“I was not so much observing the play as observing the players.” #JapaneseLitChallenge17

My second read for this month’s Japanese Literature Challenge is the book I considered picking up after I’d read “Chevengur“, but chose instead “In That Dawn”. It’s a fairly recent arrival to the TBR, picked up in a local charity shop back in April last year, and it’s “The Master of Go” by Yasunari Kawabata, translated by Edward Seidensticker. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968, Kawabata was a prolific author; but despite having several of his titles on the TBR (and they’ve been there a loooong time in some cases), I don’t think I’ve actually read any of them yet. I could have picked out any of them, but this book kind of ties in with another title on the TBR, so I decided to read it now – and a fascinating book it is.

First published in 1954 in novel form (having previously been serialised in 1951), “The Master of Go” is a book that the author apparently considered to be his finest work. It’s reputedly very different to his other books (something I can’t comment on yet!) and could almost be called autofiction. As the title suggest, the story centres around the traditional Japanese game of Go, a seemingly simple game played with black and white stones which is actually very complex. In 1938 a long game of Go took place between the master, Honio Shusai, and an up and coming challenger; and Kawabata was reporting on the game for a newspaper. It was the final match of the Master’s career, and Kawabata took his reports and his recording of events, turning them into this book which explores a lot more than you might think.

In the novel, the Go match takes place between the Master and his challenger, Otake, over a period of six months; although the play itself can take literally hours for one move, these are sometimes done in a matter of minutes, and so the length of any match is variable. This, however, is an epic clash which had dramatic effects. From the opening pages of the book we learn of the Master’s death, not long after the match was completed, and Kawabata goes on to relate the course of the match over those six months.

So we witness the early stages of the match as the combatants make their opening moves; observe the seasons change as the game continues and the location of the battle changes; see the moves represented on small diagrams within the text; and start to realise the effect that this game of Go is having on the Master’s health as the strain on him begins to show.

Most professional Go players like other games as well, but the Master’s addiction was rather special. He could not play an easy, nonchalant match, letting well enough alone. There was no end to his patience and endurance. He played day and night, his obsession somewhat disquieting. It was less as if he were playing to dispel gloom or beguile tedium than as if he were giving himself up to the fangs of gaming devils. He gave himself to mahjong and billiards just as he gave himself to Go.

On the surface, therefore, this perhaps seems a fairly simple novel, but there’s much to be gained from reading it. Kawabata and his narrator are fascinated by Go, and this is obviously a preoccupation shared by most of the population, as the reports in the newspapers are extremely popular. And it’s intriguing to see how the various players are also drawn to other games, like chess or mahjong; it’s as if they can’t bear to not be involved in some kind of puzzle or combat, and that obsession with constant gaming has strong parallels with modern computer gaming addictions.

This kind of Go match seems very much rooted in place and time, with an importance we would not necessarily recognise nowadays. The rules and rituals, the commitment of the players, and the willingness to give up chunks of your life to consider and plan strategies; all of this is quite fascinating. But there could well be other themes underlying the story.

At the time of the book, Japan was undergoing much change (and also, incidentally, on the brink of WW2, as well as at war with China); and “Master…” does read as a clash between the old and the new world, with the traditions of Japan gradually being swept away. The Master’s method of play is constantly contrasted against those of his younger rival, and there are conflicts about the ritual and ceremonial aspects of the game. These elements would no doubt have been significant to readers at the time, and they remain intriguing to me as a modern reader too.

It may be said that the Master was plagued in his last match by modern rationalism, to which fussy rules were everything, from which all the grace and elegance of Go as art had disappeared, which quite dispensed with respect for elders and attached no importance to mutual respect as human beings. From the way of Go the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation. The road to advancement in rank, which controlled the life of a player, had become a meticulous point system. One conducted the battle only to win, and there was no margin for remembering the dignity and the fragrance of Go as an art. The modern way was to insist upon doing battle under conditions of abstract justice, even when challenging the Master himself. The fault was not Otaké’s. Perhaps what had happened was but natural, Go being a contest and a show of strength.

There is, of course, another theme which could be drawn out, and that is the defeat of Japan during the Second World War. Although this epic Go match took place in 1938, with the Master’s eventual death in 1940, Kawabata didn’t write the novel until well after the end of WW2. It’s hard not to read the defeat of the Master and the old ways of Japan as representing the fate of the Japanese nation at the end of the conflict.

“The Master of Go” was a fascinating read from start to finish, even for me as someone who knows absolutely nothing about Go or its rules. Yes, there are the diagrams and the descriptions of play, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t get these, as the context and the effects of play are what matters. Interestingly, in the introduction to the book, Liza Dalby draws parallels between Kawabata and Herman Hesse; both won the Noble Prize and, of course, Hesse created a fictional ‘glass bead game’ which featured in one of his most famous works. It didn’t matter to me that I didn’t really know how the game worked in that book, and it didn’t here either. However, I consider myself intrigued by Go and its rules and playing methods – so much so that I’m contemplating reading that work I mentioned on the TBR that deals with just that topic! Watch this space… 😉

“The sands never rested” #JapaneseLitChallenge17 #thewomaninthedunes

As I mentioned in my post outlining my loose reading plans for the year, I always like to take part in the Japanese Literature Challenge if I can. I have a great love of Japanese literature, and there are plenty of books to choose from on the TBR. I featured a photograph of four possible titles, and was happy that I was actually able to track down my copy of one particular book – “The Woman in the Dunes” by Kobo Abe (translated by E. Dale Saunders). It’s been on the TBR for absolutely ages – 2015, to be precise, when I picked it up in a charity shop for 50p – yet somehow has never quite made it off the mountain. However, I decided 2024 would be its year and it turned out to be the perfect book for this reading event!

First published in 1964, the book opens with a short, stark narrative about a missing person; a man who is an insect collector has been reported missing after setting off for a visit to the seashore. No particularly suspicious circumstances are uncovered and after the statutory seven years have passed he’s declared dead. However, the narrative goes on to reveal what actually happened to the man – named as Niki Jumpei – and the facts are dark, strange, and as the blurb says, really very Kafkaesque!

Jumpei is indeed an obsessive insect chaser, and he’s convinced that if he finds a rare specimen it will make his name and ensure he’s remember for posterity. Having come to the conclusion that sand and seashore are the best place to find these, he heads off into the deep countryside to a village near the coast where he begins his hunt. However, he misses the last bus back to civilisation and is forced to seek shelter in the village – and this is where his troubles begin…

The village seems beset by sand from all directions, with the winds constantly moving the dunes and changing the landscape. The residents’ houses are constructed in sand-pits accessible by ladders; and the whole area seems remarkably precarious. Nevertheless, Jumpei is persuaded into a pit where he is put up by a widow for the night; and when he awakes the ladder is gone, and he’s trapped in the pit. Here, the woman spends her time digging the sand which is lifted away in buckets at the end of a rope; and if this is not done, the sand will take over the pit, destroying the house and whoever is in it.

Needless to say, Jumpei wants out, but it seems impossible. The woman never leaves the pit, food and water is passed down by other villagers, and if they do not work and dig, the supplies will be cut off. In a scorching sandy pit, the prospect of no water is truly terrifying. Jumpei, of course, refuses to accept his imprisonment, and comes up with various escape plans and attempts. Whether he will ever get out of his prison remains to be seen…

I’ll say no more about the plot itself, as of course the book can be read as a thriller and it’s a very gripping one indeed. I found myself sympathising with Jumpei’s frustration and desperation, although his plans for escape do seem to be very much pie in the sky. From building a ladder to trapping a crow, they all seem very hopeless and anyone else would have just given up. But alongside this element is his search to find out why he’s being kept trapped and why the woman (and indeed the villagers) are living like this. A certain explanation will come at the end of the novel, but I would say that there’s much more below the surface.

It goes on, terrifyingly repetitive. One could not do without repetition in life, like the beating of the heart, but it was also true that the beating of the heart was not all there was to life.

“Woman…” is a book about life in post-War Japan (there are mentions of devastated areas) and the rush into modernisation which the country had undertaken. The frantic 9-5 existence which had spung up, the pointlessness of many tasks, and the repetitive nature of life could be seen as reflected in the endless shovelling of sand in the pit. The villagers cling onto their home and their tradition, despite the draw of modern cities, and the clash of those cultures is an interesting theme.

Jumpei, of course, fights against his fate; but it’s worth reminding ourselves of the title of the book. The woman (who I don’t think is ever named) is pivotal to the story. A widow who’s lost not only her husband and child, her response to the intrusion of Jumpei is compex; she wants him to work, but does she want more from him? For his part, he’s not unresponsive to her physical presence and of course this does develop another strand of the plot. Is settling down and having a family now the expected norm in modern Japanese society, and does the village expect the same of Jumpei and the woman? How will he respond to having no choice in the matter? Truly, there’s a lot to unpack in this book.

As for the sand, it almost exists as a separate entity! Constantly encroaching on every part of their existence, it’s an unstoppable force, always on the move and ready to swamp everything if not held at bay. Again, it may stand for the relentless pressures of modern life; or simply a part of nature which humanity cannot subdue despite its best efforts. I certainly don’t think I’ll look at it in the same light after reading “Woman”…

So my first read for the Japanese Literature Challenge turned out to be quite fascinating and a book that really gets under your skin (rather like sand can…) Abe creates a most claustrophobic and disturbing setting in which to explore his thoughts on everyday life and the point of it all – the novel is not called existential for nothing – and I gulped the book down in a few settings, desperate to see where the author was going and what would happen to his protagonist. His story has certainly got me thinking about the meaning of life, and has also made me a little nervous about visiting any local dunes… 😳😳

“…to see the figure of Fuji in a different light.” #osamudazai #japaneselitchallenge16

Well, I hadn’t planned to necessarily read another Japanese book for this month’s Japanese Literature Challenge… However, a flurry of mentions on Twitter centring around the recent New Directions ‘Storybook ND’ releases reminded me that I had “Early Light” by Osamu Dazai in that edition lurking digitally – and so it seemed like a good time to try a little e-reading! I’m not a fan of the medium (my eyes suffer a lot…) but as the hardbacks of this series are so expensive, I had no choice but to try the e-book. Fortunately, it’s a short work so I managed…

“Early Light” contains three short works by Dazai, an author I’ve written about before on the Ramblings; back in 2016, I read his classic work “The Setting Sun” for our 1947 Club, and I’ve actually owned several of his works for decades. Dazai was a complex man, often controversial, who took his own life; and his writing style for “The Setting Sun” was fascinating, if detached. That latter element was commented on by Marina Sofia, who mentioned she thought it was typical of much Japanese writing, and some years further down the line I tend to agree with her.

The works featured here (translated by Ralph McCarthy and Donald Keene) are varied; the title story is an autobiographical one, which relates the misadventures of the narrator during the fire bombings of Tokyo at the end of WW2. The man is a drinker, and he and his wife and child are burned out of house and home. Having survived the conflagration and lost everything, they flee to relatives, only to be subject to bombing again. Underlying this is the health of the couple’s little girl, suffering from severe conjunctivitis which is hard for them to treat owing to the conflict.

The second story is “One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji”, which takes its title from Hokusai’s famous series of paintings of the mountain. However, the narrator here is less than respectful towards this Japanes landmark; staying locally and trying to write, everywhere he turns he sees a view of Fuji, most of which have been reduced to cliches. Harrassed by the sightseers who’ve come to see the view and have their pictures taken with it, it becomes debatable as to whether he’ll ever get any writing done.

Whenever Nitta came to visit me from then on, he brought various other youths with him. They were all quiet types. They called me “Sensei,” and I accepted that with a straight face. I have nothing worth boasting about. No learning to speak of. No talent. My body’s a mess, my heart impoverished. Only the fact that I’ve known suffering, enough suffering to feel qualified to let these youths call me “Sensei” without protesting—that’s all I have, the only straw of pride I can cling to. But it’s one I’ll never let go of. A lot of people have written me off as a spoiled, selfish child, but how many really know how I’ve suffered inside?

The final piece, “Villon’s Wife”, is in complete constrast to the first two; narrated by the put-upon wife of yet another drunken writer (are you sensing a pattern here??) it tells how her husband’s habits have left them totally impoverished. However, it is the woman here who manages to step outside the boundaries of her everyday life of degradation and find a way to save them from total destitution.

Dazai was a fascinating author, with these three stories of his being very entertaining and often thought-provoking. There’s a semi-humourous aspect to “One Hundred…” as the narrator ruefully surveys not only the landscape around him but also his inability to writer. “Early Light” is intriguing, as he takes what could be a difficult topic (particularly bearing in mind other narratives about wartime bombings…) and handles it with a lighter touch than you might expect. The events he and his family are dealing with are dramatic, dangerous ones, yet his almost matter-of-fact writing keeps the story from becoming too harrowing.

As for “Villon’s Wife”, well, I’ve seen it described as a masterpiece, and it really is. What’s particularly interesting, I suppose, is seeing the drunken author from the viewpoint of his long-suffering wife, and kudos to the author for capturing that; possibly this is an unusual thing in Japanese fiction of the time, although I’m not well-versed enough in the topic to say. But it’s very satisfying to watch Mrs. Otani gradually developing her own identity, gaining confidence and dealing with what life throws at her to finally manage to pull their lives around. Fascinating.

This will, I think, be my last read for Japanese Literature Month, and it was a top-drawer work to end the month on! I have unread Dazai on Mount TBR and I really should try to get to some of it sooner rather than later, as this was a marvellous read; I’m glad ND decided to issue it. And thanks need to go also to Dolce Bellezza for hosting this wonderful reading event – one of my favourite of the year, and I have enjoyed it this January! 😀

 

“Is there no way we can come to an understanding?” #japaneselitchallenge16 #tanizaki #thekey

So far for the Japanese Literature Challenge I’ve explored an essay on aesthetics and a powerful memoir of nuclear attack; and I said at the end of my post on the latter than I imagined my next Japanese book this month would be a little lighter. Well, it certainly was a slim volume of fiction; however, the subject matter was complex and left me thinking a lot about the relationships between men and women. In my first Japanese post on Jun’ichirō Tanizaki I mentioned that I would have to look on the TBR and see if I had anything else by him; I do, and that’s the book I want to talk about today – “The Key”, published in a translation by Howard Hibbett in 1960. And as you can see from the rather lurid covers of my US Signet Books edition, sexual passion is at the heart of the book…

“The Key” is one of Tanizaki’s later books, and it takes the form of diary entries; these are drawn from the journals kept separately by a husband and wife, a 55 year old Professor, and his 44 year old wife Ikuko. They live with their grown up daughter Toshiko, and the Professor has singled out one of his young teachers, Kimura as a possible husband for Toshiko. However, all is not well with the marriage. The Professor claims to adore his wife but feels that he cannot satisfy her sexually, and is concerned that she is too refined to let him indulge his passion for her, even to see her fully naked.

Ikuko, however, is conflicted; one minute she claims to love her husband, the next to hate him and find him repulsive. It may be the age difference; it may be that she has retained her looks despite having a child, whereas he is an unhealthy, unattractive specimen; or it may be that she is attracted by the virility and youth of Kimura. The reader watches what happens, and the possible development of a menage-a-trois or even a-quatre – all the while realising that what they are reading is filtered through the sensibilities of both parties in the marriage, presenting in their diaries what they want their partner to be secretly reading (all the while denying that they are reading the other’s journal).

And now I hit the dilemma of how much more to discuss the plot; because I came to this book with no knowledge of the story or preconceptions, and I think that’s the best way to read it! Tanizaki very cleverly lets his tale develop from the two separate viewpoints of the married couple and the reader is left to read between the lines and work out what’s *really* going on; much is confirmed at the climax of the book (ahem…) but plenty is left unresolved… There are plot elements I can’t mention specifically, but which are to do with the Professor’s treatment of his wife; however, her diaries reveal that she is more in control of what is happening, and actually stimulated by it, than her husband might think!

As I mentioned above, my mid-20th century addition has a cover which is covered with sensationalist blurb; so you may be wondering whether the book is as torrid as is made out. Frankly, I would say it’s very mild compared with modern media of all kinds but probably *was* quite shocking at the time. There is nothing graphic or particularly gratuitous but the frank discussion of sexual needs (particularly that of a woman) was possibly groundbreaking. The behaviour of the couple towards each other, although again nothing really graphic occurs, is fairly shocking and at the time would have disturbed Western sensibilities – I imagine the traditional American could have been a bit outraged!

Why should he have dropped the key in a place like that? Has he changed his mind and decided he wants me to read it? Perhaps he realises I’d refuse if he asked me to, so he’s telling me: ‘You can read it in private – here’s the key.’ Does that mean he thinks I haven’t found it? No, isn’t he saying rather: From now on I acknowledge that you’re reading it, but I’ll keep on pretending you’re not?’
Well, never mind. Whatever he thinks, I shall never read it.

Putting all that aside, how does the book read to this modern reader? Very well, actually; I can imagine that readers much younger than me would be rather cross about some elements, but I think that’s perhaps a fairly shallow response. Without wanting to give anything much away, both parties to the marriage are guilty – of lack of communication, of not respecting each other’s wishes or needs or feelings, and of manipulating the other. So there are not necessarily any victims – or if there is, it’s not the victim you might expect! As for the key of the title, well that refers to the one the Professor uses to lock his diary in his desk drawer then leaves lying around for his wife to find and open the drawer… Twists abound from the very first page of this novella! 😉

I’m sorry if this is all a bit vague in places but I’m trying desperately not to give anything away. Suffice to say that Tanizaki brilliantly portrays a pair of unreliable narrators, gradually teasing out the story to its dramatic fulfilment and “The Key” is a very clever, very readable and actually very thought-provoking book. If nothing else, it certainly convinces the reader that a good relationship is based on communication

“The hot summer sun was shining lazily…” #japaneselitchallenge16 #thebellsofnagasaki

Having spent my first read for the Japanese Literature Challenge by exploring some concepts of aesthetics and beauty, I moved into more difficult territory for my next book. A number of the books on my Japanese TBR were published by Kodansha who used to bring out some beautiful editions of ‘Japan’s Modern Writers’ and I used to pick these up whenever I came across them. One slim volume I’d never got round to reading was “The Bells of Nagasaki” by Takashi Nagai (translated by William Johnston). Having read Ibuse’s “Black Rain” and Hersey’s “Hiroshima” back in the day, I felt that “Bells…” might be a good choice for further reading. It certainly was, though it’s a painful and difficult work.

“The Bells of Nagasaki” is an eye-witness account of the dropping of the Atomic bomb on Nagasaki on 9th August 1945. The author was a young man called Dr Takashi Nagai; a nuclear physicist and dean of the radiology department in the medical school of the University of Nagasaki, he was swept into the air by the blast and buried under a pile of debris. By a miracle, he survived, and along with those colleagues who were also still alive, he set about bringing what rescue and relief he could to the injured and dying around him. With his particular knowledge, he had more idea than many what had happened; and his story is a moving, tragic and painful one.

Nagai begins his story just before the dropping of the bomb, setting his colleagues and friends in their places, conveying the mindset of people committed to supporting their country in the War (just as every nation and its people does); but it is clear that no-one is expecting anything more than a normal bombing raid. When the nuclear blast hits, the results are devastating, and it takes a while for the survivors to realise what has happened. At that point, it becomes damage limitation; parts of the area are literally flattened, others are burning fiercely and the main thing is to ease the sufferings of survivors and get them to safety. Rescues are attempted from collapsing buildings; remains of loved ones and colleagues, killed instantly, are discovered; and the pain of the ill and dying is hard to deal with.

For the first time in history atoms had exploded over the heads of human beings. Whatever symptoms might appear, the fact was that the patients we were now treating had diseases that were completely new in the annals of medical history. To ignore these patients would not only be an act of cruelty toward individual persons, it would be an unforgivable crime against science, a neglect of precious research material for the future. We ourselves were already experiencing in our bodies the first stirrings of atomic sickness.

Eventually, the surviving group move to safety and begin using the limited resources and skills they have to help those in local villages who have been affected. Nagai himself has been wounded in the blast, and becomes so ill at one point that he barely survives. With his knowledge, however, he is aware of the longer term effects of the bomb, of the cancers and illnesses which will develop; and many more people will die or will be affected than those who were initially killed. Eventually he sets up a hut in the centre of the devastation and lives his life out there until his death in 1951. He preaches a message of peace; but did the world listen?

“Bells…” is a devastating book to read in more ways than one. It’s worth noting that this edition was published in 1984 when Cold War tensions were high; I can recall the fear and uncertainty in the early 1980s, with warning siren testings taking place at weekends; and let’s not forget this was the era of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Two Tribes”, with its lookalikes of the Russian and American leaders fighting – Glasnost and Perestroika were still in the future. So “Bells..” was very relevant at the time, and a sobering reminder of the horrors of nuclear conflict. Nagai brings a surprisingly non-judgemental viewpoint to the issue, with his memoirs reflecting the sorrow of loss (his wife was killed by the bomb); however, he retains a relatively calm narrative voice, and it is only towards the end, where he comes to the belief that Japan has been tested by God and lost, that his writing becomes more emotive. I tend myself to think that God was not involved in this, and that the nuclear bomb was a result of man and his evil, but that’s another matter…

Empires crumble, but the mountains and rivers remain. Opening the sliding doors, I looked at the mountains. The three peaks of Mitsuyama were tranquil as ever. They did not even seem to notice the fragments of cloud that floated beneath the towering heights. All things pass. All things are like a fragment of cloud. Our faith in the eternal stability of the Japanese Empire had crumbled in a moment.

Nagai, however, also brings much knowledge of how the bomb works and affected those places it destroyed, and this was an interesting aspect of the book. But what shone through for me was the stark horror of the effects of this evil weapon; and also complete disbelief that those who took the decision to drop the bomb did so. In his introduction, translator William Johnston rather curiously almost seeks to exonerate the leaders at Potsdam who agree to the bomb’s use, saying that despite the warnings of various scientists they were carried along by the tide of events. I’m not well read enough in history to know if that’s true, but I still find the decision to use the bomb unforgiveable.

I expected “The Bells of Nagasaki” to be an emotional and difficult book to read, and in places it was. To read starkly just what nuclear weapons can do to the human body is pretty horrible; and to hear of people’s suffering is awful. But this is such an important book, as the eye-witness account (composed, I believe, by Nagai on his deathbed) is a vital reminder of why we should never again use this kind of bomb (or frankly any kind of bomb – but that’s another story…) Nagai was obviously a brave man, his report of his experiences at Nagasaki is compelling and the book is unforgettable. Not a joyful read for the Japanese Literature Challenge but, I think, a very vital one.

*****

A few further thoughts:

I’ve written before on the Ramblings about the subject of nuclear conflict, as unfortunately since the human race developed the bomb the risk really hasn’t gone away…

Back in 2018, I read a book called “Gods of Metal” by Eric Schlosser; published in 2015 to make the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, it’s a sobering look at the state of the nuclear industry in the USA and just how close things are to a Chernobyl-like accident. It made stark reading, and had been brought about by another post of mine in 2018, when I examined a fascinating radio programme…

That Radio 4 show was a half-hour which really packed a punch. Professor Richard Clay’s “Two Minutes to Midnight” examined our attitude towards nuclear confict, whether we still had any fear of the bomb being dropped, and how close the ‘nuclear clock’ was to midnight. It was a fascinating, thought-provoking and rather worrying show which I highly recommend, and which you can still listen to here (thank you, BBC radio…) The programme had reminded me of those seminal books I had read on the subject of the WW2 use of nuclear bombs, particularly the aforementioned “Black Rain” and “Hiroshima”. As you can see from the image above, I had put my copy of “Bells…” with those other books and it has taken me this long to read it. The subject is one we tend to avoid, though with conflict breaking out all over the world I really do think it’s something humanity needs to address. In the meantime, I do recommend any of these books, and also Richard’s radio programme which really is powerful and fascinating.

As for my Japanese reading, I intend to read at least one more book for the challenge, although I suspect I will probably choose something a little lighter…

 

“…we have to come off the loser for having borrowed.” #InPraiseOfShadows #Tanizaki #japaneselitchallenge16

As I mentioned in my 2023 plans post, one event I always try to take part in is the Japanese Literature Challenge run by Dolce Bellezza; and I’ve been planning ahead for this January! I have a number of Japanese classics lurking in the stacks which I haven’t read and you can see from the pile below that I had plenty to choose from.

This year, I was determined to get to some titles which had been waiting for years, and the first book I picked up was a slim volume by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki – “In Praise of Shadows” (translated by Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker).

The quality that we call beauty…must always grow from the realities of life, and our ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty’s ends.

This little book, which I’ve had for decades, is an essay by the great Japanese author who’s probably best known for his fictions; these range from portrayals of destructive sexual and erotic obsessions to works which explore the rapid changes in 20th century Japanese society and the conflicts/contrasts between Western and Japanese cultures and ways of life. “In Praise…”, which was originally published in 1933, takes as look at Japanese aesthetics and the effect upon them by the introduction of Western-influenced modernisation; and it makes fascinating reading.

If my complaints are taken for what they are, however, there can be no harm in considering how unlucky we have been, what losses we have suffered, in comparison with the Westerner. The Westerner has been able to move forward in ordered steps, while we have met superior civilization and have had to surrender to it, and we have had to leave a road we havefollowed for thousands of years. The missteps and inconveniences this has caused have, I think, been many. If we had been left alone we might not be much further now in a material way that we were five hundred years ago. Even now in the Indian and Chinese countryside life no doubt goes on much as it did when Buddha and Confucius were alive. But we would have gone only a
direction that suited us. We would have gone ahead very slowly, and yet it is not impossible that we would one day have discovered our own substitute for the trolley, the radio, the airplane of today. They would have been no borrowed gadgets, they would have been the tools of our own culture, suited to us.

Tanizaki’s argument is in favour of the old ways; contrasting Japanese traditions of shade and shadow against bright electric lights, shining white sanitary fittings, and even clean and shining cutlery, he regrets the loss of the subtlety of traditional Japanese life. He discusses the glowing patina on a piece of aged wood; the use of space in living quarters; even the pleasure of beholding a woman in the shadows as opposed to bright lighting. Instead of being blinded by the glare of the modern world, Tanizaki makes a case for the nuance of candlelight and mourns the loss of the aesthetic he prefers to the bright and sanitised nature of Western culture.

We do not dislike everything that shines, but we do prefer a pensive luster to a shallow brilliance, a murky light that, whether in a stone or an artifact, bespeaks a sheen of antiquity.

“In Praise…” is a fascinating read, as much for its beautiful language as for Tanizaki’s lament for his lost world (I’ve quoted at length in this post, but could have pulled out so much more!) Interestingly, he starts his essay with a comparison of toilets, rejecting the hygenic modern bathrooms for old-style lavatories found in Japanese monsteries with wooden fittings – something bound to shock or surprise nowadays. Nevertheless, in our modern world full of bright lights, shining fiercely into every area of life, there’s much to be said for dimming the lanterns and relaxing into a more shadowed world. This was a lovely book, and a wonderful way to start off Japanese Literature Month. I think this is the first Tanizaki I’ve read – and I may have to see if I have any more of his books available on the TBR… 😊📚

Penguin Moderns 43 and 44 – more recent Japanese fiction plus a bit of a revelation

When I was casting about recently to see what other Japanese titles I had TBR which could be suitable for the Japanese Literature Challenge, I realised that one of the next two books in my Penguin Moderns series featured an author I’d wanted to read for quite some time – Yuko Tsushima. So it seemed a good idea to dip into these two titles, particularly as they were short and engaging during stressful work times earlier in the month!

Penguin Modern 43 – Of Dogs and Walls by Yuko Tsushima

Tsushima was a renowned author of fiction, essays and criticism whose work has had a recent renaissance in translation, with two full length works appearing in Penguin editions, as well as these stories in the Penguin Modern, all translated by Geraldine Harcourt. Born in 1946, she was the daughter of the sometimes controversial author Osamu Dazai, who committed suicide when she was one year old. The two stories in this collection, “The Watery Realm” and “Of Dogs and Walls” both seem to contain autobiographical elements, which I guess is not surprising…

You’re afraid of the water that stole your husband, but all you can do is consort with it. It’s always around you. As far as you’re concerned, he didn’t die, he turned to water. What happens on land vanishes in water, and the reverse is true, too. Water is your greatest fear…

“Watery…” is a beautifully written short work which intertwines narratives from a daughter and her mother, and explores their lives, as well as that of the daughter’s brother who suffers from learning difficulties. The narrative is as fluid as the watery images which pervade it, and looks back at the lost father who drowned himself with a lover (as did Dazai) as well as the relationship between mother and daughter and their misunderstandings. The narrative in “Of Dogs…” could almost be a continuation of the first story as again we have a mother, daughter and troubled brother. The story has a more conventional structure and is set at a later date where the characters are looking back to the sister and brother in their younger years, the dogs and houses of the families and the blurring effects of time on memories. In both cases, as I implied, it’s impossible not to read these stories autobiographically.

I’d heard good things about Tsushima’s writing and she certainly lives up to her reputation with these two short works (which I believe aren’t available anywhere else). Evocative, poignant and moving, the stories reveal the complexities of family relationships and explore how easy it is to misunderstand someone close to you. The story of the brother was particularly touching and the dream-like quality of the prose is haunting. A definite winner in the Penguin Modern set, and I shall obviously have to check out her other works in translation.

Penguin Modern 44 – Madame du Deffand and the Idiots by Javier Marias

Well, this was something of a surprise! I have only ever tried to read Javier Marias once – well, twice I suppose, as I had two goes at one book and didn’t get on with it so abandoned it. So when I picked this out of the Penguin Moderns set I had no expectations at all. It turns out that “Madame…” is non fiction; five short portrait of famous literary figures, translated by Margaret Jull Costa, and I absolutely loved them!!!

The pieces cover the title lady, Nabokov, Djuna Barnes, Oscar Wilde and Emily Bronte. They’re certainly brief, and each has a small picture heading the essay, but they’re sparkling, witty, slightly cheeky takes on each of the figures – and despite his often irreverent stance, Marias really does seem to have an affection for his subjects and captures them beautifully in wonderfully readable and entertaining prose. The Nabokov portrait was particularly affecting, as was that of Oscar, the latter looking at his life after he left prison – always something which makes me emotional.

This was a wonderful little gem of a Modern, and I enjoyed it so much that I’m sorely tempted to read the whole collection from which they’re drawn. I’m also obviously going to have to rethink my attitude towards Marias, because if I can enjoy his non fictions so much, maybe I *would* like his fictions – I’ll just have to try a different book to the one I failed with twice!

*****

This particular pair of Penguin Moderns were memorable and wonderful, both great introductions to authors whose work I need to explore further. Plus another read for the Japanese Literature Challenge! Has anyone any recommendations of where I should go if I fancy exploring Marias’ work further??

“All the demons of the modern age had been swept away…” #LifeForSale #Mishima #JapaneseLiteratureChallenge

Having spent some time in Japan with Uno Chiyo, I thought it would be nice to continue with my reading for the Japanese Literature Challenge, and as I featured in my start-of-the-year post, I did have a number of options – in particular two titles by the great Yukio Mishima. He’s another long-time favourite of mine, and I was so happy when previously untranslated works by him began to appear in English. I’ve recently read and enjoyed “The Frolic of the Beasts“ and “Star“ (which appeared as an extra edition no. 51 in the Penguin Moderns set). Another new title, published in English in 2019, and originally in Japan in 1968, is “Life for Sale” and so after an interesting, but not sparkling, experience with Uno Chiyo, I thought the Mishima might be a little livelier. Boy, was I right…

“Life for Sale”, translated by Stephen Dodd, opens with our protagonist, Hanio Yamada, coming round from an attempted suicide. As he’s failed to end his life, he now regards the latter as expendable and so offers it as a commodity for sale to the highest bidder. Having placed an ad to this effect in a Tokyo newspaper, he’s unprepared for the madness he seems to have unleashed as one crazy event happens after the other. An old man who hisses between his false teeth appears, wanting Hanio to have a fling with the old man’s ex, so that mobsters will kill them both. This does not go to plan, however, and Hanio is then drawn into a complicated plot involving a rare library book. Then there’s the affair of the vampire woman, whose son ends up bonding with Hanio. And the coded messages for Countries A and B. Then the affair with the druggy heiress with a posh annexe house. All the time Hanio has the feeling that he’s being watched. And who *is* this mysterious organisation called the Asia Confidential Service? As Hanio staggers from one madcap event to another, he begins to wonder what his life really *is* worth…

It was a strange, bright afternoon. An afternoon in which something gigantic had been misplaced, a spring afternoon that felt empty and full of light.

Well, “Life for Sale” is a hell of a read! The narrative itself is a rollercoaster of crazy happenings; I hesitate to use the word madcap for a book which actually explores quite dark material, but there *is* the feel of an old Hollywood screwball comedy at times, mixed with some of the violence and insanity of something like Dashiell Hammett’s “Red Harvest.” Hanio rattles from one adventure to another, all the while wondering what the point of anything is. It’s worth remembering that this book was published only two years before Mishima’s attempted political coup and ritual suicide, and certainly death seems to have been much on his mind. Also shining through is his contempt for modern Japanese culture and his hankering for the old ways. A telling part of the book for me was when Hanio encounters the heiress’s parents, who are content with their tranquil lifestyle, happy to wait for their death to come naturally. It’s rather chilling to comtemplate how the book kind of reflects his fatalistic frame of mind and lack of connection with life in the 1960s.

There he had been, putting all his effort into hurrying towards death. But here were a husband and wife in no hurry to die. A scattering of cherry-blossom petals, blown on the wind, lay in the garden. In the pleasant midday cool of a shaded room, the old man’s white hand turned the pages of his Tang poetry book. These people were taking all the time in the world to weave together their own deaths, calmly, as if quietly knitting sweaters in preparation for the coming winter. Where did such tranquility come from?

So Hanio expresses contempt for the modern hippie lifestyle, but is equally repelled by the concept of settling down to a ‘normal’ domestic life with the heiress. He’s a man constantly on the run, sometimes unsure it seems about what he’s running from, and it’s only when he realises that other forces are manipulating that his life starts to take on some value in his eyes – at least to the extent that if he is to die, he wants to control how this happens.

Via Wikimedia Commons – see here for attribution: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Yukio_Mishima_01.jpg

“Life…” was an absolutely fascinating and quite thought-provoking read, one I think I will have to go back to at some point and read again, to pick up the underlying nuances as I must confess I raced through the book to find out what would happen to Hanio. I really can’t understand why the book hasn’t been translated before; I know I’ve seen others mention that the new works to appear in English are minor works but “Life…” definitely seems to be have a lot more depth than you might think. Although styled like a pulp narrative, the underlying existentialist themes linger in the mind and end making the reader (at least this one!) wonder about the price of a life and whether we should strive for a steady, productive life or go all out for hedonism!

Mishima published his “Sea of Fertility” series, generally reckoned to be his finest work, during the 1960s and superficially this is a different beast from those books. But it seems to me that Mishima is always exploring the point of existence and although “Life…” looks at the topic in an ostensibly lighter way, I would argue that it’s by no means a minor work. I absolutely loved the book, and it’s definitely going to stay with me – a real winner for the Japanese Literature Challenge, and a really strong incentive to read more of the great man’s work! 😀

Exploring a pioneering woman author for the #JapaneseLiteratureChallenge #unochiyo

Well, I started the year with a number of tentative reading plans, which I thought were reasonably modest, but needless to say several have fallen by the wayside… Real Life has made complex reading plans impossible – even coping with one page of Finnegans Wake a day plus Durrell to a schedule wasn’t going to work alongside other reading I wanted to do and hellish times at work (my job is in a school…) So I abandoned those two, but have stuck with the Japanese Literature Challenge, and the first book I’ve read is the subject of today’s post!

I have, in fact, been wracking my brains to work out where I heard about this author; I know the book came to me in November 2020 or thereabouts, but I must have read about her somewhere. No doubt all will become clear at some point… Anyway, the book is The Sound of the Wind and the author is Uno Chiyo (to give her name in the correct way of her country, surname first). Uno was born in 1897 and died at the great age of 98, having lived through most of the 20th century, and during that time she was something of a pioneer. An author, a fashion designer, editor of a magazine and a real trendsetter, she had a considerable impact on the culture of her time and also the women of her time. “The Sound of the Wind”, first published in 1992 (by Peter Owen in this country), brings together an account of her life by Rebecca L. Copeland, together with translations of three of her works (presumably rendered into English by Copeland, although that isn’t made clear). As the book has notes, a bibliography and a section of images of Uno over the years, it therefore should be the perfect introduction to Uno’s life and work.

And in some respects it is… Uno’s life was certainly full of drama; married multiple times, often to younger men; bobbing her hair in a Western style and adopting Western fashions; having lovers, being betrayed and negotiating all manner of business ups and downs; certainly, Uno lived a memorable life! The biographical section of the book covers this in detail, exploring Uno’s early years, her marriages and the traumas they brought, how her life experiences informed her work, and how she negotiated all the changes which took place in the Japan of the 20th century, ending up being recognised by the Emperor which gave her formal status as a writer. Some of the things she had to deal with would have floored the strongest of women, so her story is inspiring.

However, I must admit to struggling a little with the narrative of Uno’s life and if I’m honest I didn’t find that the biography really sparked at any point. The book has an academic dryness, there’s something of a distance between subject and reader, and I did wonder if this was because much of the narrative is drawn from Uno’s own memoirs which are, as Copeland implies, quite selective. I ended up feeling a bit detached from the story Copeland was trying to tell and never really felt as if I got close to the personality of Uno. Of course, when the book was published the author was still alive, and I don’t know whether this impacted at all on how Copeland wrote about her subject – but I would have liked a little more warmth in the story, somehow. However, despite the dryness of the tone, Uno’s story is a compelling one and where the narrative excels is by providing a marvellous overview of the context in which she was writing. That background is particularly useful when considering a woman author during the period, particularly in a country subject to such cultural shifts.

Unknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

As for the actual works, these are “The Puppet-Maker“, “The Sound of the Wind” and “This Powder Box“. All three are discussed in Copeland’s biography, where she gives the background from Uno’s life which informed them, and certainly it seems that the author drew very much on her own experience for her fictions, barely bothering to conceal the real sources! The first story is of a kind she turned to later in her writing career, an almost journalistic technique where she interviews someone for their life story and frames it with a narrative of her meeting them. “The Sound of the Wind” and “This Powder Box” draw on Uno’s relationships, in particular a scandalous one where she hooked up with a man who had survived a love-suicide pact (the woman survived too). “The Sound of the Wind” is rather shocking in that the narrator is a naive 16 year old who’s married off and suffers for her love, yet never seems capable of recognising the abuse she receives from her husband or how badly she’s being treated. She’s in effect blinded by her illusions of love. Uno’s stories are fascinating reading, and interestingly one of the things which seems to have made her stand out amongst Japanese women authors is her ability to convincingly write in the male voice.

So my first reading of Uno Chiyo, both her biography and her work was interesting, and I’d definitely like to read more of her writing. I’d also be keen on finding a work about her that was a little more lively and engaging; Copeland does tell the tale, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it a wee bit of a slog at times. Intriguing, though – and my first read for the Japanese Literature Challenge is one which has definitely left me wanting more! 😀

Welcoming 2022 with some tentative reading plans… 😳😊

Following on from yesterday’s highlights of 2021, it’s first of all time to wish you all a very Happy New Year! Let’s hope that 2022 is a little less fractious than last year was… I did promise that I would take a look today at possible reading plans and events which might be coming up, although as usual I’m a bit reluctant to commit to too much as I always prefer to following my reading whims!

Of course, I’m already involved in one event which started appropriately enough in December and is carrying on into 2022 – the Narniathon! I really enjoyed my reacquaintance with “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” last month, and January will see me reading “Prince Caspian“. I’m hoping that because the books are slim I should be able to keep up the momentum.

January *is*. however, a month with some challenges, and I shall most definitely be taking part in! The first is the Japanese Literature Challenge, hosted by Meredith and you can find out more about this here.

Some lovely Mishimas and an intriguing collection from Uno Chiyo

As you can see from the image, there are some titles which are immediately shouting at me from the TBR, but it wouldn’t take me long to pick out some more!

Then there’s the first of Annabel’s challenges, NORDIC Finds, which features books from any of the five Nordic countries – Finland, Iceland, Norway, Denmark and Sweden.

Tove Ditlevsen and Edith Sodergran – both intriguing possibilities for January!

Again I do have a few obvious titles shouting at me from the TBR, any one of which would be a lovely read; but I’d also be keen to explore further from any of the countries. I read a *lot* of Scandi-crime and a fair amount of Icelandic crime pre-blog so I’m not sure if I would revisit these. But there’s lot’s more out there and Annabel has more guidance on her blog, plus a list of featured books for each week.

Then there’s the LibraryThing Virago Modern Classics group monthly themed read. January is for books featuring nuns, teachers or governesses, and a quick dig in the TBR revealed these possible unread titles:

The two Kate Fansler titles are perhaps stretching things a little, as she’s a university lecturer turned detective, but they *are* Viragos, so we shall see!

Added to all this, there’s the temptation of Twitter readalongs, and two are calling at the moment – Finnegans Wake and Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. I really would like to commit to these two, but frankly am not sure if I would keep up – I anticipate it being a bit manic when I return to work next week, so we shall have to see…

Apart from these events, if I’m truly honest I would like to make a big dent in Mount TBR; it has grown considerably over the Christmas period, as you might have seen, and some of the older books on it could probably do with a bit of a prune. Meantime, here are some titles which are calling particularly strongly; whether I will have the brain space for them when I go back to work next week is another matter, but I will certainly try!!

Lots of very inviting titles…

So, plenty of choices for me… Are there any there which appeal to you? And do you have reading plans for 2022 or are you just prepared to wing it?? 🤣🤣