One of the most powerful exchanges happens between Natsuko and Yuriko, whose biological father was an anonymous sperm donor: They won't do anything for their kids or families if it means sacrificing their own comfort, but they go out in the world and act all big, like I'm such a good dad, such a provider. Meanwhile, Midoriko’s journal betrays her fear and outrage at the concept and the biology of womanhood, and how it defines the modern woman. Midoriko scrawls with white hot aggression about menstruation, breast growth, and child bearing. The meetings that disorient Natsuko, however, are with two acquaintances whose biological fathers were anonymous sperm donors. Aizawa was raised by a father he loved; Yuriko was raised by a paedophile whose horrific abuse has robbed her of all well-being. Every decision to bring a child into this ugly existence, Yuriko argues, is an act of violence. “Nobody should be doing this,” she tells Natsuko, adding, “You know what makes you think doing that’s okay? … whoever the child is, the one who lives and dies consumed with pain, could never be you.” Yuriko’s words reverberate throughout Breasts and Eggs as Kawakami places birth itself under scrutiny. We are thrown into a world that surrounds us with its netting; some flourish, others suffocate. My life was life a dusty shelf in a old bookstore, where every volume was exactly where it had been for ages, the only discernible change being that my body has aged another ten ages.”

The first section of the novel, set in 2008, revolves around a rare visit by her considerably (almost a decade) older sister, Makiko, and Makiko's daughter, Midoriko, to Tokyo. Midoriko has, for several months now, been entirely mute around her mother, writing her notes if she has to communicate, and otherwise writing in her journal (much of which we get to read) and reportedly behaving completely ordinarily when at school. Interspersed with Natsuko's narrative in this first part of the novel are excerpts from this journal, which Natsuko comes to read, giving more insight into what is going on in Midoriko's head -- a lot of which has to do with what is going on with her body. What does being a mother mean? Who has the right to bring a life into this world? Is motherhood a selfish act and, if it is, is it wrong to be selfish? What does a child feel about being born? These were the questions Breasts and Eggs forced me to think about. It’s complicated, is the basic answer to the situations Kawakami throws at the reader; but what a superb job she does of portraying that complexity in full and thorough detail. Some characters make a compelling argument that having children at all is a vain and narcissistic act; an inherent act of violence against the child who never asked to be brought into a world of misery and pain. Does the possibility that a child might love their life justify the gamble, or the sorrow of all those who experience lives of pain, misery and deprivation?The translation is mostly solid, though there are occasional ... unusual choices (most notably: tchotchke, which surely has no place in any Japanese novel not set in a Jewish milieu). The issue of womanhood is more universal, and Kawakami's take is particularly intriguing with her de-sexualized protagonist.

She hasn't had sex since her relationship with Naruse ended, and she has no interest in trying again. This is perhaps the greatest thematic strength of Breasts and Eggs: perspectives on womanhood and motherhood. Mieko Kawakami explored womanhood in a visceral and agry way with Book One.In her quest, she meets a handful of unique characters and also experiences a morphing of her current relationship, most notably that which she shares with her literary agent. In Book Two, Natsuko is our protagonist. But, even still, she is being batted about by her experiences and by the people who surround her. She moves from phone call to meeting to dinner date to phone call, always in conversation with someone, rarely alone unless she is on her way to meet someone.