'Grass on the Wayside' by Natsume Sōseki (Review)

It wouldn't be January in Japan without looking at a book by the great Natsume Sōseki, and today's choice is one I've had on the shelves for far too long.  One of his last completed novels, appearing not long before the incomplete Light and Dark, it's an intensely personal work (as much for me as for the writer), and what's more, it's a landmark review in one other way - this is the tenth of his I've written about :)

*****
Grass on the Wayside (translated by Edwin McClellan) is the story of Kenzō, a university lecturer in his mid-thirties.  Living and working in Tokyo, having recently returned from a few years abroad, he's a rather nervous, slightly pompous intellectual who struggles to relate to others:

"That he might leave his desk once in a while and indulge in some sort of recreation never occurred to him.  A well-meaning friend once suggested that he might take up Nō recitation as a hobby.  He had grace enough to refuse politely, but secretly he was quite shocked at the man's frivolity.  How can the fellow, he asked himself incredulously, find the time for such nonsense?  He could not see that his own attitude toward time had become mean and miserly."
p.6 (Tuttle Publishing, 1971)

Kenzō would love nothing more than to be left alone with his work, but it's unlikely to happen - this is not a culture where an individual can remain cut off from those around them.

As a relatively successful man, Kenzō is responsible for helping his relatives out when necessary, including his asthmatic sister and her no-good husband, his elder brother and his wife's parents (while his father-in-law was once a successful public official, he has come down in the world and now needs assistance himself).  To top it all off, while out walking one day, our friend sees a familiar face from the past.  The old man standing on the corner is Shimada, an important figure from Kenzō's childhood.  What ensues is less a happy reunion than another claim on Kenzō's time and finances...

Grass on the Wayside was written shortly before Sōseki's death.  Suffering from stomach illness at the time, he was not in the most optimistic of moods, and this is reflected in the book.  It's actually an extremely personal novel, and McClellan's short introduction explains both the prevailing trend of 'I' novels of the time and the parallels between Kenzō's story and the writer's own circumstances. 

The main plot concerns the connection between Kenzō and Shimada.  Between the ages of two and eight (as was the case with Sōseki himself), Kenzō was adopted out by his family to Shimada, a situation which was not too uncommon in the Japan of the time.  While all legal and financial issues were settled when the boy was returned to his real parents, Shimada is nevertheless hoping to take advantage and squeeze money out of his former 'son':

"Kenzō did not quite know what to say.  He looked at the tobacco tray he had placed in front of the visitor, and thought of the old man with the shoddy umbrella staring at him through the rain.  Kenzō could not help hating him.  He remained silent, torn between his sense of indebtedness and his hatred." (p.21)

A modern (Western) reader might wonder why he is unable to simply brush the claim off - unfortunately, both Japanese culture and Kenzō's personality render that more difficult than it might first appear.

Like many of the characters in the novel, Shimada is able to take advantage of Kenzō's weakness.  The lecturer may be intellectually able, but he's certainly not a man of the world, and this causes most of his problems:

"The trouble with him, however, was that behind the obstinacy there was a rather indecisive streak in his character.  He simply did not have the courage to refuse outright to lend his signature; he was afraid of seeming too heartless." (p.119)

However, his reticence to act is due not only to any perceived weakness, but also to a genuine moral dilemma.  Unlike his wife and brother, who are concerned about any possible legal claim, Kenzō is actually more worried about whether Shimada truly has a moral claim on his assistance...

The other main theme explored in Grass on the Wayside is that of marriage, and the novel provides great psychological insight into a standard (unhappy) relationship.  Both Kenzō and his wife are at fault (although by modern, Western standards, Kenzō is certainly the main offender); they are two people separated by minds and attitudes, observing basic formalities and little else:

"Her expression was blank.  I could have shown pleasure, she thought, if only he had said something kind.  Kenzō, on the other hand, resented her seeming indifference, and blamed her for his own silence." (p.34)

This miscommuncation is typical of the way they go about their daily life.  The two do attempt to get along in their bumbling way, but they are simply never able to open up to each other.

As mentioned, this is a late Sōseki, and the style and subject matter are typically dark and heavy, very different to the light touch shown in earlier work (e.g. Botchan, Kusamakura).  As a character, Kenzō has echoes of Daisuke in Sorekara/And Then (again, a much lighter book).  Both men are vacillating and western-influenced, unable to cope with the more practical, mercenary people around them.  In terms of style, however, Grass on the Wayside is more similar to the writer's final (unfinished) work, Light and Dark.  The closing piece in Sōseki's oeuvre takes the marriage themes introduced in previous works and examines them in exhaustive detail; the handling of Kenzō's marital woes can be seen as a warm-up for the longer novel to come.

Grass on the Wayside is not a book for everyone, but Sōseki fans will love this.  It's an absorbing, psychological tale - and a warning to the unwary...  I finished this on New Year's Eve, around the time the story comes to an end, and Sōseki's tale of a busy man, surrounded by family, stress and fatigue is, unfortunately, all too familiar.  Grass on the Wayside can be read not just as a novel, but as a warning to those who set matters intellectual above domestic affairs.  Consider it a warning heeded...

'Light and Dark' by Natsume Soseki (Review)

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 ;)

'The 210th Day' by Natsume Soseki (Review)

I was always planning to read something by Natusme Soseki (my inaugural J-Lit Giant!) for January in Japan, and I was wondering whether to try his late classic, Grass on the Wayside, or a collection of stories inspired by his time in England, The Tower of London.  However, as regular readers will know, I enjoy finding connections between the books I'm reading, so when I finished reading Shusaku Endo's Volcano, I knew there was only one possible choice for my next book...

*****
The 210th Day (translated by Sammy I. Tsunematsu) is an entertaining novella based on a real-life trip the writer took with a friend in September 1899.  Two men, the educated Roku and the rough-and-ready tofu seller Kei, have decided to climb Mount Aso, a volcanic peak in the centre of Kyushu, and the story details their adventures as they stay at traditional inns and go wandering through the countryside.  The story is told in the present tense and mainly consists of the slightly rambling conversations the two men have on their trip.

The volcano draws immediate parallels with Endo's work (the fictional Akadake of Volcano is based on the south-Kyushu volcano of Sakurajima), but that's where the similarities end.  Natsume's work is a piece of fun, consisting of the same joke-filled dialogues that punctuated his first work, I am a Cat.  In fact, if you're looking for something to compare it to, you'd be more likely to reference Three Men in a Boat than any J-Lit classics.

Of course, there is more to The 210th Day than knockabout humour.  The volcano is not just a fiery mountain, the destination for Kei and Roku's weekend walk; it is a commonly-used literary symbol in Japan, one I've come across three times in a week (if anyone can tell me the Murakami short story I saw it in, ten J-Lit spotter points are yours!), and here it represents the potential for change in Japanese society.  The excitable Kei frequently engages his friend in discussions on the possibility of changing the world, to the amusement of the laid-back (and better off) Roku:

"Even if one wants them, there are lots of things society does not allow, aren't there?"
"That's why I said 'the poor creatures!'  If one is born into an unjust society, it can't be helped.  Whether it permits it or not, is not of much importance.  The main thing is to want it oneself."
"And what if one wants to be something and still does not become it?"
"Whether or not one becomes it is not the problem.  One has to want it.  By wanting it, one causes society to permit it, " says Kei in peremptory tones.
pp.24/5 (Tuttle Press, 2002)

Kei is certain of the possibility of revolution, of turning society upside down and ensuring that everyone has a chance to live life to the fullest.  While it sounds fanciful, the book was first published in 1915 - just a couple of years before the Russian Revolution...

Despite the social themes which the writer would return to in later, more mature, works, The 210th Day is more closely connected to Natsume's early books, mainly because of its comical nature.  Roku is not really cut out for wandering around in the mountains, struggling with sore toes and a dodgy tummy.  Despite this, he manages to keep his sense of humour:

"Whenever you say 'whatever happens' you finally get the better of me.  A little while back, too, because of your 'whatever happens' I ended up eating udon.  If I now get dysentery, it will be because of your 'whatever happens'."
"It doesn't matter.  I will accept responsibility."
"What good does that do me, your accepting the responsibility for my illness?  After all, you yourself are not going to be ill in my place!"
"Don't worry.  I'll look after you.  I shall be infected myself and see to it that you are saved."
"Oh, really?  That reassures me.  Oh well, I'll go on a bit further." (pp.62-3)

If that sounds like two men just talking rubbish - well, that pretty much sums up the book ;)

The 210th Day is an interesting read, but it's probably only one for the Soseki completists.  It's fairly slight, in both depth and pages, compared to his more famous works, and the translation is not the best I've seen.  Tsunematsu has perhaps been a little too faithful to the text, translating it in a rather old-fashioned style of English which (for me) doesn't really suit the kind of story it is (on a side note, translations can be an issue with Natsume Soseki - I have ten of his works, and virtually all of them have been translated by different people...).

Still, if you do happen to come across a copy, it's a pleasant way to while away an hour or so.  I won't reveal whether or not our two friends ever actually manage to reach the top of the mountain, but that is most definitely not the point.  The journey, as is often the case in Japanese literature, is of much more importance than the destination.  The reader just has to strap on their hiking boots and go along for the ride :)

Sitting in Front of the Gate

I haven't had a lot of opportunities to enjoy my J-Lit library of late, busy as I've been with assorted review copies and Icelandic works, so it was a nice change to pick up a book from my shelves, one I've been wanting to get to for a while.  Natsume Soseki is one of my favourite Japanese writers, and The Gate (Mon), published by Peter Owen Publishers, is the third-part of a thematically-linked trilogy which began with Sanshiro and Sorekara (And Then).  Back to Tokyo we go then :)

*****
The Gate (translated by Francis Mathy) introduces the reader to Sosuke and Oyone, a childless married couple living in Tokyo.  Aside from the usual financial concerns, theirs seems a fairly happy existence, an idyllic, if humdrum, married life in the suburbs of the big city.  However, all is not quite as it seems.  Sosuke's younger brother, Koroku, appears on the scene, and his arrival allows the writer to expand on the back stories of his creations.  Soon, we see that Sosuke and Oyone's life is not as typical as we may first have thought...

The couple's simple existence has come about by necessity, not by choice, as their relationship had rather controversial and immoral beginnings.  However, this has also caused Sosuke to struggle in other areas of his life as he has become unable to assert himself or make any major decision without considerable inner turmoil.  This stagnation has caused him to be cheated of his inheritance and led to his lowly status in his company.  When he is forced to look after his brother, and later his sick wife, it appears that his past has finally caught up with him.

It's not quite as simple as all that though.  While the reader suspects that a major tragedy is in progress, the truth is that little really happens, and it's difficult to work out exactly what The Gate is all about.  Koroku's troubles are certainly not central to the novel, and while Oyone's illness (as written on the back cover) initially appears to be a turning point, this isn't a melodrama.  Even the sub-plot of the wasted inheritance is fairly trivial, quickly brushed under the carpet.

What it's really about is Sosuke and his miserable, grey existence.  The gate of the title is a very Kafkaesque representation of an entrance to a happier state of existence, one which our (anti-) hero is unlikely ever to find.  Living (literally and symbolically!) in the shadows, their house located at the bottom of a cliff, Sosuke and Oyone are old before their time:

"Though they were in fact still young, they had slipped past this stage and seemed to grow plainer and more matter-of-fact day by day.  To the casual observer they may even have given the impression of being two very humdrum and colourless people who had come together as man and wife only to conform to social custom." p.28 (Peter Owen, 2006)

Victims of circumstance, their drab life is not one of choice; rather, they have been forced into it by their mistake:

"That they had spent these long years in daily repetition of the same routine, however, was not because they had from the first lost interest in the outside world, but rather because this world had placed them in isolation, then turned its cold back upon them." pp.134-5

Instead of rebelling against an unforgiving society though, Sosuke accepts his lot, becoming just another rat in the daily race into, and back out of, Tokyo:

"All the year round he breathed the air of Tokyo.  Daily he rode on the streetcar to and from work, passing morning and evening through the bustling streets.  But he was always so fatigued in mind and body that he travelled in a daze, completely unaware of his surroundings." pp.11-12

As you may have gathered from the quotations above, Sosuke is hardly an energetic go-getter.  In fact, at times he's really not a very easy person to feel sympathy for...

Towards the middle of the book, I started to find myself getting a little impatient with the story, wondering where exactly it was going.  It was fairly sickly-sweet in places, and there were a lot of info dumps, dragging the reader back into the past, before looping back to the present, an endless cycle of repetitive information.  Until Sosuke decides to step outside his life for a little while by going to a Buddhist temple...

And this is where the book gets interesting, especially when you finish it and read the wonderful introduction.  Damian Flanagan, a writer and critic who has a particular interest in Natsume Soseki, provides an excellent background to the novel and an intriguing interpretation, one which relies on the author's overseas travels, his literary connections in Tokyo and his familiarity with the work of one Friedrich Nietzsche...

While most of Flanagan's ideas go flapping gently somewhere over my head, this introduction is a perfect example of the kind of extra that can make editions stand out.  Certainly, I felt I understood The Gate a lot more having read Flanagan's analysis of the book.  Without having read Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra) though, I feel I'm not really in a position to judge whether I agree completely with what he says ;)

One thing I am sure of though is that The Gate, despite its lack of drama, does not describe a happy existence.  Sosuke is a man trapped in mediocrity, unable either to forget the past or take a bold step into the future.  While his life is relatively comfortable, he is condemned to cycle between regret and forlorn hope, without the mental strength to break free of the temporal prison he finds himself in.  Repeating mistakes for the rest of your life?  Sounds like a tragedy to me...

Back to Japan

Two months of overly-planned reading, firstly my Victorian-slanted Rereading July, then my August German Literature Month, have led to my neglecting another of my favourite areas, the genre commonly known as J-Lit.  Fear not though, oh reader (not that you were, I'm sure), for today marks the return of Japanese literature to my little blog; and in this post, we will catch up with an old friend...

*****

Natsume Soseki is the most famous and popular modern Japanese writer (Haruki Murakami says so, and I am not inclined to argue), and I've read a few of his works over the past couple of years, so when I saw a copy of Sorekara (And Then) advertised for pre-sale on The Book Depository earlier this year, it was the small matter of two minutes before the transaction was finalised - apart from having to wait six months, that is...  I received the book just in time for my birthday and was able to settle down last week and read what I had already begun to describe as my birthday book - and very good it was too :)

Sorekara (translated - a good while back - by Norma Moore Field) is a sequel of sorts to Sanshiro, Soseki's coming-of-age novel, despite the different characters.  Whereas Sanshiro dealt with a university student coming to grips with life and love, Sorekara introduces us to Daisuke, a thirty-year-old graduate with a cynical outlook on life and no plans for the future beyond sitting, thinking and continuing to live off his father's purse.  The intellectual and (to be perfectly honest) somewhat lazy Daisuke is forced to deviate from his path of least resistance by two unrelated events.  The first is an attempt by his family to arrange a marriage for him with a woman from a family to whom Daisuke's father owes a debt of honour.  The second is the return to Tokyo of a friend from Daisuke's university days - along with his wife, Michiyo...

In Sorekara, the reader is bound to the figure of Daisuke, but this does not mean that we are meant to sympathise fully with him.  In fact, he is a very difficult character to get a grasp of, and while we can, at times, understand his motives and his aversion to the future his family wants for him, at others it is difficult to see him as anything other than a good-for-nothing, indecisive daddy's boy.  Daisuke obviously considers himself to be an intellectual, and encourages this manner of thinking in those who surround him.  However, there are numerous occasions in the book where his supposedly-superior intellect founders in discussions with his family.  As his reasoning goes around in circles, and he blames his inability to make himself understood on the people who outsmart him, we begin to feel that Daisuke is not such a sympathetic character after all...

While Daisuke is initially an interesting recluse, the more we get to know him, the more pompous and irritating he becomes.  He looks down on his family (and at one point admits as much), yet he is, in truth, far inferior to them in many ways.  While ostensibly free, he is actually trapped in a gilded prison partially of his own making, at the beck and call of his father and brother, unable to even scrape a small amount of money together when his friend needs it.  His constant philosophising can grate, and his strained nerves, aggravated by certain colours (reminding me of the ludicrous Frederick Fairlie from Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White), do not exactly endear him to the reader.

It is not until Daisuke's self-assured persona begins to show cracks, and his facade starts to crumble, that the reader begins to feel more sympathetic towards him.  The catalyst for this is the return of Michiyo, a woman for whom Daisuke still has feelings, and who originally preferred our hero to his friend.  With all this going on in the background, it's certainly a bad time for Daisuke's father to start pushing his son into an arranged marriage...

Of course, with a writer such as Natsume Soseki at the helm, there is a lot more to Sorekara than just the tale of a spoilt rich boy.  It's actually a reflection of the clash of conflicts between traditional Japanese culture and the newly-arrived western influences (which the author had, shall we say, certain reservations about).  While the university-educated Daisuke rejects the constraints of the old system, he is equally disenchanted by the rush towards a free society, with capitalism and all this entails.  He accuses his father of being stuck between the two systems and eras - in fact, it is Daisuke himself who is an unfortunate casualty of the shift from old to new.

Sorekara is probably not the best book for people to begin their acquaintance with Natsume Soseki.  While it is an absorbing story, it doesn't have the humorous touches of I am a Cat and Botchan, and it is not as accessible as casual, airy works such as Sanshiro and Kusamakura.  Those who have already fallen under the spell of the "Japanese Dickens" though will enjoy the book immensely, whether they identify with the protagonist or not.

Where next with Natsume Soseki?  Well, apparently Sorekara, as well as being a companion book to Sanshiro, is the second in a loose trilogy, of which the third part is The Gate (Mon), a book which takes us into the next stage of the Japanese man's life.  So, if you'll excuse me, I'm just off to see a man about a dog gate...

Yet Another Taste of Japan ;)

As promised earlier this week, after the first of my little summaries, here is the second of my J-Lit round-ups, this time featuring a couple of very familiar names...

The first is a writer who is fast becoming one of those whose entire back catalogue will someday be gracing my shelves.  After reading a few of Natsume Soseki's earlier works last year, I recently obtained one of his final novels, Kokoro (translated by Meredith McKinney), an absolute Japanese classic and a standard high school text back in Japan.

Kokoro tells two stories in one.  The first is that of a young student who makes the acquaintance of an older man he calls Sensei.  After numerous visits to his house, they become friends, but there is always a sense of reserve, something hidden from the narrator's consciousness, perhaps connected with the monthly visits which Sensei makes to a friend's grave.  The narrator is then forced to leave Tokyo, and his friend, behind to return home when his father becomes unwell.  Bored at home, he writes to Sensei constantly without reply until, finally, one day, he receives a letter - a very long, very unusual letter.

This letter is actually the second of the stories and takes up the latter half of the novel, telling the story of Sensei's life as a student and clearing up many of the mysteries that have puzzled the narrator.  We are told of his family background, his romantic aspirations and (most importantly) we finally learn about his dead friend K.  As the narrator returns to Tokyo, at a very critical time for his family, he is left to wonder what will await him there...

Kokoro is another wonderfully-written novel, poignant and elegant, but different from Natsume's earlier works.  Where Botchan and I am a Cat poked friendly fun at Japanese society, and Kusamakura sparkled with wit and sunshine, Kokoro is much darker, building progressively through the novel to a tragic end, for both Sensei and the narrator.

The novel discusses, among other things, the idea of duty and honour, and the way people behave (or fail to behave) under difficult circumstances.  Sensei's story reveals several instances of the dark side of human nature, some explaining his disillusionment with the world, others revealing more about his own character.  Ironically, the receipt of his letter is the catalyst for the narrator's own crisis of conscience, forcing him to choose between friend and family.

This novel began life as a novella consisting entirely of the third 'letter' section, and the section with the narrator came later.  Sadly, this was pretty much the last completed work Soseki produced as he passed away (unusually for a Japanese writer it seems ) of natural causes a couple of years after Kokoro's publication.  When I lived in Japan a decade or so ago, Soseki's face was on the 1000-Yen note, proof of just how important a writer he is in his home country.  It's a shame it took me this long to get into his work :(

*****

Another author whose works cause the slender shelves in my bookcases to groan under their weight (and who himself is a big fan of Natsume Soseki) is Haruki Murakami, and I recently read another collection of his short stories, entitled The Elephant Vanishes.  I had actually read this collection before, and I don't think I was overly impressed first time around, preferring his novels to the bizarre worlds of his shorter fiction.  However, as is often the case, this time around it was a very different story - I loved this book and discovered some excellent writing, as well as further insights into his longer works.

One aspect I had completely forgotten was the use of a female narrator in a few of the stories, something which has not happened (so far) in his novels.  One of my favourite stories, Sleep, a tale of a woman who stops needing to sleep at night, uses this ploy, and it gives the usual Murakami style an added twist.  In the story, a suburban housewife uses her extra eight hours a day to reevaluate her life, finding the time to rekindle her love of literature and think about whether she is actually wasting her life.  As a tale of taking stock of your life, a metaphor for sleepwalking through your daily existence, it's a good one, reminiscent of something Banana Yoshimoto would write (but in reverse!).

Another story, Barn Burning, actually reminded me of my most recent read, Marcel Proust's Du Côte de chez Swann, as strange as that may sound.  While comparing a simple fifteen-page short story to a 600-page epic of descriptive prose may be drawing a long bow, some of the ideas Murakami explores are similar to those Proust expounds upon.  One of these is the idea of memory and time, and the way these are individual, often brought back to our consciousness by random triggers, be they cakes (Proust) or marijuana (Murakami).  Memory, being less than perfect, becomes faded, blurring at some point into fiction - and who can say where that line is....

The collection has two translators, Alfred Birnbaum and Jay Rubin, and I would have to say that I prefer Rubin's style to that of Birnbaum.  A good reference point here is the first story, The Wind-Up Bird and Tuesday's Women, translated by Birnbaum.  This later became the first chapter of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, translated by Rubin, and if you compare the first page of the two versions, Rubin's (for me, at least) has a much smoother feel.  Of course, the two original Japanese versions may have been different too (if only I could read them!).

There are a couple of strange, less-than-perfect stories in this collection, but all in all it's a worthy companion to Murakami's novels and well worth the effort.  I read it over about a day and a half, but I would recommend spacing it out a little more - these are stories to be savoured, individually wrapped.  Very Japanese :)

A Grass Pillow for My Head

Well, I was planning to plough through all my neglected reviews before moving on to new books, but as Robbie Burns pointed out, the best-laid plans of mice and men do, indeed, gang aft agley (especially when it comes to blogging - although I don't know many rodent reviewers myself).  Anyway, I finished a book yesterday and decided that I had to talk about it, and when that happens, you just have to grit your teeth, hit the keyboard, and hope that your body holds out; here goes...

*****
The book which brought on this spontaneous bout of blogging is another novel by the father of Japanese literature, Natsume Soseki.  Translated by Meredith McKinney, Kusamakura (previously translated as The Three-Cornered World) means 'grass pillow' and is a short novel which is the epitome of what people imagine Japanese literature to be.  The main idea of the novel - you couldn't really call it a plot - is of an artist travelling through the wilds of Kyushu at the start of the twentieth century and staying at a hot springs inn while searching for inspiration for a picture.  He comes across Nami, the owner's daughter, and... that's pretty much it.  If you're looking for complications, you are definitely in the wrong place.

You see, Kusamakura, as with many Japanese novels, is more about the path than the destination.  While reading it, the expression 'poetry in prose' continually crossed my mind, and Natsume himself actually described this book (a sort of bridge between his humorous early works and his later, more serious, efforts) as a 'haiku novel' - which probably says more about the book than I could ever tell you ;)  It consists of thirteen short chapters, each around ten to twelve pages long, and I read it as it should be read, taking one chapter at a time, savouring the words, putting it to one side, and then coming back for another slice later.  This is a book for enjoying, not rushing.

The concepts expressed in the book revolve around a few central ideas: the examination of what an artist actually is and what they need to do to live artistically; the contrast between natural rural life and the fevered city existence most people have become accustomed to; and, more allegorically, the difference between the past and the present, East and West.  Soseki's unnamed protagonist is more than happy to just find the nearest rock and drink in the scenery as he ponders these mysteries, gazing into the distance and musing on the challenges of poetry and painting. 

This could get rather repetitive and mind-numbing in the hands of a lesser writer, but Natsume has a subtle and timely sense of humour, allowing his main character to laugh quietly at himself and prevent the thinking from becoming navel-gazing.  When his hero spends a page wondering what has happened to the other occupants of the inn, imagining them lost at sea in an impenetrable mist, or magically transformed into ethereal spirits, the final sentence of the paragraph:

"Whatever may be the case, it certainly is quiet" p.64, Penguin Classics (2008)

pulls us back to the real world with a thud!

One idea I loved was his musing that you don't actually have to create anything to be an artist.  Simply removing oneself consciously from worldly troubles and being able to appreciate nature's artistic qualities requires an artistic temperament; the actual work of art is simply the culmination of this idea (as a lazy writer, I find this idea far too tempting!).  Of course, on a sunny day, relaxing in the mountains (or lounging on the sofa), it's best not to overanalyse these things.  As Natsume himself says:

"To think is to sink into error." p.43

Another point where I am fully in agreement with the writer and his creation is where he discusses the delights of tea (no coffee for me or the characters in Kusamakura!):

"Tea is in fact a marvellous drink.  To those who spurn it on the grounds of insomnia, I say that it's better to be deprived of sleep than of tea." p.87

As you can tell from all these quotes I've provided (something I rarely take the pains to do), I loved this book.  It's less a novel or novella, and more a tract about living life artistically, the Tao of Kusamakura if you will.  I'm sure someone with a bit more energy than myself could create a new religion from Natsume's whimsical musings (and I'm sure it would be a good one), but that would actually defeat the object of removing oneself from daily life.

I'll finish today with a perfect example of how this book can constantly throw up surprises.  After going away for a stroll in the garden, I came back to read Chapter 9 - only to realise on completing it that it was actually Chapter 10...  When I eventually got around to reading the real Chapter 9, our fearless protagonist was conversing with Nami and explaining his method of reading novels, dipping into the book wherever he saw fit and reading a few pages with no context.  When challenged as to the logic of this method, he replies:

"If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end." p.95

And that is what Kusamakura is all about...

Review Post 41 - Hey, teacher - leave those kids a... No, actually, give them a kicking, they deserve it.

Although I do little teaching in my current job, I am, by trade, a teacher, and I well remember my first experience of this trade. It occurred when I was a language assistant at a technical college in the north-east of France, spending part of my time abroad for my bachelor's degree in modern languages.  One particular class sticks in the memory, mainly because it was excruciatingly embarrassing.  Having failed to organise my notes adequately, I turned up to take a class of fourteen-year olds with two activities prepared, both of which I had previously subjected the poor, suffering adolescents to.  As the class hurried off to freedom (half an hour before the end of the lesson), a couple of girls attempted to comfort me - which somehow made things much, much worse.  The reason for this thoroughly uncomfortable bout of catharsis?  Natsume Soseki's classic novel Botchan...

*****
Botchan is a true classic of Japanese literature, one of those books which everybody seems to have read (most at some point during their own school days).  Closer in style to I am a Cat than to Sanshiro, it is short, funny, lively and a wonderful way to while away a few lazy hours.  It is centred on Botchan himself (a nickname meaning 'little master' - we never learn his full name), a young Tokyoite who, on completing his diploma, accepts a job as a Maths teacher at a small-town middle school on Shikoku.  We follow the angry young man through his arrival in this alien landscape, where adults speak with forked (sometimes incomprehensible) tongues and the kids are country boys twice his size (one of the many reasons I have never been tempted to take the plunge into the state education sector).

Despite his gruff demeanour and a refusal to bend an inch to satisfy other people's expectations, Botchan is actually a very conscientious, honest and hard-working soul, which makes the conniving, manipulative behaviour of some of the other teachers at his school even harder to take.  He instantly gives them all nicknames reflecting his view of their external appearance or internal qualities.  The Badger, Redshirt, the Hanger-On, the Porcupine and the Pale Squash all become an integral part of Botchan's life: the only question is which of them he can actually trust... The teachers though are initially the least of his worries as he struggles to cope with a mischievous group of teenage boys, resorting to tactics which, while effective, would see him hauled before a disciplinary committee (or a judge) in our modern, more enlightened times.  Rest assured, this is a happy tale, and the forces of good will (to some extent at least) prevail by the end of the story.

Of course, like Natsume's other early work, Botchan contains many autobiographical elements; the author spent a year in the Shikoku town of Matsuyama at the start of his career, teaching the same kind of muscle-bound yokels Botchan does in the book.  Interestingly though, he identified himself more with the character Redshirt, a symbol of superficial adoption of western ideology, than with the hero (who, along with the very spiky Porcupine, represents traditional Japanese norms).  The work can be seen on one level as a rejection of the increasing westernisation of early-twentieth-century Japan, where the Land of the Rising Sun took on the fripperies of European culture without acquiring the morals underpinning them.  Then again, you can just read it as a fun book (I did).

My version was translated into English by the intriguingly-named J. Cohn, and the dust cover blurb promises "a lively new translation much better suited to Western tastes than any of its forebears".  Not having read any other versions, I'm in no position to evaluate this claim, but I do have one quibble with this.  You see, the translator mentions Holden Caulfield and Huckleberry Finn in his introduction, and I can definitely see the resemblance, especially with the infamous anti-hero of The Catcher in the Rye (thankfully, where Salinger's character is annoying and whiny, Botchan gets on with it and takes no rubbish from the world).  However, this just proves the very long and laboured point which I will eventually make (please bear with me...), namely that the translation is not better suited to Western tastes, but rather to American ones - or, at the very least, North American ones.

It's probably an issue which American readers would have thought little about, but the American domination of Japanese literature translation is a little annoying for those of us born on the other side of the Atlantic (or the South Pacific, for that matter).  In effect, we are reading a translation from a foreign language into another one, related, but not identical, to our own.  An over-reaction?  Perhaps, but Botchan's slang wasn't translated into American teen vernacular for my benefit, that's for sure.

Digression over :)  Botchan is, despite its Americanised dialogue, another example of wonderful Japanese literature and Natsume Soseki's enjoyable writing, and my next book of his, Kusamakura, is winging its way over from the UK as we speak (or blog).  Just a word of warning: if there are any budding teachers out there, please do NOT take Botchan's antics as a guide for your own classroom behaviour.  While things end up well for him, I doubt that your future employers will take this kind of behaviour so lightly...

Review Post 29 - In which Football is alluded to for no good reason...

Brazil, Holland, Argentina (definitely not England): there are many dream teams in the World Cup, but few can compare with the line-up Penguin Classics came up with for their edition of a popular Japanese classic.  Sanshiro, written by the 'Japanese Dickens', Natsume Soseki, is a wonderful Bildungsroman and would be worth the money all by itself.  However, when it's also translated by Jay Rubin, the man who brings Haruki Murakami's works to the English-speaking world (and who has written a book on Murakami), that just makes it a little more special.  And just when you think it can't get any better, who do you think Penguin have engaged to write the introduction?  None other than Murakami himself.  Now that is a team worth watching (or reading).

In Sanshiro, we follow the title character as he leaves his rural home in Kyushu to study English Literature at university in Tokyo.  His education starts on the train, before he even arrives, with a startling confrontation with a rather forward mature woman and an intriguing conversation with an extraordinary man.  On his arrival in the new capital, our young hero becomes part of a social group and attempts to make sense of life in society, not always successfully.  One of the group, the enigmatic and chastely seductive Mineko, becomes especially important in Sanshiro's life, but the young man from the provinces can never quite be sure whether she is toying with his affections or genuinely likes him...

As Murakami remarks in his introduction, while this is a Bildungsroman, it's very different to the European style novel.  In the typical Bildungsroman, a young man enters public life, usually in the big city, and undergoes a series of trials, be they emotional, romantic financial or violent.  By the end of the novel, the hero has successfully weathered the storm and has emerged older and wiser, a mature member of society.  However, this active progression towards becoming a fully-rounded citizen does not describe Sanshiro's journey; his path is characterised by indecision and procrastination, his trials subtle and confusing.  It's also doubtful that he learns much from his experiences at all, appearing almost as naive at the end of the novel as he is at the start.

Sanshiro is a dreamer, and his path through the book can be compared to that of the clouds which appear periodically.  He drifts aimlessly through his studies, picking up friends as he goes without actually appearing to know what he is doing or what he wants.  You may say he's a dreamer (and he's definitely not the only one, surrounded as he is by a bachelor teacher, a hermit PhD student, and a classmate who builds magnificent castles in the air on an hourly basis), but the whole book appears a little dreamlike; the social circle he finds himself a part of is almost like a little bubble, protecting (or keeping) him from the big, bad outside world.


This familiar circle of friends (similar to Mr. Sneaze's circle in I am a Cat) leads one to think that there are autobiographical elements to this book, and Rubin confirms this in his introduction.  The story involving a campaign to introduce a Japanese professor to the university mirrors the real life events around Natsume's start at Tokyo University (although in reality he was the interloper, brought in to replace a popular - and eccentric - American professor).  What's more, the title character was apparently based on a protege of Natsume's who, like Sanshiro, also came from the far-flung provinces of Kyushu. 

This book really is a joy to read, at once familiar and yet just different enough from its western equivalents to avoid sinking into cliche.  You can just imagine Murakami, sitting in a poky flat, poor, smoking, surrounded by cats, reading Sanshiro and forming the germ of an idea which would one day become a novel.  In the introduction to this book he discusses the Bildungsroman, saying "Virtually all novelists have such a work" (p.xxxvi, 2009, Penguin Classics).  He goes on to say that his is Norwegian Wood, and while he does not admit to being influenced by Sanshiro in the writing of his most famous book, it's not difficult to think that there's an element of truth in this.

Good luck to the Blue Samurai over in South Africa; I hope they at least get through to the quarter-finals, surpassing their previous best effort.*  However, they would have to pull off something quite spectacular to match up to this (imaginary) literary dream team.  Thank you, Jay Rubin; thank you, Haruki Murakami; and thank you, especially, Natsume Soseki.

Now it's back to the football...

*They didn't.  Stupid Penalties.

Review Post 20 - I am most definitely NOT a Cat

I am a dog, and my name is Genji. A fine Japanese name you may think, but it's actually a rather teasing and cruel joke on behalf of my owners. Unlike my literary counterpart, I have not been able to roam the Emperor's court, seducing courtesans and concubines; I have had to content myself with sitting at home on my cushion. Sometimes, it truly is a dog's life...

As if that's not bad enough, this week I have had to put up with the indignity of seeing one of my owners (the hairy one) reading a book about a cat: the cheek! The book is called I Am A Cat (an example of the feline ability to state the obvious) by a Japanese writer named Soseki Natsume, and as my hairy owner told my other owner (the pink one) all about what was happening (although she didn't seem very interested - unless eye-rolling indicates interest in humans), I will be able to fill you all in on the story.

Despite its unfortunate title, Natsume's book is not so much a story about a cat as an amusing series of anecdotes and long stories critiquing life in Japan just over a hundred years ago. The cat was chosen as a sort of objective observer through the eyes of which the reader is able to see the oddities and paradoxical behaviour of humans. Quite why Natsume chose a cat is beyond me (a dog would have done the job just as well - and with a lot less preening), but perhaps he wanted a self-important spiteful view of human social life - in which case a cat was a good choice.

The cat of the title (who never receives a name, classically Japanese or otherwise) observes the daily goings on and philosophical discussions of his owner, Mr. Sneaze, and his friends: the scholar Coldmoon, the poet Beauchamp Blowlamp, the philosopher Singleman Kidd and, most importantly, the layabout Waverhouse, a wonderful character who is as humorous and full of life as a whole litter of puppies. The hairy one, who considers himself a bit of an expert on all things Japanese, was a little confused by the English-sounding names but eventually concluded that it was the decision of the translator. Which I could have told him straight away (sometimes, he gets a little carried away looking for the complex explanation when an easy answer is staring him in the face).

In any case, the gentlemen in question, despite having jobs, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting around on Mr. Sneaze's living room floor telling tall tales which are either skilfully crafted philosophical metaphors (Mr. Hairy's view) or inane rubbish (Miss Pink's view, with which I heartily concur). I am reliably informed that the style is reminiscent of such works as Three Men in a Boat, The Pickwick Papers and, even, Thus Spake Bellavista with its mix of social commentary and existential conversation sessions. I will have to take Mr. Hairy's word for it.

Apparently, the style is a little different to English writing (which surprises me - when I looked, the paper substance was covered with black marks, just like all the other books hanging around the house). The style is said to be more subtle without the classic structured stages of a story which are the norm for English, so the chapters appear to slip by without outlining an overall theme. Mr. Hairy believes that this is typical of Eastern rhetorical styles where the onus is on the reader to tease out the writer's implied meaning, in contrast to the writer-responsibility rules of English writing. Mind you, he had already had a few glasses of wine when he said that, so I wouldn't take him too seriously.

By this time, I was getting bored of this conversation (or, rather, monologue - from the snoring noises coming from the armchair on the other side of the room, Miss Pink may well have been asleep) and decided to go for a quick walk around the kitchen looking for any stray scraps in my food bowl (there weren't any - life can be cruel sometimes). When I got back, Mr. Hairy was musing about the benefits of rereading this book more slowly in the future to absorb the ideas more fully; something about never crossing the same river twice. Which is just common sense: why would you cross the same river twice? You may as well just stay on the side you're on if you're only planning to come back again. If there is one thing I agree with the wretched cat on, it's that humans are a funny bunch. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for a nap. Any further questions can be directed to Mr. Hairy at the usual address.

*****

P.S. Mr. Hairy has asked me to add that this copy of I am a Cat was free! Apparently, he won it in a giveaway hosted by someone named Claire from Paperback Reader (which, I am informed, is another book blog). Most heartfelt thanks from Mr. Hairy. But not from me - I'm still annoyed about the cat...