Since midweek, I’ve been waylaid by a stubborn head cold. Such episodes are rare for me—thanks, I like to think, to a set of daily habits centred on diet, exercise and meditation. At times, foolhardily, I fancy myself immune to the usual ailments. Yet here I am, unmistakably human, carried by a body whose resilience has given way to what now seems to be a chest infection.

I’d scheduled a Monograph edition this week. These are Tokyothèque’s most substantial works, and by the time I sit down to write one, the topic will have lived with me for some time through observation, photographs, and research—sometimes gathered over years. But the weekly cadence of the newsletter means all of this must surface and take written form within just seven days. This publication, after all, keeps no stockpile.

Monograph weeks typically require a deep well of focus, discipline, and energy. This time, though, I’m compelled to heed the same advice I so often give: when illness first stirs, rest early or risk prolonging it. For those wired toward productivity, pushing through tends to result in a net loss overall. As a compulsive striver, my own counsel rings a little glib right now—yet it holds. August’s Monograph will be released once I’ve returned to full strength.

Nevertheless, a pause imposed by illness isn’t without its uses. Some of my foundational thoughts on publishing first emerged during a dual bout of tendonitis and COVID-19, which kept me from my desk job. Remembering that, I’ve taken advantage of this forced slowdown and, from the temporary base of my settee and coffee table, begun lightly sketching out something that’s been on my mind for a while: the cataloguing of Tokyothèque.

Sorting and categorising have always felt more therapeutic than taxing to me. They are ideal tasks to chip away at during recovery, producing a sense of achievement without straining the faculties. Part of Tokyo’s appeal lies in this very pleasure: the satisfaction of building taxonomies. Every country has its local typologies, but Japan’s deep-rooted affinity for convention renders the urban landscape unusually sortable—endlessly groupable, infinitely rearrangeable.

In that spirit, I set about designing a system for the Tokyothèque archives. As I began to feel a little better over the weekend, I applied tags to the site’s contents and built a simple interface for navigation. I started by considering the primary forms the writing tends to take—filtering by format, I thought, might offer the most practical route through the archive. Three main types emerged.

Essays are the foundational unit of the publication. This is the most populated tag, encompassing a wide sweep of themes—pieces typically in the 2,000-word range. If it appears here, it’s a fair sign you’re reading classic Tokyothèque: reflective writing that blends research, observation and thought.

Monographs are long reads of 3,000 to 5,000 words, each immersing in a single subject. Rooted in the city’s typologies, they pursue history, analysis, and introspection to their limits—leaving no thread loose, no curiosity unstirred.

Neighbourhood Guides navigate specific districts, explaining the urban scenery and atmosphere, while pinpointing coffee shops, galleries, bookstores and landmarks. They aim to be practical, yet also attentive to the city's history and broader patterns. Adjacent, sit Travelogues, which recount travel experiences more than they offer instruction. These occasionally branch into contexts Beyond Tokyo and even Beyond Japan.

Amid the core formats, Thinkpieces surfaced. These are shorter works, around 1,000 words, that test ideas, pose questions, or offer provocations. A few nascent formats have also emerged: Profiles, focused studies of people whose work contends with the city; and Criticism, where I engage with literature, film, and art rooted in Tokyo. For now, these remain almost stubs—containers awaiting further writing. Finally, there are a handful of Editorial pieces, like this one, which discuss Tokyothèque’s aims and evolving direction.

The second lens for the archive is Topic. I gave this some thought and ultimately sided with discipline over abundance. While it’s common practice to tag each piece with every relevant topic, I find the result, especially in digital magazines, quickly becomes cluttered. When the same pieces appear under multiple headings, categories lose their meaning. Given how often Tokyothèque moves briskly between subjects, that outcome felt inevitable.

Instead, I approached topics by triangulation, looking for the spine of each piece as if shelving a physical book in a library, where one copy can only occupy a single place. It demands a firm editorial judgement. The result is a pared-back list in which each newsletter appears under just one topic, giving each category, I hope, a clear and compelling reason to be browsed.

As anticipated, Urbanism and Architecture formed clear, reasonably well-populated shelves. The Arts, named to encompass creative practice in its many forms, is also growing steadily. But it’s the less expected topics that I’ve found most interesting. One cluster, for instance, centres on the emotional resonances of place and experience. These pieces, which foreground the moods and psychological textures the city evokes, are tentatively filed under Affect.

Commerce also appeared as a populous shelf. I never set out to write about business, economy, or consumption, but once you begin to look closely at the city, so much hinges on these forces. Along the way, I’ve come to enjoy telling the rip-roaring stories of inspired entrepreneurs, whom I’ve grown to understand as consummate artists in their own right.

The final topic I’ll mention before leaving you to browse is another I hadn’t quite foreseen, yet it’s turned out to be the busiest shelf. These are pieces that, when restricted to a single topic, could only be gathered under Wellbeing. They are the times when I lean into physical and mental health, daily habits, and the pursuit of balance.

I’d argue this shelf is an outcome of the newsletter format. What best distinguishes a personally written, weekly email from other forms of publishing might be how it arrives interwoven with life itself. You hear from the author as they move through their days. Its regularity invites interests and experience to merge in real time. I find that invitation irresistible. In this way, the process becomes the work—something I’ve learned to better appreciate through artists like Anja and Tiziana.

Version one of Tokyothèque’s cataloguing system is now live in the newly added Archives section of the site. I’ve gone on an unlocking spree, and at least one piece under each tag is freely available to read. I’m not sure how long they’ll stay that way, but if your Sunday is ripe for a reading binge, I recommend exploring.

One thing is certain: if you choose to take out a paid subscription, you’ll gain full access to the archive and to everything I publish from here on. For now, though, it is back to rest and recovery for your writer.

Until we meet in the archives,

If this newsletter deepens your knowledge, inspires your travels, ignites creativity or simply offers a moment of respite after a long week, consider becoming a paid Tokyothèque Subscriber.

A digital subscription includes:

The Complete Archive – access to every past edition, for those times when only a binge read will do.
Monthly Monographs – members-only long reads decoding Tokyo, one typology at a time.
Field Notes – members-only dispatches written live during walks and travels across Japan.
Neighbourhood Maps – a growing collection of richly annotated routes through Tokyo’s streets .

Each subscription is crucial and keeps Tokyothèque independent and free to pursue the kinds of subjects that rarely see the light elsewhere. Do join us.