Cherry Blossom Eyes by S.T. Cartledge
Rating: 8.5/10
“The sun came up a cherry blossom and burst its rose gold light into the sky.” – Opening line
The Orphanarium by S.T. Cartledge (my review here) is among my favorite bizarro novels and one of the most unique books I have ever read. So I was eager to dive into his surreal Young Adult (YA) novella Cherry Blossom Eyes. Contained within this tiny book (130 pages in large font), I found the same poetic brilliance as in his latter work. Cartledge possesses a gift. He can take the process of reading a book and turn it into a dream, where you’re unsure where the words end and the subconscious begins.
It all starts on the picturesque Isle of Flowers, an island of warm cherry blossoms and cold lotuses. Here we find Margot and Blanko—two inseparable friends who have come of age this year. They can now witness the ceremonies of the adults, revolving around the “tourists” that haunt their shores. These are, in fact, faceless inhuman creatures with fins and glossy black skin. By touching a human, a tourist can assume their appearance, sending ripples of fear and paranoia among the islanders.
Cherry Blossom Eyes starts as the search for who is and who isn’t a tourist, but becomes something far more complex and deep. Despite my adoration of Cartledge’s work, the YA label made me hesitate. I soon learned, however, that the age level took away none of the power of Cartledge’s words, nor the beauty they created. The theme was simpler, but nonetheless potent. The book’s commentary on xenophobia and identity was a whisper, rather than a conk on the head.
Ultimately, despite its beautiful construction and poetic prose, Cherry Blossom Eyes isn’t my type of story. The beginning was slow—too slow even for me. I imagine if I was a casual reader and unfamiliar with Cartledge’s work, I may have procrastinated in reading it. I’m glad I didn’t, for the ending made it all worth it.
You can find Cherry Blossom Eyes on Amazon or at your local independent bookstore.
I interview S.T. Cartledge here.
Tchau,
Zé
Zé Burns | Blog 
Joe, my computer lost your email address but I thought you might enjoy this letter. Staying at home has never been a problem for most persons â Dad must have passed a hermit gene to most of â so I imagine you happily sitting at your desk writing odd stories and interesting reviews. Love from your auntie Kathleen Letters of Note – Am I really writing it at all?
Am I really writing it at all? Posted: 18 Apr 2020 09:27 AM PDT Author Raymond Chandler was born in Chicago in 1888, and to this day remains one of the greats in the world of crime fiction thanks to his creation of Philip Marlowe, the hardboiled detective who stars in many of his stories: The Big Sleep (1939), Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The High Window (1942), The Lady in the Lake (1943), The Little Sister (1949), The Long Goodbye (1953) and Playback (1958). Had you approached Chandlerâs desk at any point during the writing process of these books, chances are you would have spotted Taki, his Persian cat, keeping him company. In March of 1945 Chandler wrote to the associate editor of The Atlantic Monthly, Charles Morton, to introduce him. (This letter appears in Letters of Note: Cats, a compulsive collection of the worldâs most entertaining, inspiring and powerful letters with cats at their heart. In the accompanying audiobook, this letter is read by Ferdinand Kingsley. Photo: Raymond Chandler and his cat, Taki, by John Engstead.) The Letter Paramount Pictures Inc. 5451 Marathon Street Hollywood 38, Calif. March 19, 1945 Dear Charles: A man named Inkstead took some pictures of me for Harperâs Bazaar a while ago (I never quite found out why) and one of me holding my secretary in my lap came out very well indeed. When I get the dozen I have ordered Iâll send you one. The secretary, I should perhaps add, is a black Persian cat, 14 years old, and I call her that because she has been around me ever since I began to write, usually sitting on the paper I wanted to use or the copy I wanted to revise, sometimes leaning up against the typewriter and sometimes just quietly gazing out of the window from a corner of the desk, as much as to say, âThe stuff youâre doingâs a waste of my time, bud.â Her name is Taki (it was originally Take, but we got tired of explaining that this was a Japanese word meaning bamboo and should be pronounced in two syllables), and she has a memory like no elephant ever even tried to have. She is usually politely remote, but once in a while will get an argumentative spell and talk back for ten minutes at a time. I wish I knew what she is trying to say then, but I suspect it all adds up to a very sarcastic version of âYou can do better.â Iâve been a cat lover all my life (have nothing against dogs except that they need such a lot of entertaining) and have never quite been able to understand them. Taki is a completely poised animal and always knows who likes cats, never goes near anybody that doesnât, always walks straight up to anyone, however lately arrived and completely unknown to her, who really does. She doesnât spend a great deal of time with them, however, just takes a moderate amount of petting and strolls off. She has another curious trick (which may or may not be rare) of never killing anything. She brings em back alive and lets you take them away from her. She has brought into the house at various times such things as a dove, a blue parakeet, and a large butterfly. The butterfly and the parakeet were entirely unharmed and carried on just as though nothing had happened. The dove gave her a little trouble, apparently not wanting to be carried around, and had a small spot of blood on its breast. But we took it to a bird man and it was all right very soon. Just a bit humiliated. Mice bore her, but she catches them if they insist and then I have to kill them. She has a sort of tired interest in gophers, and will watch a gopher hole with some attention, but gophers bite and after all who the hell wants a gopher anyway? So she just pretends she might catch one, if she felt like it. She goes with us wherever we go journeying, remembers all the places she has been to before and is usually quite at home anywhere. One or two places have got herâI donât know why. She just wouldnât settle down in them. After a while we know enough to take the hint. Chances are there was an axe murder there once and weâre much better somewhere else. The guy might come back. Sometimes she looks at me with a rather peculiar expression (she is the only cat I know who will look you straight straight in the eye) and I have a suspicion that she is keeping a diary, because the expression seems to be saying: âBrother, you think youâre pretty good most of the time, donât you? I wonder how youâd feel if I decided to publish some of the stuff Iâve been putting down at odd moments.â At certain times she has a trick of holding one paw up loosely and looking at it in a speculative manner. My wife thinks she is suggesting we get her a wrist watch; she doesnât need it for any practical reasonâshe can tell the time better than I canâbut after all you gotta have some jewelry. I donât know why Iâm writing all this. It must be I couldnât think of anything else, orâthis is where it gets creepyâam I really writing it at all? Could it be thatâno, it must be me. Say itâs me. Iâm scared. Ray
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