While January in Japan is a time to catch up with some of my favourite Japanese writers, I also like to look at some more classical texts, and when it comes to classic J-Lit, you can't really go much further back than today's choice. We're going back in time with a book first written at the start of the eighth century - the content, however, dates from much earlier than that...
*****
The Kojiki (translated by Gustav Heldt, review copy courtesy of Columbia University Press and Australian distributor Footprint Books) is, as it says on the cover, an account of ancient matters. The book was compiled by an official of the court (Ō no Yasumaro) in an attempt to codify the many versions of the Japanese ruling family's genealogy. All of which sounds innocent enough, until you realise that the Emperor and his family actually claimed divine descent from the gods themselves, a fact that allowed certain liberties to be taken over a thousand years later...
The work itself is divided into three books, roughly equating to the eras of myth, legend and history. In the first, the reader is treated to the Japanese creation myth, in which a collection of spirits appear, later begetting the first big names in the pantheon, Izanagi (He Who Beckoned) and his sister Izanami (She Who Beckoned). While their methods of creating the Japanese archipelago are unusual (and slightly incestuous), unfortunately, the nation's gender roles are established right from the beginning of the country, when a couple of false starts with the creation of the Japanese homeland are blamed on Izanami's temerity in speaking first...
Later we get to meet Amaterasu (Heaven Shining), the ruler of all heaven, and her destructive brother Susa-no-o (Rushing Raging Man) and learn what happened when she fled to the underworld (and how she was persuaded to return). The section ends with a shift from the age of spirits to the world below:
"And with these commands, the mighty one Ripening Rice Ears Lad of Heaven left his stone-firm seat in heaven and pushed through layer after layer of heaven's trailing clouds. After solemnly selecting his path, he stood tall on the floating bridge of heaven, then descended to the wondrous ancient peak of Mount Thousand Rice Ears Tall in Sunward on Land's End to reside there."
p.50 (Columbia University Press, 2014)
Better known as Hiko-ho-no-ninigi, this spirit is the one who will be the ancestor of the mortal rulers to come.
The second book begins with the voyage of the first (mythical) Japanese Emperor Jinmu as he travels from Kyushu to the Nara region, subduing rivals as he goes. As we move from ruler to ruler, the writer describes their wives, offspring and notable actions whilst on the throne. While this part is more concerned with the exploits of men than spirits, we're still very much in the realm of fantasy, with several Emperors living far beyond a century (and one described precisely as being 10 feet 3 inches tall...).
There's a focus here on war, with many Emperors winning fame by forcing 'barbarian' tribes, including some across the water in Silla and Paekche (Korea), to submit to the Yamato forces. It's mostly written in a sombre tone, but there is the odd note of unintentional humour:
"Now the mighty one Pacified Land Lad shot an arrow that straightaway struck the mighty prince Clay Calmed Brave, slaying him.
So his force was shattered, and they fled, scattering.
And so their foes chased after the fleeing force, pursuing them to the ford of Camphor Leaves, where they were so hard pressed that they soiled their breeches.
Hence that place was named Soiled Breeches. (Nowadays it is called Camphor Leaves.)" (pp.86/7)
It's probably for the best that they changed the name back...
In the final book, the story turns to more historical figures, and the focus on the otherwordly starts to disappear. Having vanquished most foes, now it's time for the Yamato to turn on each other, with much of the book taken up with power struggles between scheming brothers, each of whom is eager for the ultimate power ( a warning - there will be blood...). The other main theme here is romance, with many of the Emperors using their time between murders to compose impromptu songs in an attempt to court comely maidens, a sign of things to come in later classic Japanese literature :)
The Kojiki has a lot to interest those with a strong passion for Japanese literature, but I'd have to caution the casual reader - this isn't a book anyone can just pick up and speed through. The style is a rolling, clipped prose, reminiscent of the language (in English) of Beowulf or the Greek myths. There's also a fascination (understandably, given the book's origins) with the royal lineage, and in the second and third books in particular, there are pages filled with '...and ruled over all under heaven from there...' and 'This sovereign of heaven took to wife...'. Believe me - some of these rulers did nothing but rule under heaven and take women to wife...
Some of you may also have noticed that many of the names above, both of people and places, look rather... well, unjapanese, and that's because Heldt made the decision to transfer them all into English. It was probably a wise decision as these names can be very long (and similar), but it does make things confusing if you do know a little about the creation myths, as you're constantly trying to connect the Japanese and translated names. Still, there's a wonderful glossary at the end of the book (with maps!), and the names Heldt has chosen are, for the most part, suitably elegant and poetic :)
A book for J-Lit purists rather than newcomers, then, but it is an essential read if you have more than a superficial interest in the culture. Just as the Bible and the classic Greek texts underpin much of western literature, so too does The Kojiki inform later Japanese culture, if not always for the better. As I mentioned above, there is a dark side to tracing back your royal family's origins to the gods - this connection to the spirits allowed Japanese nationalists to harp on the unique nature of the Japanese people, with tragic consequences during the first half of the twentieth century. Myths are all well and good, provided that they're not used as justification for exploitation and war...
*****
Footprint Books, as always, assure me that this book is available in Australia, either at bookshops or through their website :)
Today I'm taking a short break from German Literature Month to return to my major project for the year, my self-education in the world of Korean literature, and this review looks at more work from an excellent writer I discovered this year. It's a wonderful collection of stories, definitely a book I'd recommend - and it's rather pretty too :)
*****
O Chong-hui's River of Fire and Other Stories (translated by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton, review copy courtesy of Columbia University Press and Australian distributor Footprint Books) is a nice selection of stories from a writer described in the afterword as the current matriarch of female Korean writing. This collection of nine stories is a kind of retrospective, a journey through her writing career, from her very first attempt at being published in the late sixties right up to a story from the mid-nineties.
It begins with 'The Toy Shop Woman', O's debut piece and one which won the 1968 New Writers Award. The story follows a young, emotionally-scarred woman as she raids a classroom for money and objects to sell, before walking to an old toy shop. As is to become O's trademark, the story slowly widens the scope, allowing the reader to see what has brought her to this point, a story of family hardship - and a collection of dolls. A clever, female-centred, multi-layered tale, it's very different to a lot of Korean writing
This female focus continues in the following stories, each of which features a housewife trapped in a dull relationship. In 'One Spring Day', a woman waits for a husband to return to their run-down home, a place of both comfort and boredom:
"Peace filled our home, imbued my relationship with Sungu, a peace absolute and invulnerable in which no leaf on a tree could be disturbed. But what had I sacrificed for it? Our relationship was like stagnant water - stale, peaceful."
'One Spring Day', p.18 (Columbia University Press, 2012)
Things are very similar in 'A Portrait of Magnolias', in which a woman with a troubled past attempts to move on from her cheating husband. Sadly, post-separation life is no better than the sad time she spent as a housewife.
In the title story, a couple find themselves trapped in a working-class existence, and while the wife does her best to keep things together, the man is only too eager to escape each night, unable to stand life in the apartment:
Even though he took an artisan's pride in his work, I was surprised at the loathing I detected in his voice.
"All I ever hear is the machine, whether I'm at home or on the bus. I feel like the pedals are attached to my ears. Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. Your breathing at night - that gets me thinking of the machine too. It really bothers me - I don't want to be stuck in a cage like a squirrel turning a wheel for the rest of my life."
'River of Fire', p.59
The pressure of monotonous work is crushing him, and his only outlet for the stress is a rather unusual one...
A later story, 'Morning Star', has a slightly different style. It relates a night out with five old university friends, reunited after years apart. The five are now middle-aged, each with their own families, jobs and disappointments, and the evening on the town, followed by a night spent drinking at home, allows the five to see how their lives have changed over the years - not always for the better. O switches the viewpoint between the characters, allowing the reader to see what each thinks of the others (it's not always positive).
It's in the longer, later stories that O really impresses, though. The broader canvas lets her develop the stories at a slower pace, also allowing her to insert a more detailed back story. In addition, these later, longer stories can be slightly edgier and more political. 'Lake P'aro', a story I first read earlier this year, is a perfect example of this. A middle-aged woman goes on a journey to a recently drained lake, seeking inspiration for her writing. This pleasant excursion is gradually overtaken by flashbacks to the woman's life in America, where her family moved after her teacher husband was fired for reasons unknown. The different strata of Korean history are shown in the buildings uncovered in the lake - rocks from the Kingdom of Koguryo, rice fields from the colonial period, roads from the military regime. The moral of the story seems to be that all political systems are eventually outlasted by the stones...
This idea of the contrast between present-day life and the distant past appears again in 'Fireworks'. This one is a particularly good story describing a day in the life of a family, a day on which an event celebrating their town's 'promotion' in status to a city is being held. I loved the starting scene in a classroom, a beautiful description of a lazy sunny afternoon where the students struggle to maintain interest in the teacher's dull, date-heavy history lesson:
The teacher rose and methodically erased the blackboard.
"Yi Yongjo, tell us about the founding of Koguryo."
Yongjo stared at the blank surface, desperately racking his memory. All he could remember was what he had read in a comic book - the story of Prince Hodong and Princess Nangnang, a magic drum that boomed in the absence of any human touch, and General Yon'gaesomun, who wore half a dozen daggers, who when mounting his horse used a servant's back rather than stirrups.
'Fireworks', p.98
Poor Yongjo has a preference for stories over dry dates, and it's this focus on real life over 'important' historical facts which permeates this charming story.
Earlier this year, I was able to try more of O's work: her story 'Wayfarer' in the Modern Korean Fiction collection, and several stories (including the excellent 'Spirit on the Wind') which you can find online for free. She's very much a story writer, having written just the one short novel as far as I'm aware, and the forty-page story/novella seems to be where she's most comfortable, and at her best. Over the course of her career, she's become a highly influential writer (and a very good one!), amassing an impressive body of stories concerning the role of women in society and the trauma of a country still healing its scars...
At this point, though, it's only fair to give a special mention to the Fultons, who are supreme translators in the field of Korean literature in translation. As a married couple working together, it's tempting to compare them to the Pevear and Volkhonsky translation team; however, unlike P & V, the Fultons are bringing untranslated works into English and not just making American versions of Russian classics which have already been translated. In addition to translating O Chong-hui's stories, Bruce and Ju-Chan have also worked their magic on writers like Ch'ae Yun and Cho Se-hui. However, it's with O that they've really made a mark :)
A great writer, great translators and a beautiful-looking book - it all makes for an excellent addition to my K-Lit library. O is definitely a writer I want to try more from, but sadly there's not all that much out there (she's a writer whose focus is definitely on quality over quantity). Here's hoping I manage to stumble across some more of her work soon...
*****
Footprint Books, as always, assure me that this book is available in Australia, either at bookshops or through their website :)
As I noted in my post on O Chong-hui, the Modern Korean Fiction collection, in addition to containing some wonderful stories, proved to be an excellent starting point for finding new books and authors to explore. The collection only had a few stories by female writers, but those were some of the better ones in the book, and Ch'oe Yun's 'The Gray Snowman' was definitely one of my favourites. So would Ch'oe's other work measure up to that one? The answer is a resounding yes...
*****
The beautiful book in the picture is There a Petal Silently Falls (translated by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton, and Kichung Kim, from Columbia University Press, review copy courtesy of Australian distributor Footprint Books). It's a collection of three stories, a thirty-page tale sandwiched between two novella-length pieces, and the three selections come from a five-year period between 1988 and 1993. Each has a very different style, with the selection outlining the writer's ability to experiment with different forms and content matter.
The shortest piece, 'Whisper Yet', is about a woman on a family 'vacance' at a friend's orchard. Over the course of a lazy summer day spent with her daughter, memories of the woman's childhood home come back to her, in particular those involving a helper at the family's orchard. His name was Ajaebi, and he struck up an unlikely friendship with the woman's father (only later did she discover just how unlikely it was...).
It's a story set in the immediate post-Korean-war period, a clever piece about the secrets adults keep from children. However, it's also one whose underlying message is that having differing ideologies is not necessarily an obstacle to developing a friendship, with Ajaebi and the narrator's father being on opposite sides of the political divide. The politics here aren't especially foregrounded, though, and this is a lovely, subtle story which evokes memories of pleasant summer days in the sun :)
*****
The politics are much more evident, however, in the title story, perhaps the most well known of the three. In an emotionally-charged debut piece of writing, Ch'oe creates the story of a girl found by a construction worker as she is wandering the streets. The initial scenes are loaded with rape, violence and then silence, but as the story progresses, we are shown that the story is about much more than just one unfortunate girl.
In fact, 'There a Petal Silently Falls' is an allegorical story picking at the open wounds of the Kwangju uprising in 1980, when a large group of rebellious inhabitants in the southern city were slaughtered by government troops:
"As you pass by the grave sites scattered throughout the city, you may encounter her, a girl whose maroon velvet dress barely covers her, a girl who lingers near the burial mounds. Please don't stop if she approaches you, and don't look back once she's passed you by. If your eye should be drawn to the flesh showing between the folds of that torn, soiled dress, or drawn to something resembling a wound, walk away with downcast eyes as if you hadn't seen a thing."
'There a Petal Silently Falls', p.3 (Columbia University Press, 2008)
The girl is a shell-shocked refugee wandering ever-northwards, psychologically scarred after having witnessed her mother's death. In order to protect herself, she has draped a 'curtain' over her memories, a self-imposed barrier to help her forget what she's seen.
It's a story in three voices, with alternating chapters told from differing points of view. One strand follows the girl as she journeys towards Seoul; the second is told by the man who finds (and violates) the girl, only to be tormented by guilt afterwards; the final one is the voice of an uncertain 'we', which turns out to be student friends of the girl's missing brother. While assigning roles to these voices is a risky affair, it's tempting to see the girl as the people of Kwangju and the man as the state, sharing the character's post-massacre regrets (wishing that she - and the whole country - could return to normal). And the students? They are the voice of the ordinary people of Korea, following the rumours of the uprising as it spreads northwards in the form of the girl...
It's an excellently-structured piece of writing, utilising the chorus of voices to conceal parts of the story until the appropriate time arrives. There's a gradual release of details, and the full horror of the troops' attack on Kwangju only becomes apparent towards the end of the story. I'd have to say that as a first offering, it's a very impressive work.
*****
Five years on, 'The Thirteen-Scent Flower' also criticised Korean society, albeit it in a more general, and sophisticated, manner. The story starts as a kind of fairy-tale in which Bye, a young man obsessed with dreams of the Arctic, runs into Green Hands, a young woman with nothing to live for (but with a skill for tending plants). Having recognised the unique connection between them, off they go in his truck to the mountains, where they discover a rare, unnamed flower and settle down in the idyllic surroundings.
There's a lilting, fairy-tale quality to the story, aided by the discovery of the wondrous flower high in the mountains:
"Wind Chrysanthemum. Commonly known as the Arctic Flower. Hardy plant living in a land of bitter cold, your tender blossoms streaming in winter's north wind beneath high clouds; your delicate purple blossoms reaching out for the sunlight shining through the clouds, symbol of your thirst for life; your fifty-five petals ever mindful that your beauty is based on the number five; your snow-white scent a distillate of the manifold desires embodied in your small form, a sad dedication to the world."
'The Thirteen-Scent Flower', p.139
Having tracked the plant down, Bye and Green Hands begin work on developing different varieties, each of which has its own, inimitable scent, and the more their work progresses, the more people come to join them in their high-altitude community.
Gradually though, real life seeps into Ch'oe's fairytale. You see, when a flower as rare and beautiful as this is found, society demands that it be exploited for the common good. Pharmaceutical companies, perfume designers, botanists, resort developers - they all come flocking to the mountains to see how they can use the flower to make money. Everyone wants a piece of the magical and delicate flower, yet with a limited supply, not everyone can get what they want...
'The Thirteen-Scent Flower' is a critique of the commercialisation of modern life, a society where fairy tales are rarely permitted to have a happily ever after. Anything beautiful which is uncovered must be harnessed for the good of the people - that's what we call progress... It's a story which is as powerful in its own way as 'There a Petal Silently Falls', but in its subtle approach it's perhaps an example of a more developed writer.
*****
This book is a superb collection, and if I'd had the time (and energy...), I could easily have explored each story in a lot more depth. It's definitely a collection I'd urge you to try, and I'm looking forward to exploring the web to see if any more of Ch'oe's work has made it into English. Before that, there's one more thing I should do, though - head back to my trusty copy of Modern Korean Fiction and see which K-Lit author I should check out next ;)
*****
Footprint Books, as always, assure me that this book is available in Australia, either at bookshops or through their website :)
Whenever I've taken my first, tentative steps into a new literary culture, I've simply gone straight for a few seminal texts, hoping to get a taste for the style from some good examples. However, once I have more of a feel of what's going on, I always like to try a short-story collection, as it can give you a small taste of more writers (and can often show you where the next port of call should be).
Having said all that, and with 2014 being my year of Korean literature, it was inevitable that I'd get around to a K-Lit anthology sooner or later - and today's book is a great way to broaden your knowledge of what - and who - is out there :)
*****
Modern Korean Fiction (edited by Bruce Fulton and Youngmin Kim, published by Columbia University Press, review copy courtesy of Australian distributor Footprint Books) was released back in 2005, but it still seems to be a good place to start if you're looking for Korean short stories. It contains twenty-two pieces, arranged chronologically from the colonial period to the late nineties, and it's great value for money too, running to a good 380 pages.
As you'd expect, there's a fair sprinkling of big-name authors around. Writers included whose work I've already tried include Kim Young-ha, Yi Mun-yol and Cho Se-hui (in fact, the stories included by those last two writers have already been read and reviewed on the blog!). However, there are several other well-known authors who were new to me, as well as a whole host of brand-new names to discover.
One of the best stories in the collection was an absolute classic, namely Yi Sang's 'Wings' (translated by Walter K. Lew and Youngju Ryu). It's a long, rambling monologue told by an unusual man, a kept writer whose wife sleeps with other men on the other side of a thin partition wall. The narrator is a half-crazed innocent, who doesn't really understand what is happening - although he tries his best to work it out:
"Was there nothing else that motivated the movement of money from the guests to my wife and from my wife to me - besides "pleasure"? I resumed my research from inside my bedding. If it is pleasure, then what sort of pleasure? I continued to probe. But there was no way to answer these questions by means of under-cover investigations. Pleasure, pleasure... To my own surprise, it was the only topic in which I felt any interest."
'Wings', p.73 (Columbia University Press, 2005)
'Wings' is a great story and beautifully written. It comes as no surprise to find that Yi Sang lends his name to one of Korea's most prestigious literary awards.
There are several other well-known writers among the contributors. Ch'ae Man-shik's 'My Innocent Uncle' (tr. Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton) is a satirical monologue about a 'lazy' uncle, a good-for-nothing who spends his time reading and thinking 'scotchalist' (socialist) thoughts. It's a piece with a great voice, and the story develops nicely, with the reader's sympathies slowly changing the further the tale progresses. Another interesting one is Choe In-ho's 'Another Man's Room' (tr. Kevin O'Rourke), a strange, confusing story of a man whose return home finds an empty apartment. The thing is that we're not really sure if he's there either...
One thing I noticed in the excellent introduction is that the editors hoped that this collection would be more balanced in terms of gender than some others. Personally, I wouldn't call four out of twenty two balanced, but there are some good stories among those four. Park Wan-suh's 'Mother's Hitching Post' (tr. Kim Miza and Suzanne Crowder Han) isn't one of them, though. It's a rambling, loose tale about a rather unlikeable woman, which takes forever to get to the point. Park may well be a revered figure in Korea, but based on this (and my previous experience), she's just not my cup of tea ;)
The other stories by female writers, however, were much more to my taste. Ch'oe Chong-hui's 'The Ritual at the Well' (tr. Genell Y. Poitras) is a moving story where a woman goes to help with an annual ritual. Unfortunately, things don't go to plan, and while we witness the ceremony, we find out about the problems the villagers face:
"For these young people, not even the simplest ceremony was in the realm of possibility. Marrying off daughters would be reasonable, since that would reduce the numbers in a family. In the case of sons, however, with food already scarce, there was fear about adding one more to the household. This, then, was the reason, and this alone, why so many of the young folk were unmarried."
'The Ritual at the Well' (p.127)
This rural tale is nicely balanced by Ch'oe Yun's 'The Gray Snowman', a story set in the capital. It depicts a few months in the life of a young woman in the 1980s, caught up in the underground protests against the harsh rule of the government. It's one of the better stories here, and the subject matter definitely has shades of Shin Kyung-sook's recent novel (in English), I'll Be Right There.
The last of the female-written stories is definitely up there as best in show. O Chong-hui's 'Wayfarer' (tr. Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton) focuses on a woman just released from some kind of hospital. Over the course of the story, we slowly learn why she was there as well as finding out about her life since being discharged. The writing is excellent, and the story is a detailed, psychological insight into both the protagonist's issues and the social constraints which are used to tie her down.
There's a lot to like from men and women alike, then, but I do have one last treat for you - a story from the North... Yes, Kim Puk-hyang's 'The Son' (tr. Marshall R. Pihl) is an officially sanctioned story in the DPRK - and it shows. It's the story of a man who discovers that his perfect son isn't quite as perfect as he'd thought. So, is the problem drugs? Violence? No - non-conformism...
For a western reader, the propaganda is suffocating, but this is the kind of story they like up Pyongyang way. It's full of cliches of hard-working comrades, and wherever the father can show he is a model citizen, he does his best to oblige. The final scene, with the boy and his teacher proudly cresting a hill is especially heroic - and ludicrous at the same time ;)
As always with short-story collections, there's a lot more to enjoy here than I was able to cover in the post. It's an enjoyable collection with several really good stories, and (thankfully) most of the translations are good too. The next step, of course, is to hunt down some longer pieces from some of the better writers here - time to hit the online bookshops/ library databases :)
*****
Footprint Books, as always, assure me that this book is available in good Australian bookshops :)
Despite having read many works of Japanese literature over the past five years or so, one which I haven't managed to get around to as yet is the undisputed classic of J-Lit, Murasaki Shikibu's epic The Tale of Genji. Having decided, then, that 2014 is the year to rectify this shortcoming, I thought that a nice way to warm up for the main event might be to learn a little more about the book and its history. But how, you might ask? Well, it's funny you should say that...
*****
The Tale of Genji: Translation, Canonization, and World Literature (from Columbia University Press, review copy courtesy of Australian distributor Footprint Books) is a non-fiction work by well-known scholar and translator Michael Emmerich, in which he takes a close look at the legacy of Lady Murasaki's classic novel. Surprisingly, though, it's not a work which lingers overly on the actual book itself; instead, Emmerich discusses the myth of The Tale of Genji as the quintessentially Japanese novel and focuses his energy on some fairly surprising areas.
The book begins in November 2008, with Japan in full Murasaki fever, ready to celebrate the millenium of her work. As the nation rejoices in Genji's anniversary, praising a novel which has been read for a thousand years, Emmerich takes the reader by the hand, leading them back to the early nineteenth century - where we discover that the idea that The Tale of Genji was always popular is actually not all that accurate.
The truth of the matter is that the 1673 Kogetsushō edition of the book was to be the last new publication of the novel for over two centuries, which meant that while most people had heard of The Tale of Genji, by the start of the nineteenth century, very few had actually ever seen a copy. When you also take into account the fact that the original book was written in an archaic Japanese, rendered in a script illegible to the uninitiated, you begin to realise that Murasaki's work was in danger of becoming nothing more than a faded memory...
So why is The Tale of Genji world-renowned today? Emmerich has several explanations for this, and they all revolve around the idea of translation, in one form or another:
"Any academic study of 'Genji' will inevitably connect, then, in one way or another, to the fields of canonization and translation studies, and to the recent burgeoning interest in world literature."
p.8 (Columbia University Press, 2013)
However, this idea of 'translation' is not limited to what we would expect (a version appearing in a foreign language) - the word is used in a much wider context, explaining a wide range of adaptations.
The first of Emmerich's 'translation' choices is an illustrated serial which began appearing in 1829, Ryūtei Tanehiko's Nise Murasaki Inaka Genji (A Fraudulent Murasaki's Bumpkin Genji). This work, a beautifully-illustrated adaptation of the original Genji, brought Murasaki's story back into the minds of the ordinary people, preventing the classic from disappearing completely from view. Emmerich devotes the first half of his book to Tanehiko's creation, arguing that far from being a cheap knock-off of a sacred text, the Inaka Genji was actually a worthy adaptation of Genji itself, one that replaced the original in the eyes of most Japanese.
Another important step was the translation of the original work into English, and here too the writer is eager to right common misconceptions. While many credit Arthur Waley's full translation of The Tale of Genji (the first volume of which was published in 1925) with spreading awareness of the work in the West, Emmerich shows that the earlier partial translation by Kenchō Suematsu in 1882 actually made a much bigger splash than many people realise. It is Suematsu's work, both in translating and promoting The Tale of Genji, that raises the profile of the novel and leads to the first modern reprints of the book in Japan in 1890 - translation leading to a reappreciation of the text in its native country :)
Finally, Emmerich turns his focus towards the first translations of the original text into modern Japanese, a turn of events which allows ordinary Japanese readers to experience the book for the first time. However, even here, he has a few surprises up his sleeve. Instead of heaping all the praise on Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, the famous writer who published three modern translations of the classic, Emmerich again looks at two slightly neglected figures when he apportions praise.
The first is Akiko Yosano, a poet who actually brought out a modern translation of The Tale of Genji a quarter of a century before Tanizaki did. The second is Hakuchō Masamune, a literary critic whose essays on Genji, particularly the ones written after having read Waley's translation, were a major factor in influencing Tanizaki to take up his pen on behalf of Lady Murasaki and her amorous hero. As he said:
"I have the feeling, though, that if this English translation were translated anew into Japanese, it might attract a large and avid readership that would enjoy it as one of the great novels of the world." (p.328)
And Tanizaki was obviously listening. Were it not for these two unsung heroes, Genji's return into the public domain may have been even further delayed...
While a little scholarly at a times, Emmerich's book is eminently readable, even for lay persons such as myself, and the story behind Genji's resurrection from literary oblivion is a wonderful one. The first half of the book, centring on Inaka Genji, contains many fascinating illustrations, and the writer explains their significance so skilfully that the reader almost envies the old Tokyoites (Edoites!), wishing there was a copy of Tanehiko's book to hand. Perhaps not everyone will be as intrigued as I was - however, this is a book that anyone with an interest in Japanese literature is sure to enjoy.
And yet.... There's something missing from Emmerich's book, for all its dedicated research, and that's the original itself. You see, after four-hundred pages about the modern history of the work, I am still, unbelievably, none the wiser as to what actually happens in Murasaki's story! Some might say that this is an unforgivable oversight on Emmerich's part, but in fact the opposite is true. All this talk about Genji has just whetted my appetite for the real thing :)
That's enough for today, but if you liked the sound of all this, stay tuned for some more Genji news - I'll be setting off on my great journey soon enough, and I'll be happy to have some companions along for the ride...
*****
***Footprint Books say that this book is available in good Australian bookshops and directly through their website :)
You may have seen our current Golden Kin-Yōbi giveaway of the book on the left, but I was actually lucky enough to recently get a copy of my own. Columbia University Press very kindly sent me one of these beautiful hardbacks of the master work of a great Japanese writer. Unfortunately, he never got around to finishing it - although some beg to differ on that question...
*****
Light and Dark (translated by John Nathan) is a novel Natsume Soseki was writing during his final, fatal illness. The book, a meticulous psychological study of a married couple around the time of the First World War, first appeared in daily serial form in the Asahi Shimbun newspaper, and it consists of 188 sections, each around two pages long. Very different to his early, humorous works, it's generally considered Soseki's masterpiece.
The main characters of the story are Yoshio Tsuda, a thirty-year-old recently married company worker, and his wife Nobiko, usually called O-Nobu. What little plot there is centres on Tsuda's stay at a small doctor's clinic to undergo, and then recover from, minor surgery. Before the operation, he visits a few friends and relatives, and he receives people in turn while he is convalescing. Not a lot really happens in terms of action, but beneath the surface...
Soseki uses his story to probe at the mental state of his main characters, and he takes turns in following the husband and wife. As each stumbles into social encounters, the bland words they utter are of less significance than the thoughts churning inside their heads - the writer is much more concerned with what's going on inside than out. A good example is a typical thought Tsuda has when 'talking' with his wife:
"Tsuda had the feeling that a failure to declare the absence of any particle of doubt would reflect on his character as a husband. At the same time, to be seen as a pushover by a woman would be painfully distasteful. Despite the battle for supremacy inside him between these two aspects of his ego, he appeared cool and collected on the surface."
pp.106/7 (Columbia University Press, 2013)
Soseki, in a Henry James-esque manner, offers us an insight into each speaker's thoughts and strategies - for this is all about games...
The main theme of the novel is married life and the way two people negotiate their roles and identity inside a marriage. Tsuda and O-Nobu are recently married, but the two are not ideally matched; thus arises a battle for supremacy, one full of misunderstandings and conflicts. While O-Nobu feels lighter away from husband, she is determined to possess him wholly, feeling that only she understands what is going on beneath his implacable exterior:
"Everything I have written in this letter is true. I haven't lied, or exaggerated, or gone out of my way to put your minds at ease. If anyone doubts this, I shall detest him, disdain him, spit in his face. Because I know the truth better than he. I have described the truth beyond the superficial facts on the surface. A truth that is understood only by me. But this is a truth that will have to be understood by everyone in the future." (p.178)
Both she and Tsuda profess to love each other; but what does that actually mean in a Japanese marriage...
Their marriage is certainly not a relationship in isolation though. They are surrounded by concerned (or interfering) family and friends, and in the Japan of the time, these are rather strong, heavy ties (in fact, more akin to chains...). With many of these people, particularly Tsuda's younger sister O-Hide, quietly despising O-Nobu, both Tsuda and his wife have battles to fight on several fronts. This makes it even more important for the two to resolve their differences and show a united face to the Okamotos, Yoshikawas and Fujiis.
There is, however, an obstacle to this coming together, and Soseki gradually hints at a deeper issue. The reader eventually guesses at (then is told of) Tsuda's prior attachment to a woman who has since married someone else. This strand takes us to the final pages of the book, where Tsuda goes to a spa resort in an attempt to revisit the past - whether to exorcise it or accept it we'll never know...
Reading Light and Dark is not always easy work, but it's a wonderful creation. Where the surface is calm, with all the 'players' keeping an even, smiling countenance, beneath the facade a whirling pool of emotions is to be found. It's almost like a chess game with each player desperately trying to stay a few moves ahead of the opponent. However, there is the occasional eruption, such as a confrontational scene with O-Hide and Tsuda, one which is wrought with emotion.
With slightly old-fashioned language, little plot and a slow pace, I doubt that this would be a book for everyone. However, I found it excellent, and Light and Dark is a must for real J-Lit aficionados. I'm a big Soseki fan, and this takes pride of place in my personal library
:)
*****
A welcome added extra in this edition is an introduction by the translator, John Nathan, in which he discusses the plot and his treatment of the translation. He explains that the decision to keep as much of the style of language as possible was a deliberate one, and a decision which avoids homogenising the text (the James comparison was his too).
Interestingly, he also touches on the abrupt ending and informs us of four attempts in Japanese to complete the book (including one by Minae Mizumura, author of A True Novel), plus an attempt by Kenzaburo Oe to analyse how the story may have continued. However, Nathan also suggests that perhaps Light and Dark is complete in itself - it's not as if the ambiguous ending is rare in J-Lit (e.g. Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's Some Prefer Nettles or The Makioka Sisters). My opinion? You'll just have to read the book and decide for yourself ;)
After a short novel to kick off my January in Japan reading, it's time for something slightly different today. I'm not a big one for non-fiction, but when Columbia University Press told me about the book you can see in the photo, I was very keen to give it a whirl. Let's see what we can learn about a famous Japanese novelist when he steps outside his fictional comfort zone...
*****
The Frontier Within (edited, translated and with an introduction by Richard F. Calichman, review copy courtesy of the Australian distributor Footprint Books) is a collection of essays by Kōbō Abe, the author of such novels as The Face of Another and The Woman in the Dunes. While Abe is mostly known in the West for his bizarre novels, Calichman argues that we need to read his non-fiction to fully understand his ideas. The essays collected here cover a range of topics from philosophy to literary theory, politics to education, the military to the role of the state - and he has some very strong views too...
The first essay, 'Poetry and Poets (Consciousness and the Unconscious)', is not exactly the best start to the collection. After Calichman's clear introduction, Abe's confusing, meandering style had me wondering who was responsible for my not really getting anything - me or Abe. The next few essays, where he talks about what he understands by Literary Theory (quoting Stalin and Mao along the way...), didn't really make things any better...
For anyone used to a clear, logical Anglophone style of exposition, Abe's circular argumentative style might cause some headaches. His writings appear to be more a set of connected musings, at times arranged in a loose question and answer format, and the effect is often clunky to my western ears (I'd certainly be down on my students if they came up with a similar style). Occasionally, he comes out with sweeping claims, with no evidence to support it:
"It is well-known throughout the world that Japanese reportage writers are not very observant..."
'Possibilities for Education Today', p.86 (Columbia University Press, 2013)
Hmm. I can't say that was a fact I'd come across before...
Thankfully, after reaching a nadir in his ramblings on education, a topic I know a little too much about to fall for his unfounded claims, the writing, and the ideas improve. In 'Beyond the Neighbor', Abe sets out some of his views on writing and tradition, and after a brief discussion about the importance of military uniforms in fascist (and democratic...) states, he moves on to a final trio of essays about society in general, probably the most interesting ones in the collection.
In 'Passport of Heresy', the writer takes us on a journey into the far past, discussing the habits of early humans, before explaining how the split between nomadic hunters and sedentary agriculturalists is still evident today in our urban structure. While this short piece initially seems like a pleasant diversion, it actually serves to introduce the final two essays of the collection, 'The Frontier Within', in which Abe, as an outsider, ponders the trials and tribulations of the Jewish race. Abe declares that most societies regard the farming community as the 'real' natives, treating urban dwellers with suspicion; this means that the Jews, bound to cities both by mediaeval laws and their own statelessness became natural scapegoats for unscrupulous politicians.
It's an intriguing idea (even if you constantly feel that Abe is carefully treading the line between dispassionate observer and prejudice), and in his follow-up talks, entitled 'The Frontier Within, Part II', he pretty much goes over the same ground. It's a shame this isn't another essay as it would have been interesting to see him expand on the ideas outlined in the first part.
Overall, though, I'd have to say that this book just didn't do it for me. The writing is fairly clunky, with several repeated formulaic expressions, and I was expecting something a little tighter and much more logically arranged. I remember reading some non-fiction by Virginia Woolf a few years back, and I loved the way she laid out her arguments with sparkling prose. On the evidence of this, Abe is no Woolf - and this is certainly not A Room of One's Own.
Abe himself perhaps explains my feelings in a pithy one liner:
"It is difficult to convey one's intentions, but it is easy to be misunderstood."
'Does the Visual Image Destroy the Walls of Language?' (p.61)
It's very possible that there's more to this book than I got out of it, but I suspect that it would take someone a lot more versed in Japanese literature than myself to find it. If you're a die-hard Abe fan, or a PhD candidate in modern Japanese literature, this might be one for you. However, I suspect that the casual J-Lit fan might not enjoy it quite so much...
*****
***Footprint Books say that this book is available in good Australian bookshops and directly through their website :)
Over the last few years, I've gradually been making my way through the classics of Japanese literature, and I've come (like many readers) to have a few favourites among the publishers in this area. One publishing house of note is Columbia University Press, who make J-lit classics (and I mean classics) available for everyone. However, I'm not sure that today's choice is one for your casual reader...
*****
The Nihon ryōiki, or Record of Miraculous Events in Japan (translated by Burton Watson, review copy courtesy of Australian distributor Footprint Books***) is something a little different. It dates from around 822, and the writer, the monk Kyōkai, is actually more of an editor than an author. He collected stories from around the region and put them together in a book of 'setsuwa' - anecdotal tales promoting the virtues of the recently-imported Buddhist faith. These stories were for explaining the importance of adherence to religion to the common folk who had little idea of Buddhism (and virtually no idea of literacy).
In effect, these are classic tales which play a similar part in Japanese literature as, say, Aesop's fables do in the west. Short folk tales with a Buddhist slant, they're little vignettes which are part of Japanese culture and, therefore of interest to anyone wanting to look a little more closely at Japanese literary history.
As mentioned above, their primary purpose was to promote Buddhist beliefs. The stories are rather short, many taking up less than a page, with some comprising a single paragraph, and they display examples of 'karmic retribution' or 'karmic causality' (in layman's terms, what goes around comes around...). Each story hammers the point home in the last paragraph with a summary of the tale and a heavy moral:
"In appraisal we say: The Venerable Monk went far away to study, met with trouble, and could not return. Having no way to escape, he rested on the bridge, meditating on the Sage or Bodhisattva. He depended on the power of the heart, and this caused the appearance of the old man, who disappeared suddenly once they had parted. In time, he made an image and always paid it honor, never ceasing his devotions."
p.26, 1:6 (Columbia University Press, 2013)
In fact, other stories go further, claiming that 'It was a miraculous event!' or asking the reader 'How can we fail to believe in the law of karmic causality?'. Which can get a tad annoying at times ;)
Though the stories are short, the titles are very long, and rather illuminating. When you read headings like 'On Paying for and Freeing Turtles and Being Rewarded Immediately and Saved by them', you have a fair idea what will be happening over the next page or two... Overall, there is a feeling of common-sense teachings with familiar morals: the idea of might not being right; doing to others as you would have them do unto you; and the importance of living right, rather than being especially pious.
After a while, recurring themes begin to stand out from the blur of short tales. One is that of reincarnation, with debtors in particular often falling foul of this precept (and being born as an ox in the next life). Another is the frequent karmic penalty incurred for mistreating animals, an offence usually 'rewarded' by some healthy suffering for the wrong-doer. Filial disobedience is (naturally) high on the agenda too, and those who disrespect their parents are likely to meet a sad demise.
It's not all about punishment in this world though. Many of the tales feature journeys to the kingdom of King Yama, a Buddhist equivalent of the western underworld of Hades. Monks die and come back to life after a few days (luckily, they usually have the foresight to tell people in advance not to burn the body..), and after their reawakening, they interpret the events of the 'journey' (or dream). These usually lead to improvements in future conduct (as the chanting and copying of sutras does your karmic soul the world of good).
The main idea though is a predictable one - if you mess with monks, or misuse temple funds, you'll meet with a painful, gruesome end...
"The officiating monk saw him and tried to explain, giving reasons of doctrine, but he refused to listen. "It's no use explaining!" he said. "You're trying to seduce my wife! You should be knocked in the head, you worthless monk" His language was too vile to describe in detail. He called his wife to go home, and when they got there he violated her. But an ant bit his penis, and he died in great pain." (2:11, p.84)
Ouch. Please note, the punishment was for the 'vile language' and not his behaviour towards his wife - these were very different times...
Burton Watson's translation reads fairly smoothly, and the style chosen makes the stories easy to read. It is am academic text though, and as such is replete with footnotes. While they can get repetitive after a while, they are useful - and some are surprisingly candid:
"Some kind of stunt? The meaning escapes me." (1:26, p.46)
It's nice to have honesty in footnotes ;)
However, the short nature of texts, and the fact that many ideas are repeated, means that casual readers may get frustrated. After the tenth talking ox, your eyes may well glaze over, and even the visits to Hell will pall after a while. In fact, for those who enjoy a good narrative, the lack of a progression in the stories may make this a challenging read at times.
But it all depends on how you approach the book; it's definitely a resource to be dipped into. The Nihon ryōiki runs to just over 200 pages, and I read it over the course of five days (and perhaps should have stretched it out more). As I said in the introduction, it may not be ideal for the complete J-Lit novice, but for those (like me...) who have a deeper interest in Japanese literature, it's a book which will add an extra dimension to your private library :)
*****
***Footprint Books assure me that this book is available in Australia and New Zealand, both online and through bookshops :)
Over the past couple of years, as regular readers may have noticed, I've become much more deeply involved in the translated-fiction side of life in the literary blogosphere, and my ratio of books originally written in languages other than English has sky-rocketed. I've also found myself reading more in German, and for a while now I've been contemplating an alternate universe, one in which money and free time magically appear, allowing me to go off and study again, this time in the field of literary translation. It's unlikely (sigh) to ever happen, but if I get many more books like today's offering, my arm might just be twisted...
*****
Esther Allen and Susan Bernofsky, two noted American literary translators, have put together a wonderful book on the art and science of their metier, In Translation (published by Columbia University Press, review copy courtesy of Australian supplier Footprint Books***). It consists of eighteen essays by leading translators and writers, each giving a small insight into the art of translation and the life of the translator. The first section is mainly concerned with theory, and the essays here come complete with footnotes and academic jargon; the second part then moves onto practice, with real-life examples from a host of renowned practitioners.
Before we get onto the nitty-gritty though, we gain an insight into the unglamourous, and often thankless, role of the translator. Peter Cole discusses the ethical dilemmas of the translator, often a choice in the eyes of the public between invisibility and treachery (to the author and to the original text). Eliot Weinberger suggests an image of the translator as tradesman, not artist (one who really should be better paid!). While David Bellos muses over the concept of 'foreign-soundingness', Michael Emmerich shows us how translation can be just as much about the visual as the phonological - in Japanese, snow literally (almost) falls down on the page...
If you think these issues sound a little abstract and unimportant, others are a touch more controversial. Alice Kaplan, in an essay on the trials and tribulations of translating, talks about her battle of wills with authors (and her own translator), also mentioning the time when Nabokov ordered all the copies of a Swedish translation of Pnin to be burnt. Whoever said the author was dead...
In the final act of the first part, Esther Allen cautions the unwary reader against assuming that translation is a given for any particular book; you see, it's not quite as straight-forward as that:
"...any given act of literary translation is a product of unique political, linguistic, cultural, technological, historical, and human contexts."
p.101 (2013, Columbia University Press)
The reality is that it takes a unique combination of factors, a whole myriad of planets aligning, to get any one particular work published in the English-speaking world. Quality is only one small factor.
Once we dive into the practical side of things, we also get to hear from, and about, some superstars of world literature. Maureen Freely discusses the problems of translating Orhan Pamuk, a story of an 'ethnically-cleansed' language, a head-strong writer and an unexpected venture into Turkish politics. Cuban poet José Manuel Prieto explains the difficulties he had in translating Osip Mandelstam's most famous poems into Spanish, and Haruki Murakami explains how (and why) he took 'his' Gatsby into Japanese (on a side note, it was nice to see these last two in the collection - translated by Esther Allen and Ted Goossen - as a work on translation without any translated pieces seems rather silly...).
Once you've got your head around what you're going to translate, you need to give some thought to who you're actually translating it for. One of my favourite pieces had Jason Grunebaum pondering this issue in translating a novel from Hindi into English. Should he be concentrating on American English, or Indian English? After all, if you're looking for a large potential market...
Laurence Venuti had a slightly different dilemma in wrestling with the issue of anachronism in his translation of 12th-century Italian poetry. A poet monk criticising the Pope - what voice would work best in English? Venuti's answer - Slim Shady:
You spoke with forkéd tongue
and deeply I was stung:
it has to lick my sore
to show the plague the door;
because I'm sure my grief
can't find the least relief
without the execution
of your absolution (p.205)
At any rate, it's certainly original...
If you're a polyglot, In Translation provides you with many great opportunities to test your skills. Whether it's Russian, Polish, Hindi, German or 16th-century French ballad lyrics, there's something of interest in every piece. My only issue with the collection (ironically) is that for the Englishman in me it's a little narrow, and slightly US-centric. A piece on the US-UK language divide would have been nice (as would more British contributors...)
Still, it's a wonderfully-absorbing collection, one which has given my nascent ambitions a further push. For those of you who think Goethe had more than Dan Brown on his mind when coining the phrase Weltliteratur, let's give a big thank you to the people who show us that there's a lot out there that is worth reading :)
Before I finish though, I'll leave you with some final advice from Susan Bernofsky, who discusses the need to let go of the original text, and the importance of both frequent revision of translation and taking the odd semantic risk:
"It takes a certain amount of pluck - not to mention aesthetic sense and the ability to write well in English - to let go of an original long enough to allow oneself to fully imagine the English words that will take its place, but without this no fully realized translation is possible." (p.233)
That sounds like a job for me :)
*****
***Footprint Books say that this book is available in good Australian bookshops and directly through their website :)
