It is the 16th year of Dolce Bellezza’s remarkable Japanese Literature Challenge – in the old days for some reason we “challenged” people to read – which reminded me, as it often has, that I have never read anything by Natsumi Sōseki, the earliest of the greatest 20th century Japanese novelists, This year, finally, I read a Sōseki book, Kokoro (1914), written near the end of his short career. Donald Keene, in his enormous literary history Dawn to the West: Fiction (, 340) calls it “the finest of Sōseki’s mature works,” so just what I wanted.
For half the novel, a purposeless college student, a classic
feckless youth, describes his unusual friendship with a much older man who he
calls Sensei, in part because he learns from their talk than from his
Sōseki does not give a hint of what they talk about. The
second half of the novel is Sensei’s long letter justifying his suicide. He committed a sin when he was in college that
led to a suicide and, for him, a lifetime of guilt.
There were even times when I longed for some stranger to come along and flog me as I deserved. At some stage this feeling transformed into a conviction that it should be I who hurt myself. And then the thought struck me that I should not just hurt myself but kill myself. At all events, I resolved that I must live my life as if I were already dead. (Ch. 108, 229. Tr. Meredith McKinney)
This is the ethos of the entire letter, of this character’s entire
life, really. “[A] character study of an
egotist” is what Di at The little white attic calls Sensei’s letter, which is
grim and distancing, although psychologically completely believable. Keene says that is why the novel is successful:
The success of the novel, however, owes less to such echoes of Sōseki’s personal life than to his novelistic skill. The characters are believable and there are scenes of dramatic tension… (340)
Keene, I tell you, really knows how to undersell.
The Japanese Literature Challenge also reminded me that I
have plenty of Junichiro Tanizaki to read, so I tried a pair of novellas
packaged together, The Reed Cutter (1932) and Captain Shigemoto’s Mother
(1949), both translated by Anthony H. Chambers.
The novellas have in common a use of old poem-stuffed Japanese literary
forms. The Reed Cutters begins as
a poetic travelogue, like The Tale of Ise or Basho’s The Narrow Road
to Oku, while Captain Shigemoto’s Mother, clearly a product of
Tanizaki’s years translating The Tale of Genji into modern Japanese,
belongs to the Heian era, wandering among historical figures before gelling
into a single, pathetic story.
I enjoyed the literary frames a lot, but I suppose it does
help to know that they are genre exercises.
Like Basho, the narrator of The Reed Cutter travels to various
sites because other travels have written poems about them, and then he in turn adds
his own poem to the history, or by the end of the novella, a ghost story. Later travelers can visit the site and remember
the story, or look for the ghost.
The Reed Cutter features another of Tanizaki’s
favorite submissive-dominant sexual relationships, although in this case it is clear
that the psychology is what really interests Tanizaki, not the sex, since here
the three characters are all celibate.
Captain Shigemoto’s Mother has some similarly odd
stuff, including a scene where a man steals the chamber pot of the woman he
loves in order to cure himself of his love for her. It doesn’t work. The scene is like an audacious Japanese parody
of Jonathan Swift’s 1732 poem “The Lady’s Dressing Room.” The novella’s end, when the mother and son in
the title are finally reunited, has its pathetic beauty (“like a child secure
in his mother’s love, he wiped his tears again and again with her sleeve”, 180)
but it is likely that chamber pot scene that will linger.