Hunchback is a bold exploration of identity, desire and societal boundaries.
Shaka, a woman born with a congenital muscle disorder, navigates life from her care home while expressing herself through online platforms.
Her world takes an interesting turn when a new carer reveals he has read her raw and unapologetic online writings, leading to an unexpected and daring proposal.
I found this pretty heavy reading this weekend.
However, I appreciated it's bravery, boldness and sometimes uncomfortable moments.
💔 Hunchback is not just a story about disability,It’s as much about breaking free from societal expectations as it is about embracing one’s own desires and vulnerabilities.
🎭 Perfect for readers who appreciate morally complex characters and stories that push the boundaries of conventional storytelling.

Saou Ichikawa is the first disabled author to win the prestigious Akutagawa prize. The protagonist of her prize-winning novella, Hunchback, translated from the Japanese by Polly Barton, is Shaka, a woman who shares the same disability as the author herself: myotubular myopathy—a condition where the muscles can’t grow, preventing heart and lungs from maintaining normal oxygen saturation levels. The parallels between Shaka and the author don’t stop there but Hunchback is far from autobiographical. According to Ichikawa’s own calculations, only about 30% of the plot is based on her life; a mathematical balance that lends true authenticity to the writing, while also leaving plenty of room to push the boundaries of what the characters can say or do. And it is this blending of fact and fiction that allows debut author Ichikawa to engage in the interesting philosophical quandaries that Hunchback posits, offering a nuanced and transgressive take on disability rights, sexuality, bodily autonomy, and class. In a society that largely ignores the existence of disabled people, Hunchback demands to be heard and serves as a start to a much larger conversation about how to reconcile the freedom of choice with the freedom to a dignified life—and who gets to define what that means.


In less than 120 pages, Hunchback covers vast thematic ground in an impressive show of economy and precision. Ichikawa sets a racy pace right from the beginning. Opening with a chapter titled “My Steamy Threesome with Super-Sexy Students in One of Tokyo’s Most Sought-After Swingers’ Clubs (Part I),” Ichikawa throws the reader into one of Shaka’s many online worlds—one in which she writes erotica under the pseudonym of Buddha, lives in Nirvana, and pens content for an adult website. As Buddha, Shaka’s—and indeed Ichikawa’s—writing is pulpy and hypersexual, dripping with inauthenticity and purposeful mimicry. Her female protagonists have “enormous white breasts … glistening and bouncy like ripe Japanese pears” and the female orgasm sounds like “Mmmm! … Mhm … Aaah! Mhm!!” All Shaka’s knowledge of sexuality, the reader will later discover, comes from porn and censored manga—she has no real reference points for the erotica she pens. And though the reader, hungry for salacious details, might wonder where the line between Shaka and Ichikawa is drawn, there’s a tongue-in-cheek self-awareness here that clearly indicates that the author is playing with the fictional form to go beyond the limits of fact.

Before Shaka can finish writing this opening scene, however, she is interrupted—as is the narrative of the book—by the distinctly unsexy reality of her condition, which keeps her wheelchair-bound to accommodate “[t]he S-shaped curvature of [her] spine.” To help her breathe, she has a hole—a tracheostomy tube—in her neck. Trading one bodily fluid for another, she hooks herself up to a ventilator to clear out the phlegm that gathers in the tube, which also makes it hard for her to produce loud or strong noises. “The burst of air intended as a scream,” Shaka explains, “had leaked out of my tracheostomy tube before it could reach my vocal cords.” As we are thus brought back to reality, this evocative detail literalizes one of the pervading themes that Ichikawa explores throughout the novel: the physical and metaphorical silencing of disabled people—or, indeed, of society’s refusal to listen. It is also just the first of many instances where reality intrudes into Shaka’s fantasy worlds.

When she’s not writing, Shaka spends her days participating in a correspondence course researching the history of freak shows and representations of disability. Hunchback is in direct conversation with this history, as Shaka reclaims the moniker of the ‘hunchbacked monster’. But unlike the freak show—which put disabled people on display to the amusement of the masses, or the monsters of Hollywood which add the “ethical cushion” of costumes to make ogling more appetizing—Shaka notes that Japan “works on the understanding that disabled people don’t exist … Able-bodied Japanese people have likely never even imagined a hunchbacked monster not being acknowledged at all? The course is “the only aspect of [her] life that offer[s] any kind of connection with society” outside of the care home (named Ingleside after Anne of Green Gables —another fantasy space). She hasn’t stepped foot outside since middle school.

Ichikawa points a particularly accusing finger at the very bookish community that is bound to read her book, noting that “The world of sports, which all those literary types who play up their physical weakness display so much vitriol for, has in fact done far better at affording a space in its corner for those with disabilities.” Continuing, Ichikawa, through Shaka, asks: “What has the world of publishing ever done for the disabled community?”

At times, Shaka appears as a thinly veiled conductor of Ichikawa’s own voice, eager to fill the reader in on what life is like for disabled people in Japan. References to academic works on disability, historical events, and legal reforms are slotted into the fictional narrative in a not-always elegant way to drive some of the novel’s thematic explorations forward. Shaka possesses vast knowledge of the cultural, social, and legal framework that defines her life as a disabled person and the reader follows her train of thought as it leaps from one idea to the other in a rapid pace, almost as if Ichikawa is afraid to miss this opportunity to clue the reader in. She weaves a tapestry of references to highlight the state of disability rights in Japanese society, from disability activist Tomoko Yonezu, who attempted to spray paint the Mona Lisa when loaned to the Tokyo National Museum, to the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 which stipulates that teaching resources should be made available in digital format for disabled students. Here, the fictional form shows its potential as a tool more suited for changing a cultural mindset than news and nonfiction.

Shaka, as a fictional character, lends Hunchback enough distance from reality—another type of ethical cushion—for readers to bear witness to and truly reckon with these facts, condensed into a more digestible form, as Ichikawa reclaims the idea of the freak show and demands for disabled people to be witnessed not as spectacles, but as people. She makes it clear that disabled people are seen as burdens in Japan, viewed as unable to contribute to society in a meaningful way and draining the state of resources. At the same time, by making Shaka the protagonist of the novel, she invites the gawking. The difference here is that it is on her own terms. Shaka poses a direct challenge to the stereotype; she lives a financially independent life due to the sizable inheritance left by her parents. The money she makes from her freelance writing and erotica she donates to charity—a “promiscuous pay cheque” in her words, coming and going as soon as she receives it. Furthermore, as she is unable to conceive, all her assets will be left to the state when she dies.

Throughout the novella, Shaka’s voice undulates from angry to wistful, demanding for someone to finally hear her, damnit. Stuck inside her care home, she takes out her frustrations on Twitter, sending increasingly outrageous and provocative missives out into the void, on the off chance that someone is listening.

I had to assume that people didn’t know how to respond to a more or less bed-bound woman with a serious disability who’s constantly tweeting things like:

In another life, I’d like to work as a high-class prostitute

I’d have liked to try working at McDonald’s. I’d have liked to see what it was like to be a high school student.

She rejects the roles typically thrust on disabled people, refusing to be either an inspiration or a villain, pitied or revered. She is neither particularly likeable nor noble, far from the Quasimodos of literature. Wealthy enough to remove “friction” from her life, she longs for the same types of hardship that other people experience, instead of the ones she experiences because of her physical limitations. At their core, her tweets all call for the same thing: the right to have a full life, made up of all types of experiences—good and bad—and the fundamental right to choose what happens to her body. This crystalizes, for her, in the idea of sex work, on the one hand, and abortion on the other. “My ultimate dream,” she says, “is to get pregnant and have an abortion, just like a normal woman.”

Shaka is able to become pregnant but not carry to term, and against that backdrop, abortion comes to represent not only her sexuality and bodily autonomy, but also the right to exist which she must so constantly reaffirm. On a societal level, the question of abortion lies at the very intersection of disability activism and women’s rights in Japan. With sharp and acerbic wit, Shaka defends her willful tweets to the reader while reflecting on the fierce movement to reform Japanese abortion laws in the 1990s, which saw the rise of groups on each side of the question: on the one hand, those who fought for the right to abort disabled fetuses and, on the other hand, disability advocates who fought for disabled children’s right to life. Although the law changed as a result of these debates, Shaka’s opinion is that “the killing of disabled children [has] become a relatively casual undertaking.” “Given that,” she continues, “it wouldn’t matter if a disabled person tried to get pregnant specifically to have an abortion, right?” This dream of having an abortion is her metaphorical middle finger to the world she feels constantly shuns her.

While Ichikawa introduces some of the many layers that inform this complex debate, it should perhaps be treated more as an invitation to ponder it from a new angle than a final verdict. With the novel’s breakneck pace, the subtlety of these issues could have easily been lost, but through Shaka’s voice one thought replaces another in a natural flow, and Ichikawa manages to keep the wheels on the road, presenting several off-roads that the reader can choose to go down later, at their own leisure.

The intellectual musings take on a concrete dimension when, one day, the female caretaker who usually helps her shower is out sick and no other female employee can fill in. Shaka reluctantly agrees to let the male caretaker Tanaka assist her with her shower, reasoning that there’s nothing sexual about her disabled body. It is simply an exchange of money for services. But when Tanaka reveals that he has discovered her secret writings, the exchange opens a chasm of vulnerability, sexuality, and class.

Tanaka self-identifies as a ‘beta-male’, a type of incel who believes he is “one of the disadvantaged ones, too,” just like Shaka—or, in his view, perhaps even more of a victim, given Shaka’s financial independence. Having discovered Shaka’s tweets, he departs from the expected employee-employer dynamic, acting overly familiar with her and turning an inherently vulnerable situation sinister and directly life-threatening. “For a brief moment, showerhead in hand,” Shaka observes, “he had possessed absolute control over me.” Determined to take back control over the situation, she makes Tanaka an offer: if he gets her pregnant, making real the fantasies she has expressed in her tweets, she will pay him 155 million yen; one million for every centimeter of him. The fraught dynamic between the two captures the subtle ways that capitalism and sexuality intersect to shape human interactions. After all, Shaka thinks, “[i]f he saw me purely in terms of my money, then I would regard him the same way. Wasn’t that how society worked?”

Contract signed and money deposited, they set a date to perform the act. But with Tanaka and Shaka sharing equal disdain for each other, the scene stands in stark contrast to the erotica that Shaka pens. It ends after a passionless blowjob. The reality of her first sexual encounter has her longing for the censoring strips she is so used to in her R-rated manga. Ichikawa’s writing is deliberately clinical here, as she describes the mechanics of a blowjob performed by someone who does not need to breathe from their mouth. Tanaka gets his release, but it is an anticlimactic experience for Shaka, who never gets to experience full sexual intercourse and is neither pregnant nor satisfied. Again, she is quite literally rendered speechless. Even further, the act lands her in hospital with a life-threatening infection, driving home Ichikawa’s point: sexuality, and indeed choice, is out of reach for people like Shaka. Her claim to these experiences is constantly denied. When confronted with the question of whether it was worth it, Shaka reflects on her hospital neighbor, who shares her condition, reminding readers of their position as witnesses:

The people of the world averted their eyes as they said, ‘I couldn’t bear it if that were me. I’d rather die than live like that.’ But that was mistaken. The way that the person next door lived was where true human dignity resided. That was the real Nirvana. I hadn’t yet arrived.

As Shaka returns home from hospital, she discovers the uncashed cheque for 155,000,000 yen in her desk drawer and realizes that, socially, “the appropriate distance between [her and Tanaka] was one that allowed him to pity [her].” In the eyes of the world, she cannot become the Mona Lisa; after all, she is a hunchbacked monster. People like Tanaka—and perhaps the reader—need to feel like there’s someone more pitiful than themselves out there; like they have power over at least one person. Anything else challenges the status quo.

Ichikawa concludes the novel the way she started: with a steamy scene. This time, Shaka finally gets to play the femme fatale, a prostitute with a brother who once killed a disabled woman. The metaphorical death of disabled Shaka seems to reference yet another historical event—one of the deadliest attacks in Japanese history where a man broke into a care home facility, killing 19 disabled people and injuring 26 in a spout of “mercy killings.” This final reference and plot twist turns the whole story on its edge, making the violence undergirding pity clear and asks two central questions: Can both Shakas, the disabled writer and the sex worker, coexist? And could Ishikawa have told this story without fiction?

For Ichikawa herself, the fictionalization of Hunchback is a way to distance herself from the reader and the subject, denying anyone the kind of prurient interest they might have in her life, her sexuality, and her body. In starting and ending in the fictional, fantasy space, she thus affirms her role as an author—not merely a spectacle to be used for entertainment, like those in the freak shows, but the creator of a work of art.

It is also through fiction that Shaka can live out her dreams and through fiction that readers can grapple with the realities of a disabled life. As Ichikawa closes out the novel, sex worker Shaka notes: “The story I was writing was a means of surviving, of holding on to my sanity.” It is thus through fantasy that we get a more complete picture of who “Shaka” is, what she wants, and how she thinks about herself and her disability—more so than any non-fictional account would be able to provide. After all, Shaka is not real. But she does represent many fragments and possibilities of something real. Rather than make the hunchbacked monster a tragic heroine to pity, fiction has allowed Ichikawa to reclaim Shaka’s anger, her vitriol, and her sexuality. In this way, fiction may get us closer to her truth than fact ever could. Isn’t that, after all, what fiction is all about?

This book was such a strange one and I honestly don’t know if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word? I had fun, I think.. The writing was very captivating but I’m left confused and wanting more.

I wasn't really sure about this one, particularly when it came to the ending. It was difficult to grasp what had happened, so despite the points I was able to pick up on and enjoy - those that touched on ableism and sexual desire - I was left feeling quite unsatisfied.

Sharp, witty and sad. I loved this book, and wish it made it to the International Booker shortlist. A careful and unique take on disability, power, sex and class.

Hunchback (tr. Polly Barton) might be my favourite of the International Booker nominees I’ve read so far this year. It’s a tiny book, basically a long short story, but manages to pack in wa huge amount to think about. We follow Shaka Isawa, a wealthy woman with a severe disability, who lives in a care facility she owns, and writes anonymously online under the name Buddha. She writes a fluff pieces for online publications… but she also writes explicit erotica and purposefully shocking tweets. The book opens with one of Shaka’s saucy stories (can we go back to saying ‘saucy’ rather than ‘spicy’?) and yeah, be careful if someone might read this over your shoulder on public transport.

I loved this book for its sharpness; it is surprising and doesn’t flinch. There’s mucus and feeding tubes, yes, but also power, desire, loneliness, humour. The moment one of her nurses reveals he knows her secret sets off a whole chain of events that’s part drama, part thought experiment. The book is so good at challenging our perceptions of what’s shocking: why we find sex and disability uncomfortable together, and how we infantilise disabled people, assuming they don’t have the same desires as everyone else.

The writing style is sparse and weird in that classic Japanese-lit way, which usually loses me, but this one completely worked. It left me unnerved in the best way. Honestly gutted it didn’t make the IBP shortlist.

Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa was a short but impactful read that I found really fascinating. I usually don't get to read new releases so soon, especially ones nominated for awards like the International Booker, so I'm really thankful to Penguin UK Books and Netgalley for the ARC 💜

I thought this was a beautiful and accurate representation of life with physical disabilities. I have a few myself, but none as severe as hers. However, I've been surrounded by physically disabled people all my life, and I felt this book brilliantly conveyed the minutiae of everyday life while having a severe disability. Of course, the author drew from her own experience, and as far as I know, the narrator Shaka has the same rare genetic condition she has (myotubular myopathy).

I loved that Shaka isn't depicted as helpless and without agency. She's luckier than most because her parents left her a huge inheritance, which allows her to live comfortably. The duality of her being so rich and still needing to rely on care workers created intriguing power dynamics.

Another huge theme here is how disabled people are often depicted as sexless beings who don't have sexual needs and desires. The author challenges this idea in a very original way.

There are also some interesting thoughts on accessibility and what it's like to be disabled in Japan.

I really enjoyed the writing in this; the detached, somewhat emotionless style many contemporary East Asian authors employ is a perfect fit for me.

At barely over 100 pages, Hunchback is great for a quick, but thought-provoking read. I found myself wishing it were a bit longer because the themes in it could definitely warrant a much deeper exploration.

I hope many people read this (and other books by disabled authors) who have no personal experience with physical disabilities. Through my family members' experiences, I'm faced every day with the fact that the way cities and buildings (and society itself) are designed is hostile to disabled folks. The only way I can envision change happening is through such narratives becoming more common in the mainstream.

This was short and intriguing, introducing ideas and scenarios that are on a huge spectrum of what consitutes a taboo.
I was reading this completely immersed and finished it very quickly; despite the stationary life of the main protagonist due to her disability the story was never dull or repetitive. However, I found myself very uncomfortable with how graphic this got at times (especially the adult content), so I would not recommend this if that kind of stuff makes you uncomfortable.
I would not say this was my favourite and I must add I would have loved if the author took more time to develop or explore the ideas about disability, female experience and repression, care homes and accessibility of education and literature.

Such a short read, was expecting a little more from it and could have done with a bit more development of the storyline. Still, a solid debut and so much honesty and vulnerability is evident with own voices disability representation, which I really appreciated.

This was a very short novel about a women born with a congenital muscle disorder. Shaka has severe spine curvature and uses and electric wheelchair and ventilator. Withint the limits of the care home she owns, her life if lived online. She studies, tweets and posts outrageous erotic fiction on her website (although this one is in secret). One day, a male careworker reveals they have read everything and she has a proposition to them.

This book was the first one by an author with a physical disability to win Japans Akutagawa Prize. It was a strange novel at times but reveals the desire and darkness of a women living her life through her screen.

Thank you to Netgalley and the publisher for my copy of this e-arc!

This book was interesting enough to hold my attention while I was reading but I didn’t immediately want to keep picking it up!

Overall it was a good read

a very short book on disability and agency. the start surprised me with one of shaka's erotic stories and i thought i was reading the wrong book lol but it was an interesting and sharp read with impactful themes.

I was shocked by this book, undoubtedly. So shocked that I don't believe it was for me? But I know that I would definitely recommend this to people who are looking for disability representation in translated literature. At the end of the day, I can tell that this is written very, very well--if just a bit strange for my tastes.

More an extended short story than a novella, I loved this so much. The vivid descriptions, namely the matter-of-fact biology interspersed with poetic imagery. Should be mandatory reading for this year. Hats off to the translator also.

It loses a star because honestly it was far too short! I was hooked and then saw I was halfway through. A 2 hour read was just not enough for this character and POV. I would read anything from this author.

Thank to NetGalley and the publisher for the ARC.

Reading Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa was an intense and thought-provoking experience that challenged my perceptions of disability, desire, and autonomy. I found Shaka’s unapologetic voice both raw and captivating, as she navigates the complexities of her body, her desires, and the world around her. This book left me reflecting on the intersection of vulnerability and power, and how the most unexpected moments can reveal the deepest truths about human nature.

Definitely a book to be read once but don't think I could read it again. One of the most mind blowing books out there and definitely deserves to be shortlisted.

A full review of this book has been left on Goodreads

Hunchback is a short, powerful story about Shaka, a disabled woman who lives in a care home and writes erotic fiction online. When her carer discovers her writing, she makes a surprising proposal that challenges ideas about disability, sexuality, and control.

Written by an author with the same condition as the main character, the book is honest, bold, and sometimes uncomfortable.

Born with a congenital muscle disorder, Shaka Isawa has severe spine curvature and uses an electric wheelchair and ventilator. Within the limits of her care home, her life is lived she studies, she tweets indignantly, she posts outrageous stories on an erotica website. One day, a new male carer reveals he has read it all – the sex, the provocation, the dirt. Her response? An indecent proposal…

Written by the first disabled author to win Japan’s most prestigious literary award and acclaimed instantly as one of the most important Japanese novels of the 21st century, Hunchback is an extraordinary, thrilling glimpse into the desire and darkness of a woman placed at humanity’s edge.

What an absolute load of dribble. Going from ‘poor little me I can’t read a physical book and therefore hate anyone who can’ to disgusting sexual descriptions made for a really bad read. It wasn’t written particularly well and was just so disjointed I didn’t get what was going on. I gave it 1⭐️ because it was short and therefore didn’t take up much of my life!

This book was a strange and unexpected one, and like nothing I have really read before. It was a story about stories, and the realities we construct for ourselves, and particularly in this case, how someone who is disabled and unable to move might dream up scenarios in which they are allowed to full, sexual versions of themselves. The book plays around with this layering of stories, and I found the ending a fun twist on this.

I received an advanced copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.