Well, we've just about made it to the end of our month of Japanese delights, but there is one more stop before we say farewell to the land of the rising sun. The last day of January brings the reviews of our chosen group readalong, and happily it is a good one. Don't believe me? Well, the judges for the 2012 Man Asian Literary Prize (who chose it for their short-list) beg to differ ;)
*****
Hiromi Kawakami's The Briefcase (translated by Allison Markin Powell) is a brief but powerful novel about the development of a rather unusual relationship. Set in present-day Tokyo (largely in a Japanese bar, or 'izakaya'), it tells of a chance meeting between Tsukiko, a single woman closing in on forty, and her old Japanese teacher Harutsuna Matsumoto - the man she simply calls 'Sensei'.
What begins as occasional drunken conversations in the bar turns into a much closer friendship. The odd couple go for long walks, embark on shopping trips, have dinner together, and later even go mushroom hunting. The two enjoy their friendship, but with an age gap like theirs, surely there can't be romance here - can there?
The Briefcase is a bitter-sweet love story, a development of the rather unorthodox relationship between two people who stand out a little from the crowd. Sensei is retired and divorced, an old man, but one who is always dapper in his suit (and with his briefcase ever in hand). Beginning as a figure of fun, his character is sketched out a little more with each appearance, allowing the reader to get to know him just as Tsukiko does.
Tsukiko though is very different from the good-natured former teacher. She is reclusive, spiky, and adept at avoiding affection. Her life is empty, virtually devoid of meaningful relationships, as she realises when she tries to analyse her connection to Sensei:
"When I tried to think whom I spent time with before I became friendly with Sensei, no-one came to mind. I had been alone. I rode the bus alone, I walked around the city alone, I did my shopping alone, and I drank alone."
p.25 (Counterpoint Press, 2012)
In fact, while the reader initially struggles to accept the May-to-December nature of the relationship, later on it is Tsukiko's (in)ability to surrender her independence which is of more interest. Can she even allow herself to enter into a real, mature relationship?
The Briefcase is an enjoyable novel to read due to the episodic nature of the text. The story is divided into seventeen chapters of fairly equal length, taking us unhurriedly through the build-up of the relationship (in fact, it is very similar to The Old Capital in this regard...). There are three two-chapter sections (Mushroom Hunting, The Cherry Blossom Party, The Island) spaced out over the novel, each one a turning point in the relationship. It all makes for a very smooth read.
Of course, the success of the novel hangs entirely on how believable Sensei and Tsukiko's relationship is, and Kawakami handles this very well. Before starting, I thought it might be a little like Yoko Ogawa's The Housekeeper and the Professor (a book I liked but didn't find particularly special), but that wasn't the case. The relationship progresses naturally, convincing us not only that it is possible, but also that it is natural, and the addition of a catalyst in the shape of Kojima, Tsukiko's old classmate, helps to push the story along when it is in danger of drifting.
The way the story is written means that the reader experiences events through the eyes of Tsukiko (Sensei, even as we learn more about his past, remains fairly enigmatic to the end). It is tempting to look at Tsukiko and wonder why she is so attracted to spending time with Sensei - and why she is so alone in the first place. She drifts by without analysing the relationship much, at least until the stay on the island:
"Since
when had Sensei and I become close like this? At first, Sensei had
been a distant stranger. An old, unfamiliar man who in the far-away
beyond had been a high school teacher of mine. Even once we began
chatting now and then, I still barely ever looked at his face. He was
just an abstract presence, quietly drinking his saké in the seat next to
mine at the counter." p.126
In many ways, she is rather childish and immature, often blurting out the first thing that comes into her head. Of course, there is another, more disturbing way to account for her behaviour. Perhaps she is merely unable to sacrifice her personality for a partner in the way the patriarchal Japanese society demands...
All in all, The Briefcase is an excellent book, well drawn out and thoroughly believable. There are a few moments of kitch, and a little melodrama towards the close of the novel, but Kawakami rescues it nicely with the ending. I'll certainly be getting myself a copy of Manazuru at some point, and I'm already looking forward to the new one in English (Strange Weather from Tokyo), out from Portobello Books later this year - as you may have gathered, this was just a retitled UK version of The Briefcase :(. All that remains to say is that if you haven't read this, you could do worse than give it a try...
...oh, and good luck to Kawakami for the Man Asian Literary Prize :)
*****
You've read my thoughts on the book - why not see how others found it?
Beauty is a Sleeping Cat
ANZ LitLovers LitBlog
Winstonsdad's Blog
In Spring it is the Dawn
brilliant years
January in Japan is almost over for 2013, but we do have one final J-Lit Giant to introduce to you - and today's choice is a writer keen followers of my blog might just be familiar with... Off you go, then ;)
Pushkin Press, one of my favourite publishers, is well known for its European fiction, but (alas) it hasn't had any J-Lit on its books - that is, until now. You see, in 2013 Pushkin is going Japanese by bringing out four books from J-Lit bad boy Ryu Murakami. As you can tell from my picture, they won't be out for a while yet, but if this first taste is anything to go by, they'll be worth the wait :)
*****
Coin Locker Babies (translated by Stephen Snyder) gets off to an explosive start. A woman leaves an unwanted baby in a train station coin locker in Tokyo, but the boy is luckily found before he comes to too much harm. The officials name him Kikuyuki, and he is sent off to an orphanage where he eventually becomes friends with Hashio, the only other of that summer's coin locker babies to survive.
Kiku and Hashi become inseparable, but after Hashi displays some unusual behaviour, the two boys are packed off to see a psychiatrist. His unorthodox techniques have short-term benefits, but the two boys are destined to have trouble later in life. Kiku takes up athletics in an attempt to control his latent anger while Hashi's way of coping with reality, one he adopts after running away to Tokyo, is slightly more glamorous...
Coin Locker Babies is a bleak look at what happens when you have a bad start in life. Kiku and Hashi, rejected by an uncaring society, grow up to plan revenge for its negligence. While Hashi is at times suicidal and full of self-loathing, the enigmatic Kiku is slightly more homicidal, hatching a secret plan to take revenge on the city that spawned him. Ever heard of DATURA? No? Well, that's probably for the best ;)
A very unfamiliar city it is too. While the usual bright lights of the metropolis are there, Murakami invents a new area of Tokyo. Toxitown is an abandoned quarter, a chemical waste dump surrounded by barbed-wire fencing and government security officers with automatic weapons. However, it's far from impossible to get in, and once you do, you find yourself in a parallel society where anything is possible. Sex, drugs, rock and roll and casual violence - for a pair of messed up kids with a death wish, it's just like coming home.
It's hard to avoid comparisons with a certain other Japanese writer, and not just because of the name.
The two Murakamis were born just a few years apart and burst onto the literary scene around the same time. Both write books about people who feel alienated from Japanese society - but the similarities stop there. While Haruki writes fairytale fantasies, Ryu's tales (on the strength of this one) are decidedly more Grimm. Haruki's characters exist on the margins of respectable life; Ryu's live deep in the alternative underground world. Haruki's creations are trying to cope with society, but Ryu's are attempting to destroy it...
Coin Locker Babies is a great story, a 500-page novel which avoids the usual quaint J-Lit clichés and takes a good hard look at the underbelly of Japanese society. There are no tea ceremonies or beautiful gardens here - it's urban sprawl for most of the way. As Hashi muses:
"From outer space, Tokyo must look like a big, bright blob with no place to hide from the light. It seemed to penetrate every barrier, the smokiest glass, the thickest membrane, to find its way into every corner of every room, every nook and cranny, every bird's nest and beehive. There was nowhere to run, nowhere they couldn't find you by your shadow."
p.70 (Pushkin Press, 2013)
Kiku eventually ends up down in Okinawa, swapping the urban jungle for the real thing, but no matter how hard the two boys try, they can't escape their fate. Despite all apparent progress, they are still trapped in a prison of sorts:
"Nothing had changed, not one thing - not since he'd let out that first scream in the coin locker. The locker was bigger, maybe; the new one had a pool and gardens, with a band, people wandering about half-naked, and you could keep pets - yes, this one had all kinds of shit: museums, movie theatres, and mental hospitals - but it was still a huge coin locker, and no matter how many layers of camouflage you had to dig through if you felt like digging, in the end you still ran up against a wall." p.400
Don't expect a happy ending...
*****
To finish off, I thought I'd just let you know of Pushkin's plans for Ryu Murakami in 2013. They will be releasing four of his novels in May (currently scheduled for 9/5/2013). This one, 69 and Popular Hits of the Showa Era are all rereleases of previous translations, but From the Fatherland with Love is being published in an English translation for the very first time. Whether you're a fan or not, this is great news for J-Lit lovers (and a welcome new direction for Pushkin Press)...
...you'll have to wait a few months to get your copies though ;)
January is drawing to a close, but January in Japan is not quite done with yet! Over at the blog today, we have more Nichi-Yōbi News, with a reminder about our readalong, more fun links and details of another giveaway. This way, please :)
After our trip to Tokyo, it's time for a change of scenery - from the new capital, to the old one. Today's choice is a book every bit as elegant and calming as its cover would suggest. It's time to just sit back and watch the cherry blossoms...
*****
The Old Capital (revised 2006 translation by J. Martin Holman) is one of Yasunari Kawabata's masterpieces. It is set in Kyoto in the 1950s and introduces the reader to Chieko, the adopted daughter of a traditional Kimono wholesaler. The beautiful young woman has known for some time that her mother and father are not her real parents, but discrepancies in the way they tell the story of her 'kidnapping' make her wonder what really happened.
As Chieko drifts from festival to festival, admiring trees, flowers and hand-crafted kimonos, she begins to think about her future, and three young men begin to come into focus against the crowd of other acquaintances. Soon though it is her past that starts to influence her life, and a chance encounter is to change everything...
The Old Capital is one of the three works cited by the committee when awarding Kawabata the Nobel Prize, and it is easy to see why. It is a beautiful novel, typical of Kawabata's work in the way it subtly explores the steady changes to traditional Japanese life. The story shows how post-war Japan is moving on, leaving certain aspects of its history and tradition behind. Traditional businesses are starting to fade away as imported business techniques take hold, and artisans struggle to find and train successors; the next generation is not always interested in continuing the traditions.
This story is told against the backdrop of the beautiful city of Kyoto, and The Old Capital is full of luscious descriptions of nature. Every temple and festival has its own special flower - the weeping willows bow to the ground, the tall cedars tower over gravel walkways, their branches forming an awe-inspiring canopy above the people walking through the park... Kawabata contrasts the ephemeral nature of the blossoms, and the beauty of young women, with the lasting splendour of the mountains and temples.
Like many Japanese novels, this one is played out against the changing seasons, a story in a year, allowing us to see the city in all its guises - and its many traditional festivals. While this cycle of life may suggest the idea of permanence though, even here change is evident. Some of the festivals are being abandoned for lack of money, or interest, and one of the main festivals is shown to be a fairly recent innovation. Despite the slow pace of change, it is coming, and it is inevitable. As Chieko's father says when he goes to look at a possible new house, seeing the spread of inns in the area:
"The house itself
is all right, but this just won't do," Takichiro whispered as he stood
at the gate. "I wonder if time will turn all of Kyoto into nothing but
inns... "
p.128 (Counterpoint Press, 2006)
This prediction of possible change in Kyoto is a prescient one, as anyone who has visited Kansai more recently will know...
Rather than the plot though, the beauty of The Old Capital lies in the way Kawabata sketches the surface of the story, leaving the reader to imagine what lies beneath. The best word to describe the writing is subtle: conversations are laden with deeper meaning which the reader has to unearth; true feelings are concealed beneath the exterior, requiring us to peel back the layers. To understand the book, we need to find what is implied, not explicitly stated. An example of this is a conversation Chieko has with her childhood friend, Shin'ichi:
"Are you completely obedient to your parents?"
"Yes, completely."
"Even when it comes to something like marriage?"
"Yes. For now I intend to be obedient," Chieko answered without hesitation.
"What about yourself? Don't you have your own feelings?" Shin'ichi asked.
"Having too many seems to cause trouble."
"So you suppress them... you stifle your feelings?"
"No, not that."
"You're speaking nothing but riddles." (p.17)
It's good to see that, at times, the characters can be as confused as the reader ;)
We are never quite sure what the main impetus of the novel is, whether we are hoping to find out the secret of Chieko's birth or learn who will steal her heart. In the end, of course, it doesn't really matter (which is a good thing as Kawabata is unlikely to tell us...). As with other classic J-Lit works, there is no neat end - the reader must make their own judgement...
...or you can just sit and look at the pretty flowers - your choice ;)
After a week spent in constant danger of running into molten lava, I thought that a change of pace might be nice. Today then we're heading back to 1912 to spend a little time relaxing in the Tokyo pleasure quarter of Shimbashi, in the company of some rather accomplished women. Is your obi tied correctly? The rickshaws are waiting...
*****
Nagai Kafu's Rivalry - A Geisha's Tale (translated by Stephen Snyder, published by Columbia University Press) is an excellent trip through the world of the fascinating Japanese courtesans. It begins with a chance encounter at a theatre, as Yoshioka, a successful businessman, notices a face from the past. His conversation with the beautiful Komayo is our ticket into the hidden world of the geisha.
Komayo, formerly known as Komazo, had retired from her career as a geisha after marrying one of her clients and moving to the provinces. However, after her husband's death, a combination of homesickness and her new family's attitude brings her back to Tokyo. She returns to Shimbashi and the career she thought she had put behind her - and for the new girl in town, picking up again with the brash Yoshioka might just be the break she needs.
However, it's not quite as easy as all that. Yoshioka already has a geisha dependent on him, one who is unlikely to take kindly to the idea of losing her benefactor. In the slightly incestuous atmosphere of Shimbashi, this is always going to cause problems. And, of course, in accepting the patronage of a wealthy man, Komayo is going to be in big trouble if she really loses her heart to another man...
Nagai was no stranger to the delights of the pleasure quarters, and some of his best writing is set in and around these areas. He portrays a parallel society, one far removed from the conventional office and home environment, where men stray from the 'other' Tokyo in search of entertainment, companionship and (occasionally) a little more. Shimbashi is described as a pressure valve, a place to let off a little steam:
"Yoshioka's need to experience the carnal delights of civilized society was not unlike the urge that in ancient times led men to mount their steeds and chase wild beasts across the plains, to kill them and eat their flesh; the same urge that led medieval warriors to don fine armor and shed their blood on the field of combat. They all were simply manifestations of that pathetic, and yet seemingly limitless, human energy known as desire. With the advance of civilization, this energy was transformed, expressing itself now as the pursuit of luxury and pleasure, or else as the will to dominate in the business world. Fame, wealth and women - these were the driving forces in the life of the modern man."
p.70 (Columbia University Press, 2007)
I suppose, as a hobby, it beats fox hunting...
What makes the setting of Rivalry so intriguing is the gradual uncovering of a whole interdependent society. The centres of this world are the theatres, where actors, the leading lights of the quarter, entertain the hordes of businessmen and their female companions. Later, the audience might head off to a tea house, where they will listen to music played by their favourite geisha, or perhaps indulge in a little harmless flirting. Behind the scenes though, there are thousands of other people dependent on this night-life: maids, rickshaw drivers, bath house attendants, kimono makers... The more we read of Rivalry, the further we are allowed to see into this world.
Which is not to say there's no real plot to the book. Our focus is principally on Komayo, our guide to the world of the 'water trade'. She is both an old hand and a new face, and in her attempts to adjust to life back in the quarter, the reader is slowly inducted into the secrets of the geisha. We see the sacrifices she makes and the unpleasant side of her profession, one which strides an unsteady path between skilled artisan and sex toy. There is no judgement here though - Nagai is just telling it how it is...
What exactly is it he's telling us though? Is Rivalry glorifying the geisha, à la Memoirs of a Geisha? Is he showing the reader how the profession empowers women? Is he lamenting a system of sexual quasi-slavery? Erm, the answer to all those questions is probably no. The book concentrates on description, not proscription, and it is up to the reader to make up their own mind about how palatable it all is.
In fact, Rivalry is probably not best read in an analytical way but in a historical light. It's a book which, for its size, contains a vast array of characters, each there to describe the pleasure quarters in more detail. The more people we meet (and the more they interact with each other), the more we see of the intricate, tangled web of relationships upon which Shimbashi rests. The book is less about Komayo than about creating a picture of the time and place she lived in. Don't worry though, it all makes for pleasant reading - and (unlike many J-Lit classics) this one has an ending to look forward to :)
I was always planning to read something by Natusme Soseki (my inaugural J-Lit Giant!) for January in Japan, and I was wondering whether to try his late classic, Grass on the Wayside, or a collection of stories inspired by his time in England, The Tower of London. However, as regular readers will know, I enjoy finding connections between the books I'm reading, so when I finished reading Shusaku Endo's Volcano, I knew there was only one possible choice for my next book...
*****
The 210th Day (translated by Sammy I. Tsunematsu) is an entertaining novella based on a real-life trip the writer took with a friend in September 1899. Two men, the educated Roku and the rough-and-ready tofu seller Kei, have decided to climb Mount Aso, a volcanic peak in the centre of Kyushu, and the story details their adventures as they stay at traditional inns and go wandering through the countryside. The story is told in the present tense and mainly consists of the slightly rambling conversations the two men have on their trip.
The volcano draws immediate parallels with Endo's work (the fictional Akadake of Volcano is based on the south-Kyushu volcano of Sakurajima), but that's where the similarities end. Natsume's work is a piece of fun, consisting of the same joke-filled dialogues that punctuated his first work, I am a Cat. In fact, if you're looking for something to compare it to, you'd be more likely to reference Three Men in a Boat than any J-Lit classics.
Of course, there is more to The 210th Day than knockabout humour. The volcano is not just a fiery mountain, the destination for Kei and Roku's weekend walk; it is a commonly-used literary symbol in Japan, one I've come across three times in a week (if anyone can tell me the Murakami short story I saw it in, ten J-Lit spotter points are yours!), and here it represents the potential for change in Japanese society. The excitable Kei frequently engages his friend in discussions on the possibility of changing the world, to the amusement of the laid-back (and better off) Roku:
"Even if one wants them, there are lots of things society does not allow, aren't there?"
"That's why I said 'the poor creatures!' If one is born into an unjust society, it can't be helped. Whether it permits it or not, is not of much importance. The main thing is to want it oneself."
"And what if one wants to be something and still does not become it?"
"Whether or not one becomes it is not the problem. One has to want it. By wanting it, one causes society to permit it, " says Kei in peremptory tones.
pp.24/5 (Tuttle Press, 2002)
Kei is certain of the possibility of revolution, of turning society upside down and ensuring that everyone has a chance to live life to the fullest. While it sounds fanciful, the book was first published in 1915 - just a couple of years before the Russian Revolution...
Despite the social themes which the writer would return to in later, more mature, works, The 210th Day is more closely connected to Natsume's early books, mainly because of its comical nature. Roku is not really cut out for wandering around in the mountains, struggling with sore toes and a dodgy tummy. Despite this, he manages to keep his sense of humour:
"Whenever you say 'whatever happens' you finally get the better of me. A little while back, too, because of your 'whatever happens' I ended up eating udon. If I now get dysentery, it will be because of your 'whatever happens'."
"It doesn't matter. I will accept responsibility."
"What good does that do me, your accepting the responsibility for my illness? After all, you yourself are not going to be ill in my place!"
"Don't worry. I'll look after you. I shall be infected myself and see to it that you are saved."
"Oh, really? That reassures me. Oh well, I'll go on a bit further." (pp.62-3)
If that sounds like two men just talking rubbish - well, that pretty much sums up the book ;)
The 210th Day is an interesting read, but it's probably only one for the Soseki completists. It's fairly slight, in both depth and pages, compared to his more famous works, and the translation is not the best I've seen. Tsunematsu has perhaps been a little too faithful to the text, translating it in a rather old-fashioned style of English which (for me) doesn't really suit the kind of story it is (on a side note, translations can be an issue with Natsume Soseki - I have ten of his works, and virtually all of them have been translated by different people...).
Still, if you do happen to come across a copy, it's a pleasant way to while away an hour or so. I won't reveal whether or not our two friends ever actually manage to reach the top of the mountain, but that is most definitely not the point. The journey, as is often the case in Japanese literature, is of much more importance than the destination. The reader just has to strap on their hiking boots and go along for the ride :)
