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wolfdan9's reviews
272 reviews
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki
3.5
”To the West! Where a world existed that was the very opposite of this land of subtle hints and things left unsaid....”
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga is an early novella by Junichiro Tanizaki, one of my all-time favorite writers. In typical fashion, the story explores Tanizaki's fascination/obsession with the West, particularly focusing on the tension he feels between desiring the hedonistic western lifestyle and traditional Japanese values. The novella is presented as a mystery, although it is quite self aware that it is one (and is narrated by Tanizaki himself -- an insertion of author into fiction, which is always a technique I enjoy). To briefly summarize, a woman writes Tanizaki a letter about her missing husband. He leaves and returns every 4 years to their quiet Japanese village. Enclosed in the letter is a picture and a ring, which contains a name that Tanizaki realizes he is familiar with. The wife, who suspects her husband is living a double life as this Tomoda, spurs Tanizaki to investigate.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggest more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggest more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
By the Lake by John McGahern
4.0
"Happiness could not be sought or worried into being, or even fully grasped; it should be allowed its own slow pace so that it passes unnoticed, if it even comes at all."
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
On the Eve by Ivan Turgenev
3.5
"Not for nothing did my father used to say 'You and I, my boy, are... not favorites of Fortune or Nature... We're workers, double-dyed workers. Put on your leather apron, worker, and stand by your bench in your dark workshop! Let the sun shine on other people! Even in our humdrum lives there is pride and happiness.'"
On the Eve is my 4th Turgenev novel, so I have grown somewhat accustomed to his style and themes. He leans heavily into realism, a style that I enjoy, yet this story has been criticized for being narrated dispassionately and without much weigh-in from Turgenev despite its heavy themes of love and war. Nonetheless, there is some reflection at the end of the novel, and Turgenev makes a poignant analogy between Death and a fisherman who catches a person in his net, allowing it to swim around until he decides --whenever he decides -- to pull it out. I think, without exception, each of Turgenev's stories that I've read has been about young love, and On the Eve continues that trend. What might be interesting to look at when studying these stories is everything happening in the world while the love affair occurs. Certainly, that is the point of On the Eve, whose title even refers to the impending Crimean War. And yet, I found Bersenev's character most compelling. The story begins with him, and rather quickly (or so it felt in this sub-200 page novel), he transitions out of the lead role in favor of Yelena. I found the rapid pace of the story, which is largely centered around Yelena's feelings for the immigrant Insarov and their blossoming (and doomed) relationship, to be suitable for Turgenev's commentary on young love. As mentioned, he describes the events of their relationship in an entirely matter-of-fact way, and yet he felt somehow critical, in a chuckling, amused and interested sort of way of how emotionally young adults think about love. Yelena is convinced she loves Bersenev, but very quickly changes heart after wanting to fall in love with Insarov and finally doing so after one occasion where she sees a different side of him. After she finds out from him that the love is reciprocated, she immediately chooses to upend her comfortable life in Russia to emigrate to war-torn Bulgaria with him. She stays with him even after he nearly dies of illness and becomes permanently impaired. She even stays with him after his death and lives in Bulgaria, perhaps as a nurse, or dies herself on the way there (it is never made clear). Turgenev suggests that she is obstinate to follow him to her doom, but is she naive? Or is the power of true love such that it is greater than all challenges, worthy of all sacrifices? Is her dogged commitment to be admired or scoffed at? I personally felt the latter, but it did raise this interesting question. Lastly, back to Bersenev, I found that he was a smartly designed character to contrast Yelena. He is a dispassionate (or so he presents himself) academic who badly wants to be loved by Yelena, but does not even attempt to gain her love. He gives up almost immediately and attempts to hook her up with Insarov, essentially challenging her to not fall for him. It's fascinating because this behavior is on the other side of the "true love" coin. It can easily be argued that Bersenev feels true love toward Yelena because he wants to be genuinely loved by her, no matter who else enters the picture as his competition. She fails his test, and he dispassionately carries on with his life. The quote I used above is excellently included in the story by Turgenev to reinforce this characteristic of how he sees himself: not as someone "special" who deserves whimsical love, but as a hard-working, reliable person. A good friend. Someone who will ultimately find happiness in his work.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.
Dear Life by Alice Munro
4.0
”We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.”
I found this quote, which is the final sentence of Munro's story collection, especially poignant in light of her recent child sex abuse cover-up allegations, but it also echoes the overall sentiment of the collection, which is that life is filled with both missed opportunities and beautiful moments, which are sometimes one in the same, sometimes intertwined, and sometimes totally distinct and unrelated but nonetheless resonant in our minds as one. But we merely exist and experience these moments -- they are somehow out of our control despite how much personal autonomy we have -- and we are so blinded in the moment of crucial decisions and so dependent upon those whom we love and who affect and are affected by these decisions, that we can only simply exist, never "control."
This is my 3rd Munro collection -- her final one -- and it, which has been carefully sculpted with the tools one acquires only through a well-lived life, is by far her best of the 3. Each story is distinct in its plot and message but all somehow overlap coherently. Munro reflects on the lives of individuals that could by any or all of us as well as semi-fictionally (an incredibly effective technique) in the final four stories, which she has curated in a section entitled "finale." There is not a weak story in the bunch and each one renders the reader somewhat pensive as a result. I'll touch upon a few of my favorites, but I'll note that while each story has a different plot and pokes at diverse areas of human behavior and psychology, they all share an interest in one or more of the following areas: reflection, relationships (typically male and female), the naivety of youth, and the blending of present, past, and a further past.
"Gravel" is one story that nicely highlights Munro's talents. Munro likes to juxtapose childhood choices with adult (typically parental) responsibility. She is fascinated by the egregiousness with which adults act and often their stupidity, and how this could possibly be explained to a child. While she never directly asks these questions, she very quietly hints, "could I have misremembered why this tragedy happened?" or "was I, in my youthful innocence and ignorance, actually at fault for this terrible event?" Then, she likes to explore, in entirely unemotional language, how these tragedies affected (or many times, had no effect but... why wouldn't it?) her throughout or later in life. In Gravel, these questions are on full display as Neal, the narrator's stepdad, fails to supervise the narrator's sister, who drowns as the narrator watches. He is repeatedly wrong throughout the narrative (for example, claiming dogs can swim and not to worry when the dog runs away from home), and is unpunished despite the sister's death. This tragic moment lives inside of the narrator until the end of the story, when she meets with Neal decades later. His advice to her? "The thing is to be happy. No matter what. Try that." The narrator is left no better off from this advice (of course). She knows it to be true, what choice is there really? But she cannot escape the image of her sister dying.
There are more layers to this story and there is a lot to chew on among the dynamics of the family, including the mother and somewhat estranged father, but so much is packed into Munro's stories despite their relative simplicity and breeziness to read. I am not going to talk about each story because it's just too time consuming but I also liked "Haven," which emphasizes how we learn gender roles as a child by observing extended family, "Amundsen," which takes place in a sanatorium and demonstrates in an intense episode how an older man can manipulate and destroy a young woman's heart, and "In Sight of the Lake," which contains a brilliantly ambiguous ending and explores self-doubt that arises from age. "Dolly" and "Train" are also fantastic.
The final four stories, collected into a "Finale," are probably the highlight of the collection though. They contain semi-fictionalized episodes of young Munro's childhood. Moments in which she had a breakthrough into maturity -- the first death of a loved one, the first realization that her father was a flawed man, and the first glimmer of the attention and love that a man can adorn a girl. She finishes the story with "Dear Life," which strongly reinforces her theme of memory -- how personal it is, and how it is a foundation, more so than reality, for our feelings, decisions, and convictions. It is how we decide right and wrong and how we decide how we are and who we all are.
I found this quote, which is the final sentence of Munro's story collection, especially poignant in light of her recent child sex abuse cover-up allegations, but it also echoes the overall sentiment of the collection, which is that life is filled with both missed opportunities and beautiful moments, which are sometimes one in the same, sometimes intertwined, and sometimes totally distinct and unrelated but nonetheless resonant in our minds as one. But we merely exist and experience these moments -- they are somehow out of our control despite how much personal autonomy we have -- and we are so blinded in the moment of crucial decisions and so dependent upon those whom we love and who affect and are affected by these decisions, that we can only simply exist, never "control."
This is my 3rd Munro collection -- her final one -- and it, which has been carefully sculpted with the tools one acquires only through a well-lived life, is by far her best of the 3. Each story is distinct in its plot and message but all somehow overlap coherently. Munro reflects on the lives of individuals that could by any or all of us as well as semi-fictionally (an incredibly effective technique) in the final four stories, which she has curated in a section entitled "finale." There is not a weak story in the bunch and each one renders the reader somewhat pensive as a result. I'll touch upon a few of my favorites, but I'll note that while each story has a different plot and pokes at diverse areas of human behavior and psychology, they all share an interest in one or more of the following areas: reflection, relationships (typically male and female), the naivety of youth, and the blending of present, past, and a further past.
"Gravel" is one story that nicely highlights Munro's talents. Munro likes to juxtapose childhood choices with adult (typically parental) responsibility. She is fascinated by the egregiousness with which adults act and often their stupidity, and how this could possibly be explained to a child. While she never directly asks these questions, she very quietly hints, "could I have misremembered why this tragedy happened?" or "was I, in my youthful innocence and ignorance, actually at fault for this terrible event?" Then, she likes to explore, in entirely unemotional language, how these tragedies affected (or many times, had no effect but... why wouldn't it?) her throughout or later in life. In Gravel, these questions are on full display as Neal, the narrator's stepdad, fails to supervise the narrator's sister, who drowns as the narrator watches. He is repeatedly wrong throughout the narrative (for example, claiming dogs can swim and not to worry when the dog runs away from home), and is unpunished despite the sister's death. This tragic moment lives inside of the narrator until the end of the story, when she meets with Neal decades later. His advice to her? "The thing is to be happy. No matter what. Try that." The narrator is left no better off from this advice (of course). She knows it to be true, what choice is there really? But she cannot escape the image of her sister dying.
There are more layers to this story and there is a lot to chew on among the dynamics of the family, including the mother and somewhat estranged father, but so much is packed into Munro's stories despite their relative simplicity and breeziness to read. I am not going to talk about each story because it's just too time consuming but I also liked "Haven," which emphasizes how we learn gender roles as a child by observing extended family, "Amundsen," which takes place in a sanatorium and demonstrates in an intense episode how an older man can manipulate and destroy a young woman's heart, and "In Sight of the Lake," which contains a brilliantly ambiguous ending and explores self-doubt that arises from age. "Dolly" and "Train" are also fantastic.
The final four stories, collected into a "Finale," are probably the highlight of the collection though. They contain semi-fictionalized episodes of young Munro's childhood. Moments in which she had a breakthrough into maturity -- the first death of a loved one, the first realization that her father was a flawed man, and the first glimmer of the attention and love that a man can adorn a girl. She finishes the story with "Dear Life," which strongly reinforces her theme of memory -- how personal it is, and how it is a foundation, more so than reality, for our feelings, decisions, and convictions. It is how we decide right and wrong and how we decide how we are and who we all are.
Scandal by Shūsaku Endō, Van C. Gessel
4.5
“The potential for salvation is contained within the sin.”
Scandal is a very good novel by Christian Japanese writer Endo. While Christianity does factor into the story, there is (thankfully) no endorsement for it in the novel; instead, Endo considers the pure/good aesthetic of Christianity a counterpoint to the inherently depraved nature of humans. The story is more thematically shallow than a contemporary like Ishiguro’s, but also similarly interested in how memory impacts judgment and self-trust. It’s also not as psychologically deep nor nearly as dark or interesting as Abe’s fiction, yet Endo presents some cool ideas nonetheless.
One interesting idea that is more tangential to the larger key theme of identity is the desire to return to an infantile state. There is some Freudian (and other psychological theory) influence. Endo ponders how aging and death intertwine with sexuality.
The story raises questions about a true inner self. There is a disassociation of our “public” (non-sexual) self from the “true” (sexual) secret self. This disassociation is extreme to the extent of one forgetting about it or not believing the secret self exists. Endo comments on coexisting with these different “faces,” which he shows in extreme form by presenting the main character as a virtuous Christian (the story is a Roman a clef) with repressed dark sexual urges.
Suguro (the main character) hears rumors that he is engaging in untoward sexual activities and even sees a doppelgänger as he investigates. It causes him a lot of anxiety and we see his mind unravel a bit as he secretly hunts down the truth. Interestingly, he never mixes his wife up into his secret affairs — ironic that he’s so puzzled by his rumored sexual exploits when he exhibits a capability to lead a double life.
The narrative alternates between Suguro and the jealous, unsympathetic journalist Kobari. Kobari is the threat that may force Suguro to (openly) reconcile his public and private life. The beautiful young girl Mitsu’s sexual appeal and availability is a test of Suguro’s true character, which he fails by groping her. The climactic scene portrays Suguro as uncontrollable and out of character, which supports Endo’s view that there is a separate version of each of us who animalistically seek out sexual pleasure without regard to consequences (either spiritually or in regard to our personal and professional lives).
Endo concludes that sex brings out a person’s true identity. I suspect that he feels that this is universal, and therefore that all people are inherently evil. The word evil is important because Endo is careful to draw a distinction in the novel between evil and sin, which I appreciate as someone who doesn’t believe in sin. I’m not sure exactly what Endo feels is the prescription to this evil, if anything. He does not assert faith (he seems to actively deny it as a solution to this inherent evil?).
Naruse’s letter - one of the best passages I’ve read in a while. Naruse, who functions as an enabler of Suguro’s worst urges, uncovers the secret of her husband’s horrific war crimes (which is surprising given his goofy and patient disposition). She is immensely aroused during sex by the brutality of his killing women and children. Her arousal reinforces Endo’s theme about sex and true identity being linked, but also highlights the multidimensionality of personality in both Naruse and her husband. What he was capable of despite being a scholarly, normal man reveals something about our identity being based partly on our external environment, although this contrasts with Naruse’s sexual epiphany, which is something subconscious/instinctual. Interestingly, dark sexual urges (and the accompanying desire that reflects one’s true self) is painted as uncontrollable. The outlying factor of spiritual faith and how it may tie in remains a puzzling curiosity.
Scandal is a very good novel by Christian Japanese writer Endo. While Christianity does factor into the story, there is (thankfully) no endorsement for it in the novel; instead, Endo considers the pure/good aesthetic of Christianity a counterpoint to the inherently depraved nature of humans. The story is more thematically shallow than a contemporary like Ishiguro’s, but also similarly interested in how memory impacts judgment and self-trust. It’s also not as psychologically deep nor nearly as dark or interesting as Abe’s fiction, yet Endo presents some cool ideas nonetheless.
One interesting idea that is more tangential to the larger key theme of identity is the desire to return to an infantile state. There is some Freudian (and other psychological theory) influence. Endo ponders how aging and death intertwine with sexuality.
The story raises questions about a true inner self. There is a disassociation of our “public” (non-sexual) self from the “true” (sexual) secret self. This disassociation is extreme to the extent of one forgetting about it or not believing the secret self exists. Endo comments on coexisting with these different “faces,” which he shows in extreme form by presenting the main character as a virtuous Christian (the story is a Roman a clef) with repressed dark sexual urges.
Suguro (the main character) hears rumors that he is engaging in untoward sexual activities and even sees a doppelgänger as he investigates. It causes him a lot of anxiety and we see his mind unravel a bit as he secretly hunts down the truth. Interestingly, he never mixes his wife up into his secret affairs — ironic that he’s so puzzled by his rumored sexual exploits when he exhibits a capability to lead a double life.
The narrative alternates between Suguro and the jealous, unsympathetic journalist Kobari. Kobari is the threat that may force Suguro to (openly) reconcile his public and private life. The beautiful young girl Mitsu’s sexual appeal and availability is a test of Suguro’s true character, which he fails by groping her. The climactic scene portrays Suguro as uncontrollable and out of character, which supports Endo’s view that there is a separate version of each of us who animalistically seek out sexual pleasure without regard to consequences (either spiritually or in regard to our personal and professional lives).
Endo concludes that sex brings out a person’s true identity. I suspect that he feels that this is universal, and therefore that all people are inherently evil. The word evil is important because Endo is careful to draw a distinction in the novel between evil and sin, which I appreciate as someone who doesn’t believe in sin. I’m not sure exactly what Endo feels is the prescription to this evil, if anything. He does not assert faith (he seems to actively deny it as a solution to this inherent evil?).
Naruse’s letter - one of the best passages I’ve read in a while. Naruse, who functions as an enabler of Suguro’s worst urges, uncovers the secret of her husband’s horrific war crimes (which is surprising given his goofy and patient disposition). She is immensely aroused during sex by the brutality of his killing women and children. Her arousal reinforces Endo’s theme about sex and true identity being linked, but also highlights the multidimensionality of personality in both Naruse and her husband. What he was capable of despite being a scholarly, normal man reveals something about our identity being based partly on our external environment, although this contrasts with Naruse’s sexual epiphany, which is something subconscious/instinctual. Interestingly, dark sexual urges (and the accompanying desire that reflects one’s true self) is painted as uncontrollable. The outlying factor of spiritual faith and how it may tie in remains a puzzling curiosity.
The Rainbow: A Novel by Yasunari Kawabata
4.0
"The beauty of a single flower is enough to reawaken one’s will to live."
Hot off the heels of "The Lake" I decided to purchase this newly translated novel by Kawabata and read it in a fairly short time. "The Rainbow" is much more akin to Kawabata's other works in terms of style and substance. The prose is incredibly delicate and fairly minimalistic. Kawabata is the actualization of what I believe Soseki sought to achieve with his prose. The depth of Kawabata's writing is not merely in its layers, but in its "interwovenness." A spare bit of dialogue or an ordinary scene can become quite powerful with the assumed context. For example, the very first scene contains a young woman meeting a young father on a train, who is taking care of his daughter alone. The woman's admiration is a hint that she may have some issues with her father/family, which later becomes clear. As Kawabata fleshes out the characters, normally through their dialogue with one another or their stray thoughts or observations, the pieces connect and a fuller picture of who these characters are, and how their relationships speak to some powerful theme, becomes clear.
"The Rainbow" is rich with nature metaphors, so many that I would not attempt to extract them all, but there is a constant reminder of the beauty around us. Kawabata ensures that he frequently juxtaposes the rife and drama-filled relationships of his characters with the ever-present beauty of flowers, mountains, or a river. Kawabata seems to be suggesting that at all times, this answer to our human problems exists and just needs to be seen. Nonetheless, Kawabata does tackle some heavy themes with a delicate hand. Central to the novel is the relationship among 3 estranged half-sisters, 2 of whom are emotionally damaged by their respective relationships with their father and by their respectively deceased mothers. There is some vague tangential mirroring of Mizuhara's 3 daughters and the post-war generation of changed Japanese people. You have Momoko, who is problematic and promiscuous, Asako, who is dutiful and traditional, and the 3rd daughter (can't remember her name!), who is completely estranged. I have not fully parsed out the meaning of this, but the sense of a deeper narrative is palpable while reading. The relationship among the family members itself is also quite captivating and raises questions about how one's current actions/choices are impacted to such an extent by one's past that they no longer matter.
Death is common in the novel and there are plenty of suicides as, quite honestly, you may expect from a Japanese novel. Kawabata ties together the post-war changes to Japan (illustrated not just through its people and ideas, but its changing infrastructure/architecture -- all of which are lightly commented on but impossible to miss) to the trauma that each person carries with them throughout the novel. This is most obvious with Keita, a young man who is killed in the war, and Momoko (Mizuhara's most emotionally damaged daughter) his girlfriend. Keita's death acts as a domino effect that leads to Momoko manipulating other young men, one of whom eventually commits suicide because of her. Kawabata gracefully illustrates their relationship in a single chapter, which ends with Keita crafting a bowl using a mold of Momoko's breast. This is the only item remaining of his upon his death, and years later when Momoko curiously inserts her breast once again into the bowl, it no longer fits.
I'm struggling to really capture the heart of this novel, and of Kawabata's greatness, but I'll lastly mention that the individual stories of each character is so powerfully written in so few words that I can't help but think Kawabata is a genius. "The Rainbow" is the sort of novel where you can somehow peer into the minds and hearts of each character and where everything that happens feels interconnected and purposeful, even if you're not fully sure why (or even how this effect is being created).
Hot off the heels of "The Lake" I decided to purchase this newly translated novel by Kawabata and read it in a fairly short time. "The Rainbow" is much more akin to Kawabata's other works in terms of style and substance. The prose is incredibly delicate and fairly minimalistic. Kawabata is the actualization of what I believe Soseki sought to achieve with his prose. The depth of Kawabata's writing is not merely in its layers, but in its "interwovenness." A spare bit of dialogue or an ordinary scene can become quite powerful with the assumed context. For example, the very first scene contains a young woman meeting a young father on a train, who is taking care of his daughter alone. The woman's admiration is a hint that she may have some issues with her father/family, which later becomes clear. As Kawabata fleshes out the characters, normally through their dialogue with one another or their stray thoughts or observations, the pieces connect and a fuller picture of who these characters are, and how their relationships speak to some powerful theme, becomes clear.
"The Rainbow" is rich with nature metaphors, so many that I would not attempt to extract them all, but there is a constant reminder of the beauty around us. Kawabata ensures that he frequently juxtaposes the rife and drama-filled relationships of his characters with the ever-present beauty of flowers, mountains, or a river. Kawabata seems to be suggesting that at all times, this answer to our human problems exists and just needs to be seen. Nonetheless, Kawabata does tackle some heavy themes with a delicate hand. Central to the novel is the relationship among 3 estranged half-sisters, 2 of whom are emotionally damaged by their respective relationships with their father and by their respectively deceased mothers. There is some vague tangential mirroring of Mizuhara's 3 daughters and the post-war generation of changed Japanese people. You have Momoko, who is problematic and promiscuous, Asako, who is dutiful and traditional, and the 3rd daughter (can't remember her name!), who is completely estranged. I have not fully parsed out the meaning of this, but the sense of a deeper narrative is palpable while reading. The relationship among the family members itself is also quite captivating and raises questions about how one's current actions/choices are impacted to such an extent by one's past that they no longer matter.
Death is common in the novel and there are plenty of suicides as, quite honestly, you may expect from a Japanese novel. Kawabata ties together the post-war changes to Japan (illustrated not just through its people and ideas, but its changing infrastructure/architecture -- all of which are lightly commented on but impossible to miss) to the trauma that each person carries with them throughout the novel. This is most obvious with Keita, a young man who is killed in the war, and Momoko (Mizuhara's most emotionally damaged daughter) his girlfriend. Keita's death acts as a domino effect that leads to Momoko manipulating other young men, one of whom eventually commits suicide because of her. Kawabata gracefully illustrates their relationship in a single chapter, which ends with Keita crafting a bowl using a mold of Momoko's breast. This is the only item remaining of his upon his death, and years later when Momoko curiously inserts her breast once again into the bowl, it no longer fits.
I'm struggling to really capture the heart of this novel, and of Kawabata's greatness, but I'll lastly mention that the individual stories of each character is so powerfully written in so few words that I can't help but think Kawabata is a genius. "The Rainbow" is the sort of novel where you can somehow peer into the minds and hearts of each character and where everything that happens feels interconnected and purposeful, even if you're not fully sure why (or even how this effect is being created).