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A review by jpegben
Spring Snow by Yukio Mishima
5.0
I have a great deal I could say about Spring Snow, but I will keep this review relatively short. It is a work of aching emotional force, one in which tempestuous themes of young love and a society undergoing seismic, historic upheaval is handled with delicacy which prevents the narrative devolving into melodrama. Mishima offers an unsparing and deeply troubled vision of love and beauty in which the good and the profane, the passionate and the obsessive, are difficult to differentiate and have the power to suck individuals and, ultimately, whole societies into a vortex.
Mishima is a writer of remarkable psychological poise and his characterisation is nothing short of powerful. Iinuma, Satoko, Kiyo, and particularly Honda live and breathe, creating a rich narrative tapestry. Above all, the juxtaposition between Honda's "keen analytic mind" and the "capricious" nonchalance of Kiyo probes profoundly different ways of being and existing in the world. Kiyo lives and dies by the sword of his emotions, inhabiting "the fortified castles" of his own mind. He allows himself to yearn for impossibility, to soar to ecstatic heights, and he pays the price. There is heart, feeling, even nobility in this but a solipsitic - and craven? - disregard for others. Beauty enables treachery and callousness on his part, it imbues him with tragic appeals, and it tears him apart:
However, while Kiyo's obsessive longing and Satoko's emotional inscrutability, Honda lies at the core of the narrative. His erudition, and loyal disposition render him an appealing character, but his candour, his envy of Kiyo's capacity for deep feeling and conflicted feelings about "the war of emotion" operating at every level within the text, were not only personally relatable, but evince the real, disarming desire that many people have to reach states of emotional transcendence. Honda intuitively understands the power of emotion, the way we can be "easily swayed by a display of passion", and it both appeals to and alarms him. He knows what "the amorphous, steaming, filthy detritus of human passions" is capable of engendering. He is wary of it. But it still appeals to him. Mishima seems, on an elemental level, to have correctly appraised the hazy, sordid substrata, the subterranean motives and desire, which drive human behaviour and demonstrated that, even the most prudent and noble among us, struggle to resist its temptations.
I suspect this interpretation is a little idiosyncratic, but it nonetheless deeply resonated with me. Additionally, this book must also be lauded for its exceptional style and prose. Mishima's technical proficiency is on full display and his descriptive prowess and virtuoso usage of metaphor and symbolism make the text particularly evocative and stunning to read (side note here: the translator deserves immense credit for distilling his prose so beautifully).
This really is a seminal work of Japanese fiction and I cannot recommend it enough.
Even when we're with someone we love, we're foolish enough to think of her body and soul as being separate. To stand before the person we love is not the same as loving her true self, for we are only apt to regard her physical beauty as the indispensable mode of her existence. When time and space intervene, it is possible to be deceived by both, but on the other hand, it is equally possible to draw twice as close to her real self.
Mishima is a writer of remarkable psychological poise and his characterisation is nothing short of powerful. Iinuma, Satoko, Kiyo, and particularly Honda live and breathe, creating a rich narrative tapestry. Above all, the juxtaposition between Honda's "keen analytic mind" and the "capricious" nonchalance of Kiyo probes profoundly different ways of being and existing in the world. Kiyo lives and dies by the sword of his emotions, inhabiting "the fortified castles" of his own mind. He allows himself to yearn for impossibility, to soar to ecstatic heights, and he pays the price. There is heart, feeling, even nobility in this but a solipsitic - and craven? - disregard for others. Beauty enables treachery and callousness on his part, it imbues him with tragic appeals, and it tears him apart:
His conviction of having no purpose in life other than to act as a distillation of poison was part of the ego of an eighteen-year-old. He had resolved that his beautiful white hands would never be soiled or calloused. He wanted to be like a pennant, dependent on each gusting wind. The only thing that seemed valid to him was to live for the emotions--gratuitous and unstable, dying only to quicken again, dwindling and flaring without direction or purpose
However, while Kiyo's obsessive longing and Satoko's emotional inscrutability, Honda lies at the core of the narrative. His erudition, and loyal disposition render him an appealing character, but his candour, his envy of Kiyo's capacity for deep feeling and conflicted feelings about "the war of emotion" operating at every level within the text, were not only personally relatable, but evince the real, disarming desire that many people have to reach states of emotional transcendence. Honda intuitively understands the power of emotion, the way we can be "easily swayed by a display of passion", and it both appeals to and alarms him. He knows what "the amorphous, steaming, filthy detritus of human passions" is capable of engendering. He is wary of it. But it still appeals to him. Mishima seems, on an elemental level, to have correctly appraised the hazy, sordid substrata, the subterranean motives and desire, which drive human behaviour and demonstrated that, even the most prudent and noble among us, struggle to resist its temptations.
I suspect this interpretation is a little idiosyncratic, but it nonetheless deeply resonated with me. Additionally, this book must also be lauded for its exceptional style and prose. Mishima's technical proficiency is on full display and his descriptive prowess and virtuoso usage of metaphor and symbolism make the text particularly evocative and stunning to read (side note here: the translator deserves immense credit for distilling his prose so beautifully).
This really is a seminal work of Japanese fiction and I cannot recommend it enough.