doesn’t follow the usual rhythm. One moment you’re reading Yui’s thoughts in the present, the next you’re pulled into someone else’s past or a memory. If you lose focus for even a few seconds, you might forget whose story you’re in. But that’s the point. Grief isn’t linear. You have to pay attention just like you have to pay attention to healing.
I also loved the structure. There are long chapters, but in between there are short chapters written in the form of memories perhaps. One of my favourites is the chapter where the characters buy various kinds of chocolatey sweets during their journey back to Tokyo, just to distract themselves. Something about it felt so human. I actually got up and grabbed a chocolate of my own, just to share their experience.
Every tiny detail in this book matters. The phone box itself, perched on the edge of the world is a real place. People go there to speak to the ones they have lost. Not to hear them, but to be heard. And through that act, they somehow begin to listen to themselves again.
The ending is gentle. It doesn't shout its message but it breathes it into you. Love doesn't vanish when someone dies. It changes. It lingers. It shows up in the people we meet after, in the words we carry forward, in the lives we begin to rebuild.
And if you really want to feel everything this book gives, I recommend listening to “Agape" by Nicholas Britell after you finish the last page. That piece of music captures what this book is.
And finally, here’s one of the quotes I adored in the book.
“Yui came to understand that there was always joy somewhere within unhappiness. That inside each of us we preserve the fingerprints of those who taught us how to love, how to be both happy and unhappy in equal measure; of those who explained how to differentiate between feelings and how to navigate the overlap, the areas that make us suffer, but that also make us different. Different and special.”
This book is beautiful. Not because it hides away from grief but because it leans into it. It’s beautiful in the way people manage to smile again after heartbreak. Beautiful in the way Yui and the people around her find slivers of joy in everyday life, through conversation, through talking into the receiver of the phone booth and sometimes, just by sitting still and breathing in the world. The writing itself feels like walking through mist. There’s hope tangled in the sorrow.
But this book is also ugly. Ugly in the sense that it shows us reality. There is no sugarcoating the weight of grief here. The deaths feel real. The disasters are real. The silence between characters is loud. You’re reminded again and again that this story is rooted in truth. It carries the sharpness of real life, and the grief doesn’t disappear just because the page turns.
The writing also makes this book truly special. Written in third’s person’s point of view, it doesn’t follow the usual rhythm. One moment you’re reading Yui’s thoughts in the present, the next you’re pulled into someone else’s past or a memory. If you lose focus for even a few seconds, you might forget whose story you’re in. But that’s the point. Grief isn’t linear. You have to pay attention just like you have to pay attention to healing.
I also loved the structure. There are long chapters, but in between there are short chapters written in the form of memories perhaps. One of my favourites is the chapter where the characters buy various kinds of chocolatey sweets during their journey back to Tokyo, just to distract themselves. Something about it felt so human. I actually got up and grabbed a chocolate of my own, just to share their experience.
Every tiny detail in this book matters. The phone box itself, perched on the edge of the world is a real place. People go there to speak to the ones they have lost. Not to hear them, but to be heard. And through that act, they somehow begin to listen to themselves again.
The ending is gentle. It doesn't shout its message but it breathes it into you. Love doesn't vanish when someone dies. It changes. It lingers. It shows up in the people we meet after, in the words we carry forward, in the lives we begin to rebuild.
And if you really want to feel everything this book gives, I recommend listening to “Agape" by Nicholas Britell after you finish the last page. That piece of music captures what this book is.
And finally, here’s one of the quotes I adored in the book.
“Yui came to understand that there was always joy somewhere within unhappiness. That inside each of us we preserve the fingerprints of those who taught us how to love, how to be both happy and unhappy in equal measure; of those who explained how to differentiate between feelings and how to navigate the overlap, the areas that make us suffer, but that also make us different. Different and special.”