Rachel: Okay, Justine, I'm going to say a book title: Goodbye, Things. Give me your most honest, one-sentence roast. Justine: "Hello, existential dread! A guide to convincing yourself you're happy in an empty room." Rachel: (Laughs) That's brutally perfect! And it gets right to the heart of the debate around this book by Fumio Sasaki. What's fascinating is that Sasaki wasn't some lifelong Zen master; he was a regular, stressed-out book editor in Tokyo who felt his life was a mess of clutter and comparison. He wrote this after his own radical transformation, which makes it feel less like a lecture and more like a confession. Justine: Oh, I like that. A confession is much more interesting than a prescription. So what was he confessing? What's the deep, dark secret of why we all own so much junk? Rachel: That is the perfect question, because his answer is so much deeper than just 'we like shopping.' He argues our possessions are actually silent, constant messages we're sending to the world, and more importantly, to ourselves.

Justine: Okay, messages. What kind of messages? Like, "my fancy coffee machine says I'm sophisticated"? Rachel: Exactly that, but on a much deeper level. Sasaki tells this incredibly relatable story about his old apartment, before he became a minimalist. It was a tiny space, but it was crammed with stuff. He had shelves overflowing with difficult, intellectual books he’d never finished, a dusty guitar and amplifier he never played, and even a collection of antique cameras he never used. Justine: I feel personally attacked right now. My bookshelf is a carefully curated lie about who I wish I was. Rachel: We all do it! And Sasaki's point is that he wasn't collecting cameras; he was collecting the idea of being an artistic, interesting person. The books weren't for reading; they were props to prove he was intellectual. Each item was a little piece of a costume he was wearing to feel valuable. The problem was, the costume was getting so heavy he could barely move. Justine: That makes so much sense. It's a performance. We're curating a museum of the person we want people to think we are. But it's exhausting. In the book, Sasaki has this great line about our brains being '50,000-year-old computers.' What's that about? Rachel: This is one of the most brilliant insights in the book. He says that for almost all of human history, we lived in a state of scarcity. Our brains are hardwired to acquire and hold on to resources because for millennia, you never knew when you'd find your next meal, or your next tool. Our fundamental operating system is built for a world that no longer exists. Justine: So we're running ancient software on modern hardware. Our caveman brain walks into a Target and just short-circuits. Rachel: Precisely. It sees a thousand brightly colored objects and thinks, "I must have it all! This will ensure my survival!" But we don't live in that world anymore. We live in a world of overwhelming abundance and information. The result is that we're constantly accumulating, driven by an instinct that's now working against us. Justine: And I guess that also explains why the happiness from buying something new fades so fast. Rachel: That's the other piece of the puzzle he talks about: the hedonic treadmill. Our brains are designed to notice changes in stimulation, not constant states. So that new phone or new pair of shoes gives you a jolt of happiness, a new stimulus. But within days, your brain adapts. It becomes the new normal, the baseline. And what happens then? Justine: You need another jolt. You need the next new thing. It's a never-ending cycle. Rachel: A cycle that leaves you with a cluttered house and a feeling of being perpetually unsatisfied. You're always chasing a high that, by its very nature, can't last. You get used to everything. Justine: Okay, but isn't some of this just... enjoying nice things? Is he saying we can't have hobbies or appreciate beauty? That feels a little joyless. I mean, the book got some mixed reviews, with people saying his lifestyle is a bit extreme and not practical for most people. Rachel: That's the core criticism, and he confronts it head-on. He's not saying you can't enjoy things. He's asking you to be brutally honest about why you have them. Is that guitar for the joy of playing music, or for the joy of appearing to be a musician? Are those books for the joy of reading, or for the joy of signaling your intelligence? Justine: That is an uncomfortably sharp question. Rachel: It is. And his argument is that the real joy isn't in the owning, but in the doing. The stuff, he says, often gets in the way of the doing. It becomes a substitute. And that's where his philosophy pivots from the problem to the solution.

Justine: Right, because this is where he diverges pretty sharply from other decluttering gurus. This isn't just about having a clean house. Rachel: Exactly. That's the million-dollar question, and it's where Sasaki's philosophy gets really interesting. For him, the 'joy' comes from what you gain when you let things go. It's a different kind of freedom. This is the big contrast with, say, Marie Kondo, which many readers have pointed out. Justine: How so? I feel like they're both on Team Tidy. Rachel: They are, but they're playing different sports. Kondo’s famous question is, "Does it spark joy?" It’s an emotional, positive affirmation. If you love it, you keep it. Sasaki's approach is more radical, more Zen-influenced. His question is, "Is this essential?" He even suggests you should consider discarding things that do spark joy if they aren't truly necessary for the life you want to live. Justine: Whoa. That's a huge difference. So even if I love my collection of 300 vintage teacups, if I only ever use two, Sasaki would say they have to go. Rachel: He would encourage you to ask why you need the other 298. He argues that every object you own takes up more than just physical space. It takes up mental space. It’s a "silent to-do list." You have to clean it, store it, worry about it, move it. By letting it go, you're not just clearing a shelf; you're clearing your mind. You're reclaiming your time and your focus. Justine: I can see the appeal, but it still sounds a bit like a life for a single guy in a tiny Tokyo apartment. How does this apply to, say, a family with kids? Rachel: That's a fair challenge, and he includes some amazing case studies to show the flexibility of the philosophy. There's one story about a woman named Yamasan, a minimalist supermom living with her husband and two kids. Her approach is fascinating. She practices what she calls "color minimalism." Justine: Color minimalism? What is that? Rachel: She only uses a very limited palette of colors in her home—whites, grays, natural wood tones. Hues that are easy on the eyes. Her summer wardrobe is just eight items in those same minimalist colors. The result isn't a sterile, empty house. It's a home that feels incredibly calm, peaceful, and relaxing. It's a sanctuary from the visual noise of the outside world. She proved that minimalism in a family context isn't about deprivation; it's about creating a specific, intentional atmosphere. Justine: That's a beautiful way to think about it. You're not removing things; you're curating a feeling. You're designing your environment to produce a certain mental state. Rachel: Exactly. And then there's the other end of the spectrum, the most extreme example in the book: a guy named Kouta Itou. He's a music producer and a globetrotter. Justine: Let me guess, he doesn't have a lot of furniture. Rachel: He has zero furniture. He has one backpack. That's it. One backpack is all he needs to live and travel the world. Justine: Come on. What's in the backpack? Rachel: It's incredible. He has a MacBook Pro for making music, a portable water filter, a hammock for sleeping, a headlamp, an iPhone, a camera, a Kindle, and a few other essentials. His home is literally the entire planet. He's the ultimate example of what Sasaki means by freedom. He's not tied to a place, to a mortgage, to a pile of stuff. He can go anywhere, anytime. Justine: Wow, okay, the globetrotter is next-level. That's not just tidying; that's rewriting the entire rulebook for your life. It makes you realize how much our stuff anchors us, for better or worse. It's our security, but it's also our cage. Rachel: That's the perfect way to put it. And for Sasaki, the moment he got rid of his own cage—his books, his camera collection, his TV—was the moment he actually started living. He says he has more time now. He enjoys life more. He's no longer comparing himself to others. He's just... present.

Justine: So, after all this, what's the one big idea we're supposed to walk away with? Is it just "throw everything out and go live in a hammock"? Rachel: (Laughs) Not quite, unless you're Kouta Itou. The core insight is that our things own us far more than we own them. They consume our time, our energy, our focus, and as we discussed, even our identity. The book's real message is that by saying 'goodbye' to things, you're not creating an empty space. You're creating space for your actual life to begin. Justine: I see. So minimalism isn't the goal. It's the tool. Rachel: It's a method and a beginning. That’s a direct quote. The point isn't to have the least amount of stuff. The point is to remove all the distractions so you can finally figure out what's genuinely important to you. For Sasaki, it was writing and connecting with people. For Yamasan, it was creating a peaceful family life. For Kouta Itou, it was music and travel. Justine: It makes you look around your own room and ask a really uncomfortable question: What stories are my things telling about me, and are they even true? Rachel: Exactly. A great question for all of us to think about. He talks about how he finally let go of gifts from people he loved. He took a picture of the item, felt the gratitude for the moment it was given, and then let the object go. He realized the happiness was in the memory, not the thing. Justine: That's powerful. It separates the emotion from the object. You can keep the love without keeping the clutter. Rachel: And that's the ultimate freedom. The freedom from the past, the freedom from the need to perform, and the freedom to just be. Justine: We'd love to hear what you think. What's one thing you own that's telling a story you're not sure you want to tell anymore? Let us know. This is Aibrary, signing off.