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Why Are There So Many Cats in Japanese Fiction?
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At first, I thought I was going crazy. I'd read a book from Japanese literature, and there it was. A cat. And another book. Another cat. It seemed like every Japanese book I picked up had a cat on the cover, a cat in the plot, or a cat lingering somewhere between the pages, watching everything unfold with quiet judgment. But it wasn't just me. There really are a lot of cats in Japanese fiction.
From Haruki Murakami's surreal narratives, where cats often act as enigmatic guides between worlds, to Hiro Arikawa's The Travelling Cat Chronicles , which tugs at heartstrings with a feline road trip, cats seem to hold a unique and powerful place in Japanese storytelling. But why?
Japan's deep-rooted cultural connection with cats plays a role. Folklore is filled with tales of supernatural cats, such as the bakeneko and nekomata , mythical creatures that transform into humans or cause mischief. The maneki-neko , the beckoning cat seen in shop windows across the country, is a symbol of luck and prosperity. Cats are revered for their independence and mysterious aura—traits that lend themselves well to fiction.
Japanese fiction often explores themes of solitude, transience and quiet introspection. And what better companion to such moods than a cat? Murakami's books, for instance, frequently feature loner protagonists who bond with cats, forming relationships that are wordless yet profound. In Sayaka Murata's novels, where the quirks of human nature are dissected, a cat's presence can provide contrast—an observer unburdened by the expectations of society.
Beyond this, cats in Japanese fiction are often stand-ins for memory, loss and comfort. In Takashi Hiraide's The Guest Cat , the protagonist finds solace in a visiting feline during a time of change and uncertainty. These books tap into the Japanese concept of mono no aware —a sensitivity to the ephemeral nature of life.
Publishers have caught on to the cat craze, and the market has responded. Book covers featuring cats are practically a genre of their own now, whether or not the story actually involves a feline character (as some readers have found out the hard way).
The surge in Japanese 'healing fiction' ( iyashi-kei ), comforting books that offer emotional refuge, has also contributed to the trend. With their quiet companionship and nonjudgmental presence, cats embody the very essence of these cozy, introspective novels.
I cover more on this exact topic in the article: Healing Japanese Fiction Books That Feel Like a Warm Hug.
(Email me at editor(at) if you have more recommendations.)
Will the cat craze in Japanese fiction ever slow down? Perhaps. But the truth is, Japan's love affair with cats is far from fleeting. They've been part of its folklore, art and daily life for centuries.
Way back in 889, Emperor Uda (only 22 years old at the time) wrote in his diary about a mysterious black cat gifted to the imperial court:
Taking a moment of my free time, I wish to express my joy of the cat. It arrived by boat as a gift to the late Emperor, received from the hands of Minamoto no Kuwashi.
The color of the fur is peerless. None could find the words to describe it, although one said it was reminiscent of the deepest ink. It has an air about it, similar to Kanno. Its length is 5 sun, and its height is 6 sun. I affixed a bow about its neck, but it did not remain for long.
In rebellion, it narrows its eyes and extends its needles. It shows its back.
When it lies down, it curls in a circle like a coin. You cannot see its feet. It's as if it were circular Bi disk. When it stands, its cry expresses profound loneliness, like a black dragon floating above the clouds.
By nature, it likes to stalk birds. It lowers its head and works its tail. It can extend its spine to raise its height by at least 2 sun. Its color allows it to disappear at night.
I am convinced it is superior to all other cats.
I love that last line. In one sentence, it manages to be reverent, indulgent, and quietly hilarious all at once. So human in its devotion, yet so catlike in its aloof worship.
And they fit seamlessly into the kinds of modern narratives that Japanese authors craft so well—stories that are wistful. Quietly and deeply human.
So if you feel like you're seeing cats everywhere in Japanese literature, don't worry—you're not imagining things. Cats are here to stay. And while I'm actually a dog person (check out my guide to adopting a dog in Japan here), I can't help but love the way felines move through these stories. They lounge in the pages, observing, creeping, and guiding us into worlds of Japanese literature that are at once beautifully mundane and surreally wonderful.
You might also be interested in reading: What's Up With Bad Sex in Murakami?
