To the casual observer, it is chaos; commuters packed shoulder-to-shoulder amid the constant clatter of arriving and departing trains. But a closer look reveals something more beneath the surface: A station may be packed, yet commuters move smoothly along concourses and platforms. Platforms are a whirl of noisy activity, yet trains maintain remarkable on-time performance. Indeed, the staggering punctuality of the Japanese rail system occasionally becomes the focus of international headlines—as on May 11, when West Japan Railways issued a florid apology after one of its commuter trains left the station 25 seconds early.
Tokyo is home to the world’s busiest train stations, with the capital’s rail operators handling a combined 13 billion passenger trips annually. Ridership of that volume requires a deft blend of engineering, planning, and psychology. Beneath the bustle, unobtrusive features are designed to unconsciously manipulate passenger behavior, via light, sound, and other means. Japan’s boundless creativity in this realm reflects the deep consideration given to public transportation in the country.
Above all else, it was my passive state that I grappled with the most. The accident may have stripped me of my ability to work with my hands, but not my desire to create with them. As I lay on the couch, day after day, I would scroll through my food-themed Instagram, pore over cookbooks and binge-watch “The Great British Bake Off.” I longed to lose myself in the production process of what I saw. Once, in January, I was left in tears after an evening in which my family made, and we all ate, Georgian soup dumplings. I, too, wanted to work the rounds of dough — to fill and pleat my own little purses of soup, meat and happiness. To do so, however, required both hands. I just sat there and looked on, maddened and disheartened.
Yet, the same creative urge that left me frustrated propelled me into the kitchen again. I needed to push back against the passivity, for sanity’s sake. A few weeks after the accident, on New Year’s, I discovered that, with the help of a stand mixer and nearby helpers, simple cakes were within my reach. Giant black-splint in tow, I barked orders more than carried them out. I nonetheless felt proud when, out of the oven, our spiced apple torte emerged: a smashing success if we hadn’t accidentally burned it. A month and a half later, an inspired act of self-love on Valentine’s Day motivated me to attempt another cake. This time, a perfectly baked success with blueberries, hazelnuts and ricotta. Aside from the zesting and chopping, I managed the feat completely and proudly on my own.
But Goodall’s case and the right-to-die movement have their critics, in both the religious and the secular sphere. And end-of-life debates more generally — whether they’re instances of suicide like Goodall’s or controversial cases like that of terminally ill UK infant Alfie Evans, whose parents lost the fight to keep him on life support — raise vital questions for which we, as a society, do not have fully articulated answers.
Who has the right to end a life — and why? And what does it mean to make assumptions that a life is, or is not, worth living? At what point do the sometimes competing ideas of “best interest,” individual freedom, and the inherent goodness of life overlap, and where do they contradict each other? And what does the increasing medicalization of death say about our attitude to life?
When I’m on vacation, I try to read books set in the place I’m visiting or, if not set there exactly, at least evocative of the mood of the place. These often set the tone of my stay, the restaurants I choose or the ways I spend my time. It’s easy on vacation to change plans because of a book and pretend I never made them to begin with. I recently visited New York for the first time in nearly a decade and was spoiled for choice—I bought too many books set there and lived inside the world I was reading about, despite the fact that the real version of that world was right outside the window.
The artist has time, but no money. The consumer has money, but no time.