Five Modern Japanese Novelists Read online

  Five Modern Japanese Novelists

  Five

  Modern

  Japanese

  Novelists

  Donald Keene

  COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW YORK

  Columbia University Press

  Publishers Since 1893

  New York Chichester, West Sussex

  cup.columbia.edu

  Copyright© 2003 Donald Keene

  All rights reserved

  E-ISBN: 978-0-231-50749-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Keene, Donald.

  Five modern Japanese novelists / Donald Keene.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 0-231-12610-7 (cloth : alk. paper)

  1.Japanese fiction—20th century—History and criticism.

  2. Authors, Japanese—20th century. I. Title.

  PL747.65 .K44 2002

  895.6'34409—dc21

  2002073412

  A Columbia University Press E-book.

  CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at [email protected].

  Contents

  Preface

  Tanizaki Jun’ichirō (1886–1965)

  Kawabata Yasunari (1899–1972)

  Mishima Yukio (1925–1970)

  Abe Kōbō (1924–1993)

  Shiba Ryōtarō (1923–1996)

  Supplemental Readings

  Index

  Preface

  The five authors whom I discuss in the following pages were men I knew and often met. I hesitate to call all of them my friends, not because there were disagreements, but because (in the cases of Tanizaki and Kawabata) our ages were so far apart that our relationship might be better characterized not as “friendship” but as repeated acts of kindness shown by two great writers to a young admirer. Mishima and Abe were close friends, and we met many times over an extended period of time. Shiba and I became acquainted some years after I had met the others, and although we met comparatively seldom, I thought of him as a friend; he certainly was a benefactor.

  I should say how lucky I was to have arrived in Japan for study in 1953. At that time, there were few foreign students of Japanese literature, and famous writers, perhaps curious to see what we were like, graciously invited us to their homes and gave us freely of their time. Today it is by no means so easy for foreign students, even those who possess an excellent knowledge of the Japanese language and are better acquainted with Japanese literature than I was in 1953, to meet writers whose works they are studying. It is no longer unusual for foreigners to speak Japanese fluently, and the writers, like everyone else in Japan, are so much busier than they were fifty years ago that they have trouble finding time to meet foreign students of Japanese literature.

  Early in my stay in Kyoto, I was lucky in having met by accident Nagai Michio, who would later have a distinguished career and serve as minister of education. Through him I met his friend from childhood days, Shimanaka Hōji, the president of the publishing firm Chūō Kōron Sha, who in turn introduced me to many writers. I could not have had a better entrée into the Japanese literary world.

  I confess that I did not in every case take advantage of the opportunities I was given to know writers better. I remember, for example, the disappointment of my meeting with Masamune Hakuchō, an author and critic about whom I would later write. A photographer, noticing Hakuchō emerge from a restaurant at more or less at the same time as myself, stopped us both and asked to take our picture. He then asked us to chat for a few moments in order to make for a more natural photograph. I could not think of anything to say to Hakuchō. I vaguely remembered his name but had never read a word by him. Hakuchō obviously had not heard of me and had nothing to say. We stood side by side for some minutes in dead silence. Finally resigning himself to the situation, the photographer took our picture anyway, and the photograph, showing us standing stiffly apart and staring glumly at the camera, appeared in the Tōkyō shimbun. Some months later, when I was doing research on the poet Ishikawa Takuboku, I discovered that Hakuchō had known him well. I realized that if I had asked him, he could have told me much of interest, but I had missed my chance. I never saw him a second time.

  This was not by any means my only missed opportunity, but there is no point in enumerating the many times that ignorance kept me from seizing once-in-a-lifetime chances to get to know writers whom twenty years later I would treat as major figures in my books.

  Fortunately, however, I did not miss every opportunity that came my way. In particular, I was lucky to have known the five writers described in this book. But it never occurred to me (curses!) that I would forget our conversations, so I made no notes, kept no diary. I remember many things, but it is likely I have forgotten even more. If I had a better memory or the assistance of a diary, I might have been able to recall fresh, never-before-recounted anecdotes about Tanizaki, Kawabata, and Mishima rather than those that already have appeared in my Dawn to the West, a history of modern Japanese literature. I also have repeated descriptions of works by these three authors from my earlier work, but I hope that this book will be read by persons who might be daunted by the bulk of my history. Perhaps, because of the different context, the repetitions will seem not only forgivable but welcome.

  Tanizaki Jun’ichirō

  (1886–1965)

  Before arriving in Japan in 1953 I knew the name of only one living Japanese novelist, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō. It was by no means unusual at that time for a non-Japanese to be unfamiliar with contemporary Japanese literature, but I should have been better informed. I had studied Japanese literature as a graduate student at Columbia and Harvard and had taught Japanese for five years at Cambridge. I had published three books, including an introduction to Japanese literature that contains a chapter, “Japanese Literature Under Western Influence,” in which I discuss several works by Tanizaki but none by any other living writer.

  The causes of my ignorance were varied. First, I tended to prefer the classics to modern works, regardless of the language in which they were written. Perhaps this was the result of the humanities class I took at Columbia as a freshman and my admiration for my teacher, Mark van Doren, who wrote persuasively of the great books as the foundation of a “liberal education.” I was also under the influence of the atmosphere prevailing at Cambridge, where at that time literary scholarship was almost exclusively directed at a study of the past. Finally, virtually the only works of Japanese literature that were available in readable translations were the classics.

  What, then, made me particularly aware of Tanizaki? I had read several stories, including the celebrated “Tattooer,” in English or French translation, and while in Hawaii during the war, I had read in Japanese his novel Naomi (Chijin no ai). But more important than either of these experiences was a gift I received in 1951 from the great translator Arthur Waley, whose work had been an inspiration ever since I began the study of Chinese and Japanese. I got to know Waley while I was living in England, and on some occasion he gave me the three volumes of The Makioka Sisters (Sasameyuki) that Tanizaki had sent him. The volumes, printed on conspicuously better paper than other novels of that time, were inscribed by Tanizaki to Arthur Waley. I guessed that Tanizaki had sent Waley the books hoping that the celebrated translator of The Tale of Genji would translate his own novel, often compared with Genji. Waley had no intention of making a translation—it had been years since he had translated anything from Japanese—and gave the books to me after reading them. It was difficult to obtain books from Japan at the time because of British currency restrictions, and I was delighted with the gift.

  I took the first volume with me wh
en I set out with three friends on one of the unforgettable journeys of my life—in a Land Rover, a British jeep, by air from the south of England to the French coast, then down to southwest France, and from there across to Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, and finally Turkey, where the first Congress of Orientalists was held since the war. I read The Makioka Sisters in the back of the jeep when I could as it traveled over dusty roads or through rivers that had lost their bridges during the war. The frequent bumps in the roads interfered with my reading, and I had trouble also with the Kansai dialect used by characters in the novel. I did not encounter any Japanese on the way who might have helped me, but I persisted, and when I returned to England I read the two other volumes. I became convinced that The Makioka Sisters was a masterpiece and so described it in my book Japanese Literature, published in the spring of 1953 in England.

  Later in 1953 my dream of going to Japan was realized, thanks to the Ford Foundation. Most foreign students chose to study in Tokyo, but I chose Kyoto, partly because I had heard that Tanizaki lived there. After my arrival in Japan I wondered how I might go about calling on him when a perfect opportunity came my way. In Tokyo I visited Edward Seidensticker (whom I had known when we were both at the U.S. Navy’s Japanese language school), and he told me he had just finished his translation of Tanizaki’s novel Some Prefer Nettles (Tade kuu mushi). Not trusting the Japanese postal system, he asked if I would personally deliver the manuscript to Tanizaki when I returned to Kyoto.

  Of course, nothing could have given me greater pleasure. On the appointed day I took the manuscript to Tanizaki’s house in Shimogamo, a splendid Japanese-style residence. It was late summer, and as I sat waiting for Tanizaki to appear, I admired the garden and listened to an intermittent sound of what I later learned was a shishi-odoshi, or deer-frightener; falling water poured into a cup that, when full, made a sound like wooden blocks struck together. This was said to frighten away deer and made a pleasantly cool sound in the Kyoto summer heat.

  Tanizaki appeared soon afterward. He was dressed in a kimono, as he was on almost every occasion when I saw him. He asked me about my work, and we chatted for perhaps an hour in a friendly manner. I did not know at the time that he was famous for his dislike of visitors. I also did not know that by and large he was uninterested in men. Although he would speak with me or with other men in an agreeable manner, as if interested in the conversation, his face would light up whenever a woman appeared. He told me once that during his years in Kyoto since the war, he had not made a single male friend. Not surprisingly, his stories set in Kyoto are notable for their female characters, who seem to have been based on women he knew.

  Even at our first meeting Tanizaki spoke freely about his writings. I asked him particularly about certain events in The Makioka Sisters, rather expecting him to say, as some novelists do, that they were entirely invented or were composites of many events; but he confirmed without hesitation that each was described more or less exactly as it had occurred. I found other evidence of the factual reality of The Makioka Sisters at his funeral when the prototypes of the four sisters of the novel, one after the other, offered incense at the altar. When I learned that Tanizaki had died, I sent Mrs. Tanizaki a telegram of condolence. In my haste and agitation I addressed it not to Matsuko, her name, but to Sachiko, the name she is given in The Makioka Sisters, a slip suggesting that I had come to identify her completely with the character in the novel. Yet Tanizaki often voiced contempt for writers of autobiographical fiction and was sure that the work of an author was to invent.

  Tanizaki invited me to dinner several times. I remember that on one occasion a particularly magnificent tai (sea bream) was served. It had a bump on its nose which, I was told, signified that it had passed through the whirlpool at Naruto. Like many of the delicacies consumed in the Tanizaki household, this was a gift from an unknown admirer. Many people cooperated to provide Tanizaki, a great gourmet, with the best in Japan. He also did what was necessary to ensure a suitable supply of provisions. When he moved to Atami from Kyoto to escape the cold winters, he was dismayed to discover there was nothing edible in Atami. He arranged, therefore, that every day a seat would be reserved for Tanizaki’s food on the express train Hato. Someone in Kyoto placed the food on the seat, and someone else would retrieve it in Atami.

  Tanizaki was recognized as belonging to a special world. Fukuda Tsuneari described how on a crowded train during the immediate postwar period, Tanizaki, Mrs. Tanizaki, and her sister occupied three of four seats in a compartment. The fourth seat remained empty as long as they were there; no one could muster the courage to intrude. It was not that the standees recognized Tanizaki or that he did anything to keep them from sitting beside him; rather, the atmosphere of civility they engendered in an otherwise free-for-all world seemed to forbid intrusion.

  I can imagine the scene. All three are dressed in kimonos, not ostentatious but of obviously good quality, contrasting with the discarded uniforms and synthetic-fiber kimonos worn by everyone else. They smile and chat in low voices. Occasionally Mrs. Tanizaki takes some tidbit from her handbag and offers it to the others. Without making the slightest attempt to create an impression, they seem like incarnations of good breeding, conspicuous amid the pushing and shoving around them. Their manner suggests that something precious has survived the terrible years of the war and the postwar privations.

  Surely there was no Japanese who seemed less likely than the young Tanizaki to metamorphose in his old age into this incarnation of Japanese decorum. He was born in Tokyo in 1886. His father was a dismally unsuccessful businessman who failed in every enterprise he undertook. The father seldom appeared in Tanizaki’s works, but his mother, known as a beauty in her girlhood days and even much later, not only figured prominently in many published reminiscences but served as an ideal of feminine beauty, and the theme of yearning for a mother appears in many pieces. Tanizaki displayed his brilliance early. He was always the brightest pupil in his class. At the age of eight he composed a poem in Chinese celebrating a victory in the Sino-Japanese War. A teacher, recognizing the boy’s genius, took him under his wing and guided him through the classics of East and West, including Buddhist treatises, the poetry of Saigyō, and Carlyle’s On Heroes. Tanizaki’s closest friend at school recalled that even at the age of eleven or twelve, they had discussed Kant and Schopenhauer. When regular classes were over, Tanizaki attended special schools where he studied English and Chinese. His knowledge of both languages remained with him for the rest of his life.

  We are told of a character in a novel written in 1914 (when Tanizaki was twenty-eight) that although he tried reading the works of William James, Rudolf Eucken, and Henri Bergson, he had never managed to finish a single book. This was not because he had problems with foreign ideas: “No matter how difficult to understand a book was reputed to be, he had never once felt a book was difficult. After reading two or three lines he could guess everything that followed, and he would at once reject the book with contempt.”*

  Tanizaki’s education almost ended with elementary school. His father was anxious to have him start earning money as soon as possible, but Tanizaki’s teacher persuaded the father to let the boy take the entrance examinations for the First Middle School. He passed with such distinction that his father reluctantly agreed to the boy’s continuing his education. His earliest writings appeared in the literary magazine circulated among students at the middle school. An essay published in 1902 startled his classmates by the assurance and vocabulary with which he criticized “oriental” pessimism. His insistence on joy as essential to human life was the first expression of the hedonism for which he later became famous.

  Tanizaki was able to study at middle school by working as a shosei, a kind of combination houseboy and tutor, in the family of a restaurant owner. His humiliation at being treated as a servant would be recalled in the autobiographical story “The Boy Prodigy” (Shindō, 1916) and also in a very late volume of essays published in 1961, evidence of how deeply his resentment
lingered within him. He was unceremoniously expelled from the household when a love letter he had addressed to a maid was intercepted.

  In 1905 Tanizaki was promoted to the First High School. He enrolled in the division of British law, presumably in the hopes of proving that he was serious about getting ahead, as was expected of Meiji-period youths. He continued, however, to be active in the school literary society, and a story he published in its magazine about his first love was later developed into a novel. Details of this escapade are obscure, but a letter written in English to his brother at the time survives. It opens: “My Dear Brother: An evil accident which happened to me and her, obliged me to go to Hakone as soon as possible.”

  Tanizaki entered Tokyo Imperial University in 1908. He enrolled in the Department of Japanese Literature, known as a haven for students who chose not to study, and rarely attended classes. He took to frequenting the licensed quarters and contracted a venereal disease. He seemed indifferent to the plight of his family, who were annoyed not only because he failed to contribute to their support but also because they still had to provide him with food and a bed. He had established himself as an egregiously unfilial son. But he discovered the one remedy for his disgrace: in 1909 he began to write professionally for publication. He established his reputation with the short story “The Tattooer” (Shisei), published in the following year.

  Years later (in 1956) Tanizaki revealed that the original setting of “The Tattooer” was contemporary, but he had shifted the period back to the Tokugawa era because the story did not work as a modern piece. This remark suggests how he would use the Japanese past in his writings. He had no desire to make the figures of the past come alive by attributing to them contemporary attitudes in the manner that authors of popular historical fiction did, nor did he attempt to preserve absolute fidelity to the facts, nor was he dependent on the past for materials because he lacked resources of imagination. He set his works in the past because this gave him greater scope for his imagination. Actions that might seem exaggerated if attributed to contemporaries were believable of people who lived at times when life was more brightly colored than in the present.