'The Kojiki' by Ō no Yasumaro (Review)

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 :)

What's Happening in January in Japan?

This is just a quick post to update everyone about the challenge kicking off 2015, January in Japan!  We're already well underway, so if you haven't joined us so far, this is what's been happening...

Four lucky readers have already won a book each by Yasunari Kawabata in the first of our Golden Kin-Yōbi giveaways, but there are more great prizes available in this week's competition, courtesy of Kurodahan Press.  Just click on the link, choose which book you'd like to win and you might be walking away with a slice of J-Lit goodness :)

This week also saw the first of our J-Lit Giants posts for 2015, with Ryū Murakami being inducted into the pantheon.  The 'other' Murakami is the thirteenth entrant into our hall of fame, but there'll be several more coming up over the next few weeks.

This year, we have two group reads planned, and the first is Hiromi Kawakami's novel Manazuru.  Next Thursday, the 15th of January, I'll be posting a page at the JiJ site with some information about the writer and a place for everyone to share their reviews of the book.  If you want to be involved (and you have a copy of the book), there's still time to join us...

And speaking of reviews, don't forget to have your say by adding to the list.  If you follow this link to the 2015 Reviews page, you'll be able to share all your January in Japan thoughts with the rest of the participants :)

So, what are you waiting for?  Enter the contest, read about our J-Lit Giants, and share some of your January reading - let's make January a time for J-Lit enjoyment ;)

'Almost Transparent Blue' by Ryū Murakami (Review)

While I was looking for a couple of Korean books in the University library recently, I accidentally stumbled upon something I hadn't noticed on previous visits - the rather larger Japanese section just around the corner.  With January in Japan coming up, I realised that this was a sign, so in addition to the two K-Lit books I took with me, I decided to get a couple of Japanese offerings too.  Today sees the first of these reviews, and while the source is new, the writer will be very familiar to regular readers of the blog ;)

*****
I read my first Ryū Murakami book just in time for the first January in Japan event two years ago, and since then I've tried a few more, but one I've been meaning to try for some time is his debut work, Almost Transparent Blue (translated by Nancy Andrew).  A novella running to around 120 pages, Murakami's first publication won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize in 1976, and it made waves in Japan with its shocking depiction of drug use and sexual freedom.  Even today, it can be a confronting read at times.

The book starts as it means to go on, with the first few pages not only introducing our narrator, nineteen-year-old Ryū, but also casually detailing group sex, violence, squalor and explicit drug use:

"Reiko pouted and glared at Okinawa as she took the leather thong and made a tight tourniquet around my left arm.  When I made a fist with my hand, a thick blood vessel stood out in my arm.  Okinawa rubbed the spot with alcohol two or three times before plunging the wet needle tip in toward the bulging vein.  When I opened my fist, blackish blood ran up into the cylinder.  Saying Heyheyhey, Okinawa coolly pushed the plunger, and the heroin and blood entered me all at once."
p.15 (Kodansha International, 1981)

From there, the story continues into a description of a life spiralling out of control as Ryu and his friends drift from one 'party' to another, the playthings of American soldiers, scorned by mainstream society - at times rightly so.

Ryū is an interesting character, a bisexual, crossdressing teen at the centre of a group of friends determined to make every moment of life count.  These are hedonistic times, and the friends are open to any and every experience, no matter how unsettling they might appear to the sensitive reader.  The orgy (or 'party') scenes are particularly strong at times, with some of the action verging on rape, even if the participants don't see it that way.

As the book progresses, Murakami widens the scope a little, and we see the group venturing into the outside world of 'normal' society.  This then develops into a clash of cultures, where the drugged-up youths disturb the daily routines of the mainstream citizens, vomiting on trains and scaring schoolchildren out on an excursion.  However, when police burst in on them, we see that in truth they're just a gang of overgrown kids, hiding away from the real world.

Almost Transparent Blue is written in the form of short chapters which, while chronologically in order, appear disjointed and discrete, each an experience in its own right.  While they depict people living for the moment, the reality is that there doesn't appear to be much joy involved; often, the scenes seem mechanical, numb, emotionless.  This is a look at the lost boys (and girls) of a rebellious generation, a group of young people reliant on each other, scared about what's on the other side of their crazy years.

One of the first characters Ryū encounters in the book is Lilly, a prostitute, one of the more grounded characters in the story.  The scenes in her bedroom are the calm amongst the storms, a chance for Ryū to centre himself.  In fact, he's a contemplative soul, teased by the others for his ability to withdraw when he wants to:

     "Well, you mean with Acid?  You'll experiment with stuff like that?  I don't get what you want to do."
     "Yeah, I don't get it myself, I don't really know what I should do.  But I'm not going to go to India or anything like that, nowhere I want to go, really.  These days, you know, I look out the window, all by myself.  Yeah, I look out a lot, the rain and the birds, you know, and the people just walking on the street.  If you look a long time, it's really interesting, that's what I mean by looking around.  I don't know why, but these things really look new to me."
     "Don't talk like an old man, Ryū, saying things look new is a sign of old age, you know." (pp.97/8)

Ryū is definitely a little different to some of his friends - we do wonder though whether he'll be able to come out of the whirlpool of hedonism with soul and body intact...

The intriguing title comes from a scene near the end of the book, one in which Ryū sees a broken shard of glance and marvels at the colours he can see in it.  As he walks towards his apartment at the start of a new day, there's a sense that this is his opportunity to turn things around.  By this time, though, it might already be too late for our impressionistic young friend.  Having come too close to the eye of the storm, it's going to take a major effort to make his way out again.

Almost Transparent Blue isn't for everyone, but it's an excellent (quick) read and a shock to the system - little wonder that it stood out on its publication.  Murakami's novella is a window into a world most of us will never be a part of, and in many ways the choice of the author's own name for his central character is apt.  Ryū is our ticket into the chaos of the scenes depicted in the book; while following him through the streets of Tokyo, we feel that we are being sucked into the hedonistic world of the sixties...

...like I said, this won't be to everyone's tastes ;)

'Rivers' by Teru Miyamoto (Review)

With the new year already a few days old, it's high time for my first review for January in Japan :)  I'm kicking off my series of posts with a look at a writer whose work I've tried once before.  Today's book, however, is where he made his name, an excellent collection of three works which, for the first time, are now available in one volume in English.  Let's take a walk down to the river...

*****
Teru Miyamoto's Rivers (translated by Ralph F. McCarthy and Roger K. Thomas, review copy courtesy of Kurodahan Press) brings together three of the writer's most famous pieces.  'Muddy River' won the Osamu Dazai Prize in 1977, while 'River of Fireflies' was awarded the 78th Akutagawa Prize the following year.  These two novellas run to about about fifty pages each, but the third story, 'River of Lights', which also began life as a novella, was later expanded into a 150-page short novel.  The three parts of Rivers are unconnected in terms of characters and plot; however, as you'll see, there's a lot which links the stories together and justifies the decision to collect them in one volume.

The first story, 'Muddy River', is set in the mid-1950s, with eight-year-old Nobuo living above a noodle shop by a river close to Osaka Bay.  It's a working-class area, fairly removed from the aesthetically-pleasing settings of some well-known Japanese fiction:

"A patch of sunlight fell on one corner of the boat's decaying wooden roof.  Nobuo turned his eyes to the river.  He'd lived his entire life next to those muddy waters, but now, for the first time ever, they struck him as filthy and repulsive.  The horse-dung-littered asphalt, the jumble of sagging gray bridges, the soot-blackened houses - everything seemed hopelessly dismal and dreary."
'Muddy River', p.14 (Kurodahan Press, 2014)

The story focuses on a short period of Nobuo's life, one in which he meets Kiichi, a boy living with his mother and sister on a houseboat.  The two boys quickly become friends, but Nobuo gradually comes to realise that Kiichi's circumstances are very different to his own, learning a few lessons about life on the way.

'River of Fireflies' sees us leaving the Kansai region to head to Toyama, on the Sea of Japan coast.  It's now 1962, and a fourteen-year-old schoolboy, Tatsuo, is coming to terms with the impending death of his ageing father and his growing feelings for childhood friend Eiko.  Over the course of a few months, the teenager goes through a pivotal time of his life, facing up to death, responsibility and confused emotions, the story culminating in a summer day to remember - a search for the elusive fireflies...

The final part of the trilogy draws us back to Osaka, but this time the focus has shifted from the bay to downtown.  It's 1969, and university student Kunihiko is working at a small coffee shop called 'River' to make ends meet, a café located in the middle of the red-light district:

"All at once crowded, then as if by prior arrangement all at once vacated, River fell quiet as it emptied.  The rain that had begun early in the evening was falling harder.  A waterlogged drunk went staggering by.  With the colors of neon lights reflected in the puddles, the surface of Soemoncho Avenue glistened in various hues.  Hostesses plucked up the hems of their dresses as they held umbrellas for customers getting into taxis."
'River of Lights', p.128

Starting slowly, the story gradually reveals the different facets of the Dotonbori area, introducing the reader to drag queens, strippers, billiard halls and the neon lights dominating the quarter.

The greater scope of 'River of Lights' allows Miyamoto to spread his focus, and the second major character of the story is Takeuchi, the owner of the café.  He becomes a kind of guardian to the parentless Kunihiko, despite the fact that he has a son of his own, a billiard player working his way up the ranks of the Osaka hustlers.  In the floating world of Dotonbori, the café owner eventually decides that it's time for him to intervene in the lives of both young men, either with financial help or with his trusty billiards cue.

While I enjoyed my previous look at Miyamoto's work, the short-story collection Phantom Lights, Rivers is a far better book.  All three of the stories provide intriguing glimpses into the Japan of the time, with traces of the post-war poverty evident in each of the pieces.  There are old soldiers with visible war wounds, bombed buildings with people setting setting up stalls amongst the rubble and businessmen with an eye for profit taking advantage of the opportunities to make a quick fortune.

It's also hard to avoid the feeling that the three books form a deliberate trilogy, one in which the writer explores his own youth vicariously.  While the main characters are different, each time we move on seven years, as do the boys.  Each of them is forced to contemplate mortality (with the first death occurring a matter of pages into 'Muddy River'), and we move from a young boy with a sick mother, to a teenager with a dying father and then finally meet a young adult who has lost both parents.

Towards the end of 'River of Lights', Kunihiko looks out over his realm and realises how empty it all is:

"When I walk through Dotonbori at daybreak, I always get so depressed I can't stand it.  I feel like some kind of filthy stray dog and don't give a damn about anything."
'River of Lights', p.215

The words come from the mouth of his walking companion, but the sentiment could be his own.  Having followed the progress of the youth of the time, the trilogy actually has an open end, where we wonder what will become of Kunihiko, or his next incarnation.

Miyamoto is a contemporary of the two Murakamis, and while he's unlikely to achieve their level of fame and success, it's definitely worth comparing the work of the three writers.  In particular, with 'River of Lights' being set in 1969, there's an obvious opportunity to read it alongside Haruki's Norwegian Wood and Ryu's Sixty-Nine.  Three men on the cusp of adulthood, three different areas of Japan, three ways of coping with a changing society - these are books which all benefit from being read in a wider context.  Here's hoping that more western readers will put the Murakamis aside for a little while and give Miyamoto a try - I can assure you that you won't regret it :)

December 2014 Wrap-Up

December is a time for relaxation and reflection - for the most part.  While I was able to snatch a few moments to look back at the year that was, a blogger's task is never done, and I've already been busy with what the coming year will hold.  Despite all that, here's hoping you all had a great Christmas and New Year - and if you're still interested, here's how mine finished off ;)

*****
Total Books Read: 11
Year-to-Date: 130

New: 9

Rereads: 2

From the Shelves: 3
Review Copies: 5

From the Library: 3

On the Kindle: 0

Novels: 6

Novellas: 2
Short Stories: 2
Non-Fiction: 1

Non-English Language: 11 (8 Japanese, 2 Korean, French)

In Original Language: 0

Aussie Author Challenge: 0 (1/3) - BIG FAIL :(
Japanese Literature Challenge 8: 8 (12/1)

*****
Books reviewed in December were:

1) The Adventures of Shola by Bernardo Atxaga
2) Dinner with Buffett by Park Min-gyu
3) Texas: The Great Theft by Carmen Boullosa
4) The Republic of Užupis by Haïlji
5) Rain over Madrid by Andrés Barba
6) Wayfarer - New Fiction by Korean Women, edited by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton
7) The Flying Classroom by Erich Kästner
8) Zone by Mathias Énard
9) The Bird by O Chong-hui
10) Arpan by Park Hyoung-so 

Tony's Turkey for December is: Nothing

Nothing to report this month - luckily I had four saved over the year for Christmas ;)

Tony's Recommendation for December is:
Mathias Énard's Zone

I reviewed several excellent books this month, and many of the writers can consider themselves unlucky to miss out on the top prize.  I was sorely tempted to opt for Haïlji's Kafkaesque trip through Lithuania, but the reality was that one book was in a class of it own - for a week or so, I was truly in the zone ;)

 

*****
With 2014 done and dusted, it's time to look ahead to 2015, and (of course) I've wasted no time in getting the new year off to a literary start.  You see, the first month of the year is all about January in Japan, my personal attempt to get more people interested in J-Lit.  If that sounds like something you'd be interested in, please feel free to join us :)

2015 Reading List

Click on the link to read the review :) 
Correct up to 22/1/15

7) Feast of the Innocents by Evelio Rosero
6) The Strange Library by Haruki Murakami
5) N.P. by Banana Yoshimoto
4) The Vegetarian by Han Kang
3) The Silent Cry by Kenzaburo Oe (link is to 2009 review)
2) The Whale that Fell in Love with a Submarine by Akiyuki Nosaka
1) The Tale of the Heike, translated by Royall Tyler

The 2014 Tony's Reading List Awards

A very good day to you all - welcome to The Tony's Reading List Awards for 2014!  The blog has been running for exactly six years now, and as always I'm celebrating the anniversary with my round-up of the good, the bad and the downright awful by handing out a few of my cherished prizes.  So, without further ado, let's see who soared and who bombed in 2014 :)

*****
Once again, we begin with the Most-Read Author Award, and heading the list this year are a couple of rather familiar names:

1=) Haruki Murakami (4)
1=) Natsume Soseki (4)

3=) O Chong-hui (3)

3=) Hwang Sok-yong (3)

I have to say that this award hasn't been completely finalised yet as the Koreans have put in a steward's enquiry.  While the Japanese pair take it 4-3 according to the stats on my list, O's three include various novellas and stories which could easily have been counted differently...

Nope, the verdict's in.  Haruki takes the prize, regaining the award he won back in 2009, and the Grand Master of J-Lit joins him thanks to a couple of December reads - well done, sirs :)

*****
After that close tussle, let's move onto a more clear-cut race, the struggle for the Most-Read Country award:

1) South Korea (30)

2) Japan (20)

3) Germany (11)

4) France (7)

5) Italy (5)

Boom!  After one book in six years (and one that was worst in class at that), the Koreans romped home in 2014, with only a late Japanese surge making the race look even a little bit competitive.  My new-found interest in K-Lit has been the story of the blog this year, and I suspect that things will look fairly similar in 2015 as well.  The ten books I read and reviewed from the Dalkey Archive Press Library of Korean Literature beat out every other country, aside from Japan and Germany, on their own ;)
 
If we look at the annual statistics for English-language books versus the rest of the world, you'll see that my focus on literature in translation continues to sharpen.  Of the 130 books I read, only 8 were originally published in English, meaning that an astounding 122 (of which I read 15 in the original language) were originally written in a language other than English.  Even last year's 90% hit-rate has been surpassed - those are big numbers, no matter which way you look at it...

*****
While it's all well and good to reward the enjoyable books of the year, New Year's Eve is also a time to reflect on the complete stinkers, which is why I always look forward to the Golden Turkey Award.  This year, once again, there were four contenders for the drumsticks:

The Frontier Within by Kobo Abe

Butterflies in November by Auður Ava Olafsdóttir

Why Translation Matters by Edith Grossman

One Spoon on This Earth by Hyun Ki-young

And the winner is...

One Spoon on This Earth!  Another award for the Koreans, then, although it's not one they would have wanted.  However, it's only right that I give an honourable mention to the person who made it all possible, translator Jennifer M. Lee.  Believe me when I say that this award really belongs to her... 

*****
Having dished out the minor awards, it's time to get down the real focus of the night, the Book of the Year Award. As has been the case for a few years now, each of my monthly wrap-ups has seen one book singled out as the pick of the month, and only these titles have been found worthy of contending for the ultimate honour (links are to my reviews). Many wonderful books have missed out because of this system, to which I can say only one thing - tough luck.

January - A True Novel by Minae Mizumura (Japan)

February - Anatomy of a Night by Anna Kim (Austria)

March - Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier (France)

April - Where Tigers Are At Home by Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès (France)

May - They Were Counted by Miklós Bánffy (Hungary)

June - Tirza by Arnon Grunberg (Netherlands)

July - Paris by Marcos Giralt Torrente (Spain)

August - There a Petal Silently Falls by Ch'oe Yun (South Korea)

September - Journey by Moonlight by Antal Szerb (Hungary)

October - Seiobo There Below by László Krasznahorkai (Hungary)

November - The Old Masters by Thomas Bernhard (Austria)

December - Zone by Mathias Énard (France)

Twelve of the best, I'm sure you'll agree :)  There are three nods each to France and Hungary, and two books from Austria, with works from Japan, Netherlands, Spain and South Korea rounding out the dozen.  Unsurprisingly, there's no room for an Anglophone book on the list this year...

Of course, where there's a longlist, there's also a shortlist, and here's mine: 

A True Novel

Where Tigers Are At Home

Seiobo There Below

The Old Masters

Zone

At which point, after a few stiff drinks, I had a good, long think before making my final decision - and here it is. The Tony's Reading List Book of the Year for 2014 is (highlight the blank area below with your cursor to see the winner):

A True Novel by Minae Mizumura

(translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter, published by Other Press)

Much more than an updated Japanese version of Wuthering Heights, A True Novel explores how much you can trust other people's versions of a story - and the wonderful product Other Press have developed makes the book even better.  Well done to everyone involved :)


*****
That's all for this year - it's time to look ahead now to the seventh year of the blog, a year that's going to get off to a quick start as January in Japan is about to begin!  Here's hoping it's a good one for all of you, and I do hope you'll join me again occasionally in 2015 :)

'Arpan' by Park Hyoung-su (Review)

With the year fast drawing to a close, there's just enough time to fit in one virtual trip to Korea before the clock strikes twelve.  Today we're looking at the second book from the Asia Publishers K-Fiction series, and where Dinner with Buffett examined capitalism in the big city, this one is a little more exotic in its themes...

*****
Park Hyoung-su's Arpan (translated by Sora Kim-Russell, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a story about a story, an examination of what it means to be a writer and how closely what we write is linked to all that has come before.  The narrator is a Korean writer helping to organise a third-world writers festival in Seoul, an undertaking which is not quite as altruistic as it may appear.

In his youth, the writer spent time with the Waka people on the Thai-Burmese border, and during his time abroad, he encountered Arpan, the only writer of a tribe with an oral culture.  Helping out with the festival, then, is merely a means for getting the affable storyteller to visit Seoul, his first trip away from his mountain home.  In reality, though, while the narrator is happy to see Arpan again, the reason for the invitation has little to do with the festival - our friend has a secret, and the time has come for it to be told...

Arpan is another excellent story from the K-Fiction range, a piece which has as one of its focuses the preservation of minority cultures and languages.  Park examines what it means to preserve a culture, asking whether the idea is even possible.  Whereas no change means it is doomed to extinction, too much outside influence will inevitably lead to a dilution of traditions and perhaps total assimilation.  It's a fine line to tread, and keeping the balance is often impossible.

The reader is shown an example of a minority culture in the figure of Arpan, a member of the Waka (a tall people from the mountains).  In the Waka culture, height has a heightened(!) significance, with size or volume less important than how high items can be stacked.  You can imagine the impression the lofty skyscrapers of Seoul make on a man who lives in a small settlement of rude huts.

At the festival itself, the man from the mountains is even more out of place.  There's a clash of cultures, with the audience laughing silently at Arpan, looking down on a man much bigger (in many ways) than they are.  While the narrator despises the people in the room, he has his own confused relationship with the visitor:

"I cared more about Arpan than anyone else in the world.  Still, I couldn't deny the fact that lurking on the other side of that love was an indefinable hatred.  Maybe it was similar to the hatred that later generations feel towards an unconquerable original."
p.21 (Asia Publishers, 2014)

The truth is that the writer is no different to the audience - as we are to discover.

The second main theme concerns the idea of inspiration, being part of a literary tradition, and the temptation of crossing the border into plagiarism.  When the writer finally sits Arpan down to reveal the secret he's been keeping, he gives an example of a song evolving across countries and centuries:

"The human arts have never once been pure.  Every act of creation we undertake is footnoted and amended with respect to an existing point of view.  It builds up layer by layer." (p.65)

It's an interesting idea, and possibly true - but (to lean on literary tradition myself) methinks the writer doth protest too much...

As the writer sits down opposite his imposing visitor, the reader is confronted with a question: which is more important, the writer or the story?  The way Arpan ends seems to answer the question decisively.  The truth, though, is that no matter how ingenious his justifications are, the writer will always wonder whether he's done the right thing... 

*****
Arpan is an excellent, thought-provoking story, enhanced (as the Asia Publishers books always are) by the added extras.  The inclusions this time are especially good as we are treated to the writer's own views on the story, in which he explains what he was trying to achieve. It also features an excellent translation by Sora Kim-Russell (translator of, amongst other works, Shin Kyung-sook's I'll Be Right There).  In fact, both the books in this series that I've read so far have been far better in this regard than those in the Bilingual series - a welcome sign that the standard of translation is getting better and better.

If you're new to K-Lit, and hesitant to dive into the longer (and more culturally-loaded) seminal works, the K-Fiction series looks like a nice place to start - particularly if you're keen on the idea of having a bilingual version.  For those of you outside Korea (i.e. almost everyone...), the whole set is available on Amazon, and buying all five would probably be the cheapest way to get hold of them.  I've got one more to look at - hopefully I'll be writing more about this series very soon :)

'The Bird' by O Chong-hui (Review)

Not many people will be posting Christmas Day reviews, but mine is a blog that never sleeps (besides, what better present can I give you all than another review?).  With that in mind, Merry Christmas, and happy reading ;)

*****
One of the best discoveries I've made during my look at Korean literature is O Chong-hui (Oh Jung-hee), a writer whose stories of ordinary people stand out among the many works I've read this year.  She's known as a master of the short form, so I was interested to see how a longer piece would read - hence the book covered in today's post.  It's a work which begins simply enough, but as O is not an author who creates happy shiny people, we know that there'll be some darker tones just around the corner...

*****
The Bird (translated by Jenny Wang Medina) is set in Korea in the 1990s.  Young U-mi and her little brother U-il have been abandoned by their mother, with the father then forced to venture far afield for work, promising to return one day.  After some years spent with relatives:

"Father had arrived without warning to take us away.  I could hear a voice solemnly and tragically recounting my fate just like in a fairy tale, saying how it came to be so that one day they had to leave the house.  It was as if I had always known that there would come a day when I would have to follow that call to leave unquestioningly."
p.21 (Telegram Books, 2007)

For the two children, life is about to change.  As well as being reunited with their father, they are about to encounter another surprise in the form of a new mother...

With a clean new room, even if it is devoid of luxuries, and friendly new neighbours, it looks as if life has turned a corner.  However, the reality is that the high hopes are unlikely to last.  Neither the father nor his new wife are the type to stick around when times get tough, and the events to come will have their effect on the two children.  They're used to being by themselves, but can they really survive all alone?

The Bird is a little different from the majority of the stories I've read by the author, mainly in its focus on the children (especially U-mi).  The story starts innocently enough, a story of life in the nineties for poor working-class kids.  The reader soon warms to the clever U-mi, who is doing her best to look after herself and her brother in the absence of parent.

She can expect little help from her father.  He's a dreamer, ambitious and violent by turns, but he's also a man caught by the times.  In order to survive, he needs to keep moving to where the work is (which, to be honest, probably suits him...).  After a few drinks, his violent streak appears, and the events the children witness are bound to leave their mark.  A question which repeatedly haunts the reader is that of the mother's whereabouts, and while U-mi accepts her father's story, the reader is a little more suspicious...

In any case, U-mi has no time to speculate as she needs to look after her younger brother.  U-il is a dreamer, an innocent, slightly backward boy, who is obsessed by a cartoon character, to the extent of believing he too can fly.  Again, what seems like an innocent, childish belief will later be shown to have a more sinister origin.

For the first half of The Bird, I felt that it was a book more aimed at teenagers, not bad but perhaps lacking in range and emotion, with U-mi's limited voice restricting the story.  Of course, I should have known better - O is a writer known for her depth, and slowly, gradually, the optimistic tone turns sour.  To start with, it's little things, such as the children's destructive tendencies (for example, in cutting faces from photos) or the treatment of poor Mr. Bear, the take-home toy from U-mi's class at school.

The last third of the book then casts away all pretence at the innocence of youth as disturbing events begin to pile up in a masterful development of a descent into darkness.  There's violence, sexual awakening and painstaking description of the filth of the underclass (there's one scene in particular which might be rather distressing for westerners...).  By the end of the book, I'd have to say things have turned almost Ogawaesque - and I mean that in a good way ;)

The writing is excellent, and Wang Medina has done good work in capturing U-mi's young voice.  The book begins with fairly simple writing that gradually darkens as the story progresses, more from the content than the style.  A nice touch is the childlike use of the word 'Mummy', a choice I found a little questionable at the start - by the end, the word seems almost sinister and mocking...

The title isn't merely drawn from U-il's dreams of flying as there is an actual bird involved.  Belonging to the children's neighbour, Mr. Yi, the tiny creature is kept safe in a cage, high above the floor:

"If I put it on the floor, she'd get eaten by a rat faster than I could move a muscle.  And birds are meant to live in the heavens like angels or fairies aren't they?  What's so great about a dirty, muddy world of land that's swarming with bad people who want to catch you for their dinner?" (p.36)

The Bird is an apt symbol of the theme of the novel, a creature representing hope and freedom, but one who is unlikely to ever obtain it.  Just like the bird, U-mi is likely to have a bleak future - the story, however is a very good one.  Chalk up another success for O Chong-hui :)

'Zone' by Mathias Énard (Review)

Fitzcarraldo Editions is a new press in the UK, publishing quality books in plain, sleek designs.  Their first offering is a book which, while previously translated into English, had never been released in the UK.  A lengthy novel, it's a 520-page journey, one you're unlikely to forget - let's go and visit the Zone...

*****
Zone by Matthias Énard (translated by Charlotte Mandell, review copy courtesy of the publisher) begins at Milan's main train station.  Frenchman Francis Mirkovic, having missed his morning flight, is two-thirds of the way through an epic train journey from Paris to Rome.  As the wheels start moving once more, the tired, hungover Mirkovic starts thinking of the end of the journey.

With five-hundred-and-fifty kilometres to go, there's ample time for thoughts, and Francis is a man with a lot to think about.  He's leaving the world of the French intelligence service, in possession of a suitcase which is to be sold in Rome, the proceeds of which will help him start a new life.  Ignoring the passers-by at the station, he prepares for the hours ahead:

"...I have to be strong I can't linger over the faces of young women I have to be resolute so I can gather momentum for the kilometers ahead of me then for the void and the terror of the world I'm changing my life my profession better not think about it..."
p.15 (Fitzcarraldo Press, 2014)

As his experiences flash before his eyes on the long run to Rome, we wonder how he'll ever forget what he's been through...

Zone is an excellent book, a sweeping novel acting on several levels.  Ostensibly, it's a description of a train journey; in reality, it's an opportunity to delve into the bloody past of the Mediterranean region.  Yes, there's plenty of sun and relaxation on the beaches, but it's also a place of constant struggle and bloodshed.  This is the Zone of the title, and as the wheels roll smoothly over the tracks, lulling the tired passengers to sleep, the reader is confronted with a tangle of war memories, as Mirkovic reminisces about 'work' and his personal life.

We move from the first level of the exhausted, hungover agent on the train to the second level, his experiences as both a soldier and a spy.  He's a veteran of the Balkan wars, a volunteer fighter in the Croatian army fighting for his mother's homeland.  The time available for reflection allows flashbacks to surface, atrocities both witnessed and undertaken, and he remembers the fate of Andrija and Vlaho, his comrades in arms.

His subsequent career as a spy, a seller and buyer of information, may seem slightly less violent, but only on the surface.  The information still leads to death, only this time at arm's length, and it's this suitcase full of the dead which is being brought to new owners.  It may appear to be his ticket to freedom, but it could also be a container full of guilt, a burden weighing him down.  Énard cleverly uses Mirkovic's stories to gradually unveil more about the agent's personal life, his character being revealed over the course of the journey.  His war crimes, his personal relationships, his mental torment - the closer he gets to his destination, the more we see him unravel.  This is a man on the verge of falling apart completely...

The Zone itself, from Gibralta and Morocco to the Middle East, is a cradle of life, a region which has given birth to civilisations for millennia; however, it's also a setting for war and death.  The third level of the novel lifts us above Mirkovic's personal experiences, expanding upon the interconnections between the wars:

"...do we always know what the gods are reserving for us what we are reserving for ourselves, the plan we form, from Jerusalem to Rome, from one eternal city to the other, the apostle who three times denied his friend in the pale dawn after a stormy night perhaps guided my hand, who knows, there are so many coincidences, paths that cross in the great fractal seacoast where I've been floundering for ages without knowing it..." (p.76)

While the writing and structure are very different, there are shades of Cloud Atlas here in the way that the events of different eras overlap.

The book goes back and forth in time, looking at the history of war in the Mediterranean,
giving us a four-dimensional view of the Zone.  Énard skilfully weaves in stories of the Spanish Civil War, the Great War struggles and Holocaust massacres, along with older tales of Hannibal and his elephants and the siege of Troy.  This is a region soaked in blood, home to legions of bones:

"...on the beach of Megara you still find, washed up by the waves, tiles of mosaics torn from Punic palaces sleeping on the bottom of the sea, like the wrecks of the galleys of Lepanto, the breastplates sunk in the Dardanelles, the ashes thrown in bags of cement by the SS of La Risiera along Dock No. 7 in the port of Trieste..." (p.106)

We begin to understand that the procession of soldiers and corpses is never ending...

Zone is a wonderful work, one with a dizzying array of references and ideas.  One of its more noticeable features is its style - it's a book without sentences, for the most part reflecting the motion of the train.  The words push the reader smoothly onwards, just as the train surges powerfully on through the Italian countryside, and Mandell has done sterling work to recreate this fluid style in English.  The book starts mid-sentence, and although it ends with a full stop, in a sense it really doesn't finish here.  It's just a part of the one, big sentence that is life.

Énard has created a great novel, one that deserves to be read, and it'll probably be among my best few books of the year.  It's a work I could have written far more about, a novel to be both read and studied.  Above all, it's a reminder that the conflicts of today are shadows, echoes of those of yesterday and antiquity - the soldiers may change, but the Zone doesn't...

*****
Open Letter published the American edition of Zone, and they have just published another of Énard's books, Street of Thieves, again translated by Charlotte Mandell.  Anyone who enjoyed Zone may want to check that one out too...