The Man Who Died Seven Times by Yasuhiko Nishizawa

Yasuhiko Nishizawa’s The Man Who Died Seven Times is a playful and labyrinthine blend of family drama, locked-room mystery, and speculative fiction. First published in Japan in the mid-1990s and now translated into English for the first time, it exemplifies the eccentric ingenuity that characterises much of Japan’s Golden Age–inspired crime writing. What begins as a traditional inheritance mystery soon spirals into something stranger and more mischievous, where logic and absurdity dance together in a carefully choreographed loop.

The story centres on Hisataro, a sixteen-year-old member of the wealthy and fractious Fuchigami family. When his grandfather dies suddenly on the day he is set to announce his heir, suspicion falls on everyone. Hisataro’s peculiar condition (an involuntary compulsion to relive the same day nine times) becomes both his torment and his advantage. Each repetition gives him a new chance to untangle the circumstances of his grandfather’s death and to test different approaches to saving him. The result is part mystery, part metaphysical puzzle, and part farce, as each cycle deepens both the chaos and the humour.

Nishizawa’s writing balances intricate plotting with a tone of upbeat positivity that keeps the novel from tipping into bleakness. The atmosphere of the Fuchigami estate, with its squabbling relatives, shifting alliances, and whispered secrets, evokes the tradition of classic country-house mysteries, yet the time-loop device adds a distinctly modern energy. Each iteration of the day peels back another layer of deceit, exposing how greed, pride, and resentment ripple through generations of privilege. The cleverness lies not just in the puzzle itself but in how Nishizawa plays with the reader’s expectations: repetition becomes revelation, and every “redo” shifts our understanding of the truth.

Hisataro is a curious and sympathetic protagonist, more detective than victim of his fate. His persistence, naivety, and flashes of humour lend emotional depth to a narrative that could otherwise become purely mechanical. Around him orbits a vivid cast of caricatures, the likes of scheming relatives, opportunistic servants, and self-absorbed adults are all exaggerated just enough to verge on satire. Nishizawa’s characterisation is light-handed but precise, turning the family’s dysfunction into both comedy and critique.

The translation captures the wry rhythm of Nishizawa’s prose, preserving its cultural particularities while making it accessible to English readers. The pacing occasionally stumbles under the weight of exposition in the early chapters, but the story gathers remarkable momentum once the looping mechanism takes hold. What might initially seem repetitive evolves into a hypnotic structure, where subtle differences between loops reward close attention.

The novel explores the futility and freedom of second chances. Time, in Nishizawa’s hands, is not just a plot device but a mirror reflecting human stubbornness and the way people repeat the same mistakes even when offered infinite opportunities to change. Beneath the playfulness lies a meditation on moral consequence and inevitability, rendered with both irony and affection.

The Man Who Died Seven Times is not a sombre philosophical experiment but an exuberant, intelligent romp through murder, memory, and meaning. It sits comfortably among the genre-bending mysteries, offering readers a story that is at once cerebral and delightfully absurd. Nishizawa’s novel proves that even when time stands still, the human heart remains restlessly unpredictable.

Reviewer: Chris Reed

Pushkin