In this episode of the Hon podcast, host Amy Chavez talks with author Richard Lloyd Parry about his books Ghosts of the Tsunami and People Who Eat Darkness: The Fate of Lucie Blackman. (Click “more” below to see the Show Notes).
15 years at Studio Ghibli by Steve Alpert
(Photo of author, left, with Hayo Miyazaki and others)
An excerpt from the upcoming release By Steve Alpert
Temporarily Misplaced in Translation
When I first began learning Japanese I was struck by how beautifully it can express certain things in a way that’s different from how they might be expressed in English, and by how things that aren’t normally expressed in English can be expressed in Japanese. My idol was the Columbia University professor Burton Watson, whose translations of Chinese and Japanese poetry and fiction were the best. My dream was to have a career like his. That was before I learned that he had quit teaching to become a taxi driver. Also before I ever attempted to seriously translate anything.
Translating from Japanese to English or from English to Japanese is very hard. For a lot of reasons the two languages simply don’t line up right. Even the best translators are often performing a metaphysical leap of faith. Japanese is very vague. And English, a Germanic language, is more precise.
The scene in Sofia Coppola’s film Lost in Translation where Bill Murray’s translator keeps relaying the director’s complex instructions simply as “talk louder” is not atypical. In the movie business translations are never checked by anyone. You’re the translator, you say this is how it should be done, and that’s it.
One of my Japanese literature professors told me that as a graduate student he once moonlighted doing translations. In an American film he came across the phrase “like a bull in a china shop.” He thought the phrase meant “a bull in a store owned by a Chinese person,” and that’s how it appeared up on the silver screen. Because movie translations in Japan are never checked by anyone, the subtitles of every translated film have at least one bull in a Chinese person’s store in them. Whenever I went to the movies to see an English-language film in Japan I always found the audience laughing at something that wasn’t supposed to be funny, or I would be the only person in the theater laughing at something that was supposed to be funny but that no one else got because it wasn’t translated right.
When I was asked to start translating Ghibli’s films into English, I wanted to do better than that, and I was immodest enough to think that I could. As Groucho Marx once said, you should never criticize a person’s work until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. If he gets mad, you’ll be far away and you’ll have his shoes.
These are some of the things I learned translating Ghibli’s films from Japanese into English:
Rule 1—Don’t release your translation until you find out what it’s going to be used for
Toshio Suzuki called me up one day in my office at Shinbashi shortly after I had joined the company and asked me if I would mind translating something for him. It was a summary description of the new film Princess Mononoke and was written in very flowery, poetic language. It had been written by Hayao Miyazaki for the composer Hisaishi Joe to help him get a feel of the mood of the film so Hisaishi could work on the film’s music. The film was still in production at Studio Ghibli and I had only a very sketchy idea of what it was about.
I immersed myself in the text and let myself feel the atmosphere that it created and then came up with a translation. It wasn’t polished or carefully considered. It just more or less conveyed what I thought the meaning of the original was, in English.
I faxed my translation back to Suzuki and for about a week I didn’t hear anything more. So I called him up and asked, how about my translation? Was it OK? No questions or problems?
“No,” he said it was fine. “Just fine.”
“So what was it for?” I asked.
“Oh, they needed it for an art book on the film that’s coming out soon.”
“WHAT!? It’s going into a book? Can I get it back to polish it a little more?”
“No, they’re on a tight deadline. The galley proofs are already locked.”
About a week or two later I got an advance copy of The Art of Princess Mononoke and there, in print, was my rough, awful, crude, awkward, imperfect, first-pass translation, fixed in a published book, there for me to be forever ashamed of.
The studio later decided to use the same English translation as a voice-over for a TV spot for the film. I sat with a deep-voiced British actor in the recording studio as he voiced the lines for the TV spot. After the session the guy said to me, “That was a pretty awful translation. Shouldn’t they have polished it a bit more?”
Rule 2—There will be things that just can’t be translated
The Japanese film is called Mononoke Hime. The English title is Princess Mononoke. The translator (me) has left the two-word title 50% untranslated.
When I first heard the title of the film the word mononoke was completely new to me. This is exactly the kind of word that Hayao Miyazaki likes to use in his titles. It is a word that most Japanese rarely hear or see in print or can even reliably recall the meaning of unless they stop and think really hard about it. It is a word that no two people will define or explain in the same way. The dictionary is no help. It provides things like specter, wraith, or supernatural being, but everyone I ask says this isn’t it exactly. Any attempt to further explain it takes paragraphs. Japanese is full of words like this.
So I decided to just leave it. I assumed that by the time the film came out in English, someone cleverer than me would have come up with a good word (or words) for it. In the nearly twenty-plus years since the film came out, no one has come up with anything.
Rule 3—Sometimes you just have to let go and leave things out
As soon as the final version of a Japanese commercial film is approved for release, the translator or translators begin making an English-subtitled version.
Creating the subtitles is very hard. Your translation has to be accurate. It has to sound natural. And you have to be able to read the subtitles in exactly the same amount of time it takes for the character to say the lines on screen.
This is an example:
In the film Princess Mononoke, Ashitaka, riding his faithful elk-like animal named Yakul, comes upon a battle. As he watches from a hilltop, several of the samurai fighting below notice him. One of them says “Kabuto kubi da!” Direct translation: kabuto—helmet, kubi—neck, da—is. Literally, the samurai has said, “The helmet is a neck.”
Though kubi may literally mean neck, it also refers to a severed head. So “kubi da” refers to a head cut off. Kabuto in this case is just a very quick way of saying “that guy wearing the helmet.” In feudal Japan a soldier often received a bounty for every severed head he brought back from a battle. Proof of an enemy kill.
So the samurai is saying “That guy wearing the helmet, if we cut off his head we get a reward.” That translation made into a subtitle would take eighteen beats. “Kabuto kubi da” is six beats long. Your subtitle translation needs to lose twelve beats. It needs to be 70% shorter.
“Get the guy in the helmet! Take his head!” Ten beats. Still need to lose four beats.
“The helmet guy is mine.” Six beats, so it should be OK. But now the translation sounds funny. What’s a helmet guy? And you’ve lost the head being cut off and taken in for a bounty.
“His head is mine.” Four beats so it fits fine, and as a bonus, slow readers can follow. It feels right in the context, but you’ve given up mentioning the helmet. But it’s a better line. Japanese speakers get the full flavor. English speakers get an abridged yet acceptable alternative.
Rule 4—Don’t take anything for granted
In the film Spirited Away is a scene where it’s reported that the character Haku has stolen the character Zeniba’s seal. The Disney writers working on the English-language screenplay of the film contacted us urgently because they were puzzled by this. In Japan, a seal (an emblem used as a means of authentication) is a very important thing. Americans routinely affix their signatures to checks, credit card slips, and legal documents, but in Japan everyone uses a seal for this purpose. For legal documents and such, a Japanese person takes out his/her seal, presses it into a pad of red ink, and then stamps it onto the relevant document.
The Disney writers wanted to know why, if Haku had stolen Zeniba’s seal (semi-aquatic marine mammal), the seal never appeared in any subsequent scene in the film.
When it comes to foreign cultures, you just never know what other people know and what they don’t.
Rule 5—Review everything.
When we got back the first screenplay for Castle in the Sky from Disney to review, we checked the dialogue over and over again, but we didn’t think to check the characters’ names. It was only later when we began to get samples of recorded dialogue that we noticed that some of the characters had odd names.
Wishing to impart to his film a slightly international flavor, Hayao Miyazaki had given two of the characters French names, Charles and Henri. These names pronounced and written in Japanese come out as Sharuru and Anri. Disney’s translator, who was a third-generation Japanese-American and had never lived in Japan, and who also didn’t believe in asking questions, had decided that the names were probably Chinese. So despite Disney’s frequent complaint that the names in Ghibli’s films were too exotic and hard to pronounce for an American audience, Disney ended up with characters in its version of Castle in the Sky named An-Li and Shalulu when they could have had Henry and Charles.
About the Author
Steve Alpert was a senior executive at Studio Ghibli for fifteen years beginning in 1996. He speaks Japanese and Chinese and has lived in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Taipei. Sharing a House with the Never-Ending Man: 15 years at Studio Ghibli (Stone Bridge Press, June 2020) can be ordered now.
My Cute Kawaii Boutique, by Renae Lucas-Hall
(Feature photo by Joshua Chun on Unsplash)
An excerpt from Tokyo Tales: A Collection of Japanese Short Stories
‘I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve been working part-time for a fashion shop in Yokohama for two years but now I’d really like to work for My Cute Kawaii Boutique,’ I told Junko, the manager of this delightful shop, during my interview in Harajuku. I was full of hope she’d approve of me as I thought about how wonderful it would be to work in such a pretty place.
My prospective employer looked me over slowly from head to toe. A shiver ran down the back of my neck and I rubbed my clammy palms over the top of my skirt. This was only the second time I’d ever been interviewed.
‘Are you happy to work here full-time?’
‘Full-time work would be perfect for me,’ I replied.
‘I need to employ someone who doesn’t need to be constantly supervised. Do you think you could work in this store by yourself sometimes without any help, Kimiko-san?’
‘I think I’ll be able to manage just fine after a little bit of training,’ I said as I looked around at all the stock packed into one small room. I licked my dry lips and hoped Junko couldn’t see my hands had begun to shake.
‘That’s a good answer,’ said this well-presented lady as she ran her eyes over my resume.
I had to answer a few more questions about my previous retail experience in Yokohama at a shop where I’d sold predictable and appropriate clothing for staid shoppers who’d always wanted to dress exactly the same as everyone else. I thought my responses were good but maybe a bit brief. The shop in Yokohama was nothing like this one. The clothes in My Cute Kawaii Boutique allowed for individualism and creativity. A girl could really make a statement here and channel her inner princess. I’d never feel transparent or invisible wearing the adorable outfits surrounding me. They were calling out for me to try them on as I sat answering interview questions.
Junko finally said the words I’d been waiting to hear all morning. ‘I’m looking for someone reliable and honest who I can depend upon and I think you’ll be perfect for the job. You can start tomorrow.’
‘Wonderful!’ I replied. ‘Thank you so much Junko-san. I really appreciate this opportunity.’
‘Just one more thing, you can’t wear what you’re wearing today if you want to work here.’ She shook her head from side to side as her eyes worked their way down to my black conservative pumps. I’d never been measured up like this before and I felt my cheeks flare up and my bottom lip begin to quiver. I started to feel myself perspire under my grey pinstriped suit and white silk blouse but I knew Junko was right – my look would be completely out of place in a gorgeous shop like this, filled with ruffles and lace. Her style epitomised the Gothic Lolita look. I guessed she was in her mid to late thirties but she had such an enthusiastic and energetic personality. I could see why she could relate to the much younger girls who liked to shop in Harajuku. Her black, tailored blouse with its pin tucking and embroidered details on the cuffs and her grey, ruffled bell-shaped skirt accentuated her curvaceous figure and very tiny waist and I admired the way her smoky eye makeup made her look so sophisticated.
‘You’re just too plain. No one will walk into this shop if they see you dressed like this and your hairstyle is so conservative,’ said my new manager, wrinkling her perfectly made up forehead and throwing her hands up in despair.
‘I was thinking of dyeing my hair lighter and buying some long hair extensions with lots of ringlets,’ I interjected. ‘I’d really like to change my style and completely transform myself into the cutest kawaii girl in Harajuku. Once I start earning money, I’ll be able to buy clothes from your shop but I’m broke at the moment . . .’
‘Come with me Kimiko-san and don’t worry about having no money right now. I’ll pay you one month’s salary in advance when you start work tomorrow. Right now, let’s find something for you to wear. Do you have a kawaii style that you prefer?’
‘I really like the Sweet Lolita style.’
Junko nodded and led me to the front of the store to a rack of clothes on the left. She pulled out a sweet vintage-inspired cardigan with lots of frills on the neckline and the sleeves and a corseted cream lace dress with a fluffy layered skirt covered in small pink polka dots, similar to the display on the wire mannequin bust at the back of the shop. Next, she reached down under the rack for a pair of white 18th century-style leather boots with pretty soft pink ribbon laces before we headed over to the accessories on the other side of the boutique. Junko picked up a wide peach coloured Alice in Wonderland type bow that she clipped onto the side of my ponytail.
‘Take these clothes and go and try them on in the dressing room over there,’ she said to me, pointing to the rear of the store. ‘You can keep the bow but you must return the dress and the boots and I’d like you to wear a different outfit every time you work here. I’d also like you to buy a pair of opaque white tights tomorrow morning. You can buy them at cost price. Do you see those pretty packets of tights on the shelf with the blue and pink garters – the type that go just over the knee? They would be perfect for your outfits if you want to get the look right.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I replied as she piled the dress and the boots into my willing hands. The idea of playing dress up every day filled me with excitement.
As I pulled back a heavy ruby red velvet curtain and entered the dressing room, I could see my boss greeting a confident and glamorous young girl at the front of the shop. I instantly recognised her ganguro style. She’d perfected the look with her sexy pleated tartan miniskirt, as well as her long, fluttering fake eyelashes, her lavishly curled hair, her black gel nail art accented with rhinestones, her vamped up blue contact lenses and her deep, dark fake tan.
I peeked out from behind the dressing room curtain and watched this glamorous girl select a hooded fleecy jacket with little bear ears attached to the peak of the hood. She shrieked with delight as she tried it on in front of Junko who very carefully pulled the hood over her tanned face to show her the full effect, while at the same time trying not to dent the piles of fake curls attached to the crown of her head. The sweet ears that stood to attention certainly increased her cuteness factor.
Well and truly delighted, the ganguro girl admired herself in the mirror for a couple of minutes. After taking off the jacket, she was very quick to pull out her purse. Junko accepted ¥5,000, placed the money in the till and passed back ¥500 as change, before she swiftly wrapped up her jacket in tissue and put it into a My Cute Kawaii Boutique shopping bag. Before the customer left the shop, this ostentatious but sweet girl promised she’d return on the weekend with some friends to try on a few dresses and boots, which had caught her eye. In the space of five minutes this effervescent customer had arrived, made a quick purchase and left, leaving Junko looking very content, knowing she’d just increased her till by ¥4,500. I smiled as I closed the curtain and did up the lace dress, hoping all my sales were going to be as easy as that.
After silently complimenting myself on how cute I looked, I stepped out of the dressing room and Junko, who was putting out another jacket with bear ears to replace the one she’d just sold, turned and gave me a satisfied nod of approval.
‘We just received a big batch of hooded jackets with cat and bear ears. They’re very popular at the moment so I’d like you to set up a window display with these when you arrive tomorrow morning at ten. I really think this Sweet Lolita style suits you. Do a twirl for me.’
I was usually quite confident for my age and I loved the way I looked all dressed up in layers of white, pink and cream lace and frills. I didn’t need any more encouragement to do a 360-degree turn, which made the layers on the skirt bounce up and down like a princess twirling in a music box. I finished the pose with my hands on my tiny waist and one toe pointed.
‘Perfect!’ said Junko. ‘I know the shop you worked at in Yokohama probably didn’t ask you to do this but we have a different way of doing promotions here in Harajuku. My daughter will be with me in the shop tomorrow morning at eleven and she loves the Sweet Lolita style as well. Her name is Mei-chan and I’d like you to walk around with her through Harajuku, mainly on Takeshita Street and present yourselves as sweet and friendly kawaii ambassadors for the shop. Could you hand out flyers to potential customers and recommend the My Cute Kawaii Boutique for an hour tomorrow afternoon after you’ve had a lunch break? That should be a lot of fun for you.’
‘That sounds great, I can’t wait,’ I replied. I couldn’t believe my luck. This job was better than anything I’d expected.
‘We are also having a Lolita tea party here at the shop on Friday afternoon. Would you be able to help me set this up in the morning and serve tea and cakes while I show the girls our new clothing range? Twenty of my best customers will be attending. They all love the Lolita fashion style and it would be a wonderful opportunity for you to meet them. They’re lovely girls and I’m sure you’ll get along well with all of them.
‘I’d love to meet them,’ I replied. ‘The Lolita tea party sounds like a great idea.’
‘Terrific but before you leave today, I’d like you to familiarise yourself with everything in My Cute Kawaii Boutique. Go ahead and take a look around.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’d love to look at everything.’
I started at the front of the shop with the racks of clothes where Junko had pulled out the dress I was now wearing. I slowly went through each of the gorgeous and whimsical garments that were for sale. As I paused to admire an outfit on one of the two wire mannequin busts near the dressing room, I could imagine myself wearing nearly all of the clothes and the fact that I could wear them for free while I was working was an added bonus.
Next, I checked out the accessories on the right-hand side of the shop. There were all types of key chains, cell phone charms and notepads with transparent pandas and kittens printed on them, as well as stickers and hair accessories in a wide array of soft pastels and brighter bold colours.
‘A lot of the tourists buy that stock,’ said my new boss as she watched me from the counter, pleased I was showing a genuine interest in all the items for sale. ‘That’s why they’re at the front of the shop. You can make lots of very quick, small sales with those and at the end of the day that adds up to quite a lot.’
Further along the aisle were purses and bags. Most of them were patched with bear, cat and panda faces or fairy tale themes. I thought that they were all incredibly sweet and I couldn’t see myself having any trouble selling them. Lastly, at the back of the shop, there were craft supplies for the customers to make their own kawaii clothes and accessories at home.
Junko called me over to the counter. ‘Would you like to wear that outfit on your way home and wear it again when you come back in the morning?’
‘Really! Oh yes, thank you. That would be fun.’
‘Good, I can show you how to do your make-up as well to complete the look if you like.’
‘Yes please,’ I said, clapping my hands.
Junko pulled out her make-up kit from her handbag and applied lots of thick, black eyeliner and white eye shadow to make my eyes look a lot bigger. She also rubbed some plum coloured rouge in a circular motion onto my cheeks and finally she curled my ponytail with a pair of hot tongs. I watched how she applied the makeup, giggling at how quickly she could make over my face. I now looked like a pretty china doll and I was delighted with my transformation.
I bowed twice at the door of the shop and thanked Junko profusely before I left that evening carrying my grey suit and white blouse in a plastic My Cute Kawaii Boutique shopping bag, marvelling at how well I’d managed to get though such a perfect interview.
‘Make sure you walk up Takeshita Street on your way to the train station so everyone can get a good look at you . . . and enjoy the attention,’ Junko cried out to me as I turned and bowed one more time before shutting the door to the shop and puffing up my skirt, ready to wow the crowds as I made my way to the train station.
My new role model was right. As I weaved my way through the crowds on Takeshita Street, holding onto my My Cute Kawaii Boutique shopping bag and beaming with happiness, many people stopped and stared at me and one foreigner even took my photo. I received the same attention after I boarded the train at Harajuku Station and travelled back towards my home in Yokohama. I was sure a lot of the young girls dressed in their business suits and returning home from their offices were eyeing me with jealousy, wishing they too could look as cute and as interesting as me.
It was seven thirty p.m. when I arrived home and I could smell the inviting aroma of my mother’s cooking as I made my way from the entrance of our house and into the kitchen. My mum was standing stirring a pot of curry and chatting with my father who was still in his suit. He’d obviously just returned home from work. It was my dad who saw me first when I walked into the kitchen and I laughed watching the startled expression on his face. I was pleased he didn’t recognise me for a moment.
‘What are you wearing Kimiko-chan?’ he roared at me in disbelief. ‘You look silly.’
My father shook his head from side to side as he watched me perform a playful curtsey. I felt like such an actress in these clothes. I also enjoyed watching my mother as she laughed at my father’s reaction and this encouraged me to curtsey again.
‘Kimiko-chan, you look gorgeous!’ said my mother. ‘I suppose the interview at the shop in Harajuku went well.’ She stopped stirring the curry and looked me up and down with big eyes that were full of surprise but also approval.
I knew my mother would appreciate my new look. ‘Yes, it went very well,’ I replied as I dropped the My Cute Kawaii Boutique shopping bag on the dining room table. ‘I’m wearing the clothes I’ll be selling at my new job. I get to wear a different outfit every time I go to work.’
‘Well done on finding a job Kimiko-chan! I suppose it’s fine for you to wear those clothes if you’re going to be making more money,’ said my father with a deep sigh as he removed his plain navy tie from around his neck before carefully folded it into a neat ball and setting it down on the table in front of him.
I turned to my mother as my dad picked up the Yomiuri Shimbun newspaper and went into the living room, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, not wanting to look my way as I pranced and posed for them.
‘Do you really like this Sweet Lolita style?’ I asked my mother.
‘Oh, I love it,’ she replied before returning her gaze to the boiling saucepan full of thick brown curry bubbling on the stove. ‘You look like all the young girls in the trendy magazines. I wish I was young enough to wear this fashion style.’
‘Please don’t,’ I said with a laugh, knowing very well my mother would never change from wearing the plain and simple clothes she’d always preferred. Mum was in her late thirties and very attractive for her age. She could have easily highlighted her pretty face and slim figure by wearing brighter lipsticks or more fashionable clothes but I’d always known her to be a woman with simple tastes who never wore garish outfits or eye-catching jewellery.
‘A foreigner even took my photo on Takeshita Street in Harajuku!’ I said to her.
‘Wonderful!’ she replied, looking up with a maternal pride which was clearly expressed in her smile. ‘My daughter could end up in a French or British magazine with this new look – how exciting!’
‘Our daughter should go back to school and get herself an education so she can get a normal full-time job,’ my father cried out from the living room. I realised he was only pretending to read his newspaper and acting as if he was not showing any interest in our conversation but my father would often comment on my day when I returned home in the evenings and although he was offering me advice in a tone which some people would have misinterpreted as harsh, I knew he was always guiding me with love and affection. This made me think about how lucky I was to have parents who were always genuinely interested in my life.
My mother burst into a fit of giggles. ‘Your father is so old-fashioned!’ she exclaimed.
My father was quite a few years older than my mother and nearly fifty years old. He was a quiet and very prim and proper man but he’d always been a caring father and it was clear to everyone he adored his wife.
‘I’m going to really enjoy this job,’ I cried out to him. ‘The full-time work will mean I’ll be able to give you some money every month but if you don’t like seeing me in these clothes then I could move into my own apartment.’
My mother put her hand to her mouth to smother another chuckle, knowing very well how much my father loved having me at home. She’d always liked the way I stood up to him or how I sometimes liked to tease him with idle threats of leaving the nest.
‘You will not move out until you find yourself a decent husband,’ said my father in a high-pitched voice he only adopted when he was annoyed.
He’d occasionally lecture me on this subject, telling me a suitable mate would be a doctor, a lawyer, an accountant or a businessman who worked for a trading company. I had no idea how I was going to find a man to marry who met these criteria. All the boys I usually met had part-time jobs and they didn’t have the most serious outlook on life but as soon as I did meet someone suitable I planned to make him love me and if I could manage to do this I knew I’d be gaining the approval of my dear father.
My mother told me dinner was nearly ready and I went upstairs, changed my clothes and removed all the makeup that had given me such a cute round face and childish features. Fifteen minutes later, I returned to the dining room for dinner with my parents in a pair of plain blue jeans, a navy striped T-shirt and my face freshly scrubbed. My father looked at me with approval as I sat down at the table, pleased I was now looking more conservative, but I already missed wearing the adorable costume I’d borrowed from the My Cute Kawaii Boutique and I couldn’t wait to get dressed up and go to work in the morning.
‘Good, you’re back to normal,’ my father said, holding up a spoonful of curry.
‘Only until tomorrow morning,’ I replied, laughing.
‘Kimiko-chan, you’re going to have lots of fun working for that shop in Harajuku,’ said my mother.
‘I know,’ I replied. ‘My new manager is very nice and all the clothes and the accessories at the shop are adorable!’
I continued eating my meal in silence until I’d finished my dinner, daydreaming about all the clothes I planned to wear in the future and sell at My Cute Kawaii Boutique. I now felt like I was becoming someone and not just anyone. I’d always been a wallflower, someone everyone overlooked and never noticed. Now I was about to make an impact and the world was going to love me for my individualism and style.
Copyright Renae Lucas-Hall
Tokyo Tales is available to order here.
About the Author
Renae Lucas-Hall is an Australian-born British novelist and writer at Cherry Blossom Stories. She completed a B.A. in Japanese language and culture at Monash University and an Advanced Diploma in Business Marketing at RMIT University. She is the author of Tokyo Hearts: A Japanese Love Story (2012, ranked number one in Coming of Age books on Amazon Japan) and Tokyo Tales: A Collection of Japanese Short Stories (2014). Connect with Renae on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Visit her website cherryblossomstories.com. Her books include:
Peaceful Circumstances, by Roger Pulvers
(Feature photo: “The Red Room” by Lucy Pulvers)
Peaceful Circumstances is the story of Karen, a twenty-one-year-old white woman from Los Angeles. Sitting beside the hospital bed of her father, who is in a coma, she is convinced that he can hear her; so, over a single night, she tells him what happened to her during the past nine months that she has spent in Tokyo.
–It’s about Anpo. The Zengakuren, that’s the student movement, is getting more active because the Japanese government is repressing any opposition.
–What’s Anpo, Eric?
–Jesus, Karen.
–I did study American history, you know, Eric. I did a term paper in my freshman year on the Marshall Plan.
–Well, this is a little different from the Marshall Plan. Anpo is the security treaty between Japan and the U.S. Without that America couldn’t keep up the war in Vietnam. America needs the money and support of the Japanese, the bases, the R&R.
–No, Eric, the R&R guys go to Korea and Taiwan where the girls are cheaper. Your Uncle Sam likes to save money when he can. Emi has interviewed some of the girls there.
–Where is Emi, Hiro?
–I was separated from her at the demo. She’s one of our leaders. We’re meeting up later in Shinjuku. Want to join us?
–Yeah, sure. I’ve got to be back at Zama by 10:00, though.
–What about you, Karen?
–Yeah, I guess so. If Eric’s going.
Hiro gulped his tea down and put his shirt back on.
–Can I leave my gevabo and helmet here?
–The gevabo is his stick.
–Yeah, I get that much, Eric. Sure, why not?
–Thanks a lot, Karen. Thanks, Eric. See you both tonight. You know where to go, don’t you Eric? Mecca. Same place as before.
–Yeah, the coffee shop. We’ll be there at about 6:30 or thereabouts.
–Great. See you.
After Hiro left I could see that Eric was restless. He stood in the corner by the window looking down on the street and shaking his head.
–What’s the matter, Eric?
–I don’t know. Things are going to come to a head. I kind of feel it in my bones.
–What things? What do you mean?
–Things at the base and in Japan. Some of our guys are being shipped out already.
–To Vietnam?
–Yeah. They’re scared shitless, at least the ones I know, but there’s nothing they can do.
–Maybe the war will be over soon. They’ll be all right.
–Fat chance of that, Karen. Over soon, that’s a good one. How many Viet Cong are they going to kill before we call it quits?
We sat down on the tatami. He stretched his legs out and laid his head in my lap. I felt so much that I wanted to put my hand on his head and stroke his hair, daddy, but I didn’t.
–You’ll have to go too, won’t you?
–Do you want me to?
He half sat up, turned his head toward me, looked into my eyes and repeated his question.
–No.
He sat up and crossed his legs. His knees were touching mine. He took both my hands in his and brought them to his lips. I could see tears welling in his eyes.
–What is it, Eric?
–I don’t know. I didn’t expect this to happen.
–What to happen?
–Meeting you. Maybe having met you is making it harder for me to accept the fact that I … I mean, uh, before now, I think I could have gotten myself to …
Tears were now streaming down his cheeks. He clamped his lips shut and held my fingers against them. Two or three tears dropped onto the back of my hands. I should have taken him in my arms, daddy. God knows I wanted to. But something was holding me back, maybe something about me being white and him being black.
–This is ridiculous. Soldiers aren’t supposed to blubber like this, especially before they even know if they’re going to be sent to war.
–You’re brave, that’s why you’re crying.
–Brave? Is stealing away from the base at every chance I get brave? Is preferring to spend time with Japanese who hate what we Americans are doing brave? And what if I’m given the order to go to Vietnam? It’s bound to happen. Is it brave to bite the bullet and go and kill innocent people, people who have no grievance with us and who just want to be left alone in their own country? What’s brave, that’s what I’d like to know.
It was the first time for me that anything to do with politics had a connection with a real person I knew … or with me. Before then it had just been discussions and arguments about different ideas, what Prof. Cromwell called “scenarios.” I put my arms around Eric, daddy, and drew him close to me, right up against my breasts. I wanted to protect him. He kissed me, and the most exquisite sensation of warmth poured all over my skin. He was the one who broke the kiss. I didn’t want it to end.
–What’s the matter, Eric? I’m sorry.
–No, I’m sorry. Man, I am so so sorry.
–Why?
–Because you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. No idea. This whole thing is way above my head, above all our heads. It’s like a flood that’s coming. I don’t want you to drown in it too. I don’t want to pull you under.
–Look, I’m not a child. My decisions, if I take them, are my own.
–Are they? What about your father?
–He’s not here, is he?
⁂
That’s what I said, daddy. That’s what came out. I want you to know that. I knew how furious you would be with me, kissing a Negro and not only a Negro but a soldier “bent on cowardice, like those hippies who throw flowers in cops’ faces and think it’s funny.” Oh, I remember your every word. Each and every one of those words was branded by you on the surface of my brain. “The world is an evil place, Karen … the world is full of traps … and there are people in the world, many people, who envy and hate us, don’t you forget that, Karen, they despise us for what we have achieved … your mother and I always wanted what was best for you … your mother and I wanted to shield you so that you could go through life without having to meet up with evil, with traps set by people who will exude goodwill but harbor evil toward you. They are out there, Karen, everywhere you will go when you leave this country. Envy and hatred will appear to you in benign guises, but behind those guises is venom, Karen, venom that, once inside you, can poison your free will. Up till now we have shielded you from that venom. We don’t want it to get inside you.”
Venom, daddy? How does it get inside me? In the saliva from a Negro’s mouth? Is it rubbed by black hands into my soft white flesh like lotion? Or is it words, daddy, words that refute what you say and call it a pack of lies, words that cause the red and black brands you burnt into the surface of my brain to turn gray and fade away? Is it sights of another place, a place that, in time, starts to look normal, though it is so completely different from anything a girl has seen before? Or is the vapor of a venom carried through the air that you breathe with other people who are not at all like you, and suddenly your life is affected and you cannot distinguish your fate from theirs … their life from day to day has become inextricably interwoven with yours, and though they are total strangers, their blood comes to mean more to you than that of your “own people.” That venom is blood, daddy. That’s what it is. It’s blood! Mixed blood!
Copyright Roger Pulvers, courtesy of Balestier Press.
About the Author
Roger Pulvers, acclaimed author, playwright, theatre and film director, translator and journalist, has published more than fifty books in Japanese and English. He was assistant to director Oshima Nagisa on the film “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,” and has directed the film version of his novel Star Sand. Awards include the Miyazawa Kenji Prize in 2008 and the Noma Award for the Translation of Japanese Literature in 2013; in 2018, the Order of the Rising Sun; and in 2019, the Order of Australia. His other books include:
Review—In Praise of Shadows (Vintage, 2019)
A Mind-Changing Interpretation of Japanese Aesthetics
In Praise of Shadows, by Junichirō Tanizaki (translated by T. J. Harper & E. Seidensticker) Vintage Classics, Nov. 2019.
Reviewed by Renae Lucas-Hall
A new fully-illustrated release of In Praise of Shadows by Junichirō Tanizaki, translated by Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker, has just been published by Vintage Classics. It comes with stunning images chosen by the iconic book cover designer Suzanne Dean. This short but detailed essay on Japanese aesthetics provides deep insight into a culture with more layers than a senshyu onion.
Tanizaki was born in 1886 and died in 1965. He’s one of Japan’s most acclaimed writers, well-known for his intricate understanding of Japanese society. He’s favoured for his attention to detail and the magic he evokes but this fascinating essay in addition to being an inspiring work of non-fiction, is complemented by stunning calligraphy, ukiyo-e woodblock prints and delicate washi paper patterns.
“My concept for the redesign included the fold–out cover and full colour text design. I wanted the fold-out cover to feel architectural. The idea of the pages getting darker through the book came to me as I read the text. Shadow and tone felt so important.”
The cover features part of the illustration Woman Admiring Plum Blossoms at Night by the woodblock print artist Suzuki Harunobu. “I loved the way the woman is holding up the lantern. I cropped the picture to keep the design simple and clean,” said Dean in an email interview.
The emphasis on plum blossoms for the cover ties in perfectly with the contents. The author’s ephemeral thoughts are expressed in a haphazard manner as he jumps from one subject to the next. Plum and cherry blossoms express beauty that is fleeting and therefore precious.
Japan has long been considered a land of mystery, difficult for Westerners to understand. Tanizaki breaks down these illusions by proving darkness can be more conducive to relaxation and meditation.
Throughout this discourse, the author reveals his preference for low lights over bright electric illumination. Westerners may be more inclined to drench their homes in sunlight and flick on an electric switch but this writer is partial to shadows filtering through shoji paper screens that cast striking silhouettes onto tatami mats woven with natural straw.
Readers might assume this wordsmith, a purist and lover of Japanese traditions, is a fan of both Kabuki and Nō theatre, the latter being the oldest surviving form of theatre in the world. But Tanizaki dislikes the way the Kabuki actors’ faces, covered in heavy makeup, look so harsh under modern floodlights. He’d rather watch the participants in the more subdued Nō theatre. For him, nothing is more beautiful nor convincing.
Tanizaki finds the modern use of ceramics detestable and instead prefers the splendour of lacquerware. When he eats in a traditional Japanese restaurant, he likes to sit at a table illuminated by candlelight. For him, this is the best way to admire the beauty of a lacquer miso soup bowl. Looking into the multi-layered richness of up to 30 layers of lacquer, reminds him of a deep pond.
A subject one would likely never expect the author to dwell upon so passionately is the type of toilet one finds at a temple in Kyoto or Nara. Yet he is persuasive in his description of this convenience in a traditional setting. When he mentions the scent from the moss on stepping stones, the sound of insects or falling rain, one begins to understand. Add to that a view of the moon and lavatory walls with a grained wood effect, one feels like a trip to the loo can be an occasion to cherish! Rather than stark white tiles and shiny metal taps in Western bathrooms he opts for designs that allow for contemplation and spiritual repose.
This book was first published in the 1930’s but Japan has radically evolved and modernized in ways the Japanese of the early Shōwa period would never have imagined. Is Tanizaki’s appreciation of shadows outdated? Maybe a little, but a more fulfilling understanding of Japanese aesthetics wouldn’t be possible without the master’s postulations in this remarkable book.
About the Reviewer
Renae Lucas-Hall is an Australian-born British novelist and writer at Cherry Blossom Stories. She completed a B.A. in Japanese language and culture at Monash University and an Advanced Diploma in Business Marketing at RMIT University. She is the author of Tokyo Hearts: A Japanese Love Story (2012, ranked number one in Coming of Age books on Amazon Japan) and Tokyo Tales: A Collection of Japanese Short Stories (2014). Connect with Renae on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Visit her website cherryblossomstories.com.
About the Author
Jun’ichirō Tanizaki (1886–1965) is one of Japan’s most famous authors. His other books include:
Some Prefer Nettles (or Kindle Japan 500 yen)
The Key and Diary of a Mad Old Man
A Cat, a Man and Two Women (Kindle JP here)
Quicksand (Kindle JP 550 yen here)
BOA Podcast 6: Lena Baibikov, translator of Haruki Murakami non-fiction
In this episode of the Hon podcast, host Amy Chavez talks with Lena Baibikov who has translated Haruki Murakami’s non-fiction works from Japanese into Russian. Lena has translated What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Radio Murakami and a book of Murakami’s short stories as well as works by Banana Yoshimoto, Ryu Murakami, and Yukio Mishima and several children’s book authors. This podcast recording takes place in Lena’s kitchen in Ashiya, just 100 meters from where Murakami’s parents lived until the Kobe Earthquake of 1995. Lena also took Amy on a tour of the neighborhood Murakami grew up in. She tells us how she got started translating and what it is that intrigues her about Murakami’s works. (Click “more” below to see the Show Notes).
The Phallus, by Kazuko Shiraishi
(“Tree” photo credit: gratisography)
Translation by Hiroaki Sato
(For Sumiko’s birthday)
God is, even if He is not.
Also He is humorous enough
to resemble some kind of man.
This time
with a gigantic phallus over
the horizon of my dream
He came on a picnic.
Incidentally
I regret that
I did nothing for Sumiko on her birthday.
I would at least like to
send the seeds of the phallus God brought
into that thin, tiny, lovely voice of
Sumiko who is at the other end of the line.
Forgive me, Sumiko,
for the phallus has grown larger day by day
until, now in the middle of the cosmos,
he refuses to move like a bus that has broken down.
So, if you want to see
the beautiful night sky where the stars are scatttering or
some other man dashing down the highway with a hot woman
you really must try
to lean out of the bus window
and peer in.
The phallus
begins to stir and if he’s near the cosmos
he’s good to look at. At such times
Sumiko,
the lonely way light shifts in the starry sky,
the funny cold of the midday,
really gets to you,
what you can see, heartfelt, you see so well
any human can only go insane.
The phallus has neither name nor personality
nor has he a date so that
it’s only when someone passes by
carrying him like a festival shrine
that from the way people fuss, sometimes,
you know where he lives.
And in such hubbub
the primitive riots and the sudden hollow of
oaths and curses of the seeds yet
uncontrolled by God
reach your ear. On occasion
God is prone to be absent;
instead, He leaves only debt and phallus
and goes off somewhere, or so it seems,
and now, the phallus God forgot to take with him
is walking toward you.
It’s young, cheerful, and
full of such artless confidence, so that
it resembles the shadow of an astute smile.
It may seem as if the phallus has grown numerously
and numerously is walking toward you,
but in fact, he’s singular and walks alone.
From whatever horizon you see him,
he’s evenly devoid of face and word,
Something like that,
Sumiko, I’d like to give you on your birthday.
I’d like to cover your existence with it; then
to you yourself would become invisible, and
you might become the will itself called phallus
and wander, endlessly,
until I embrace you amorphously.
About the Author
Kazuko Shiraishi is Japan’s leading “Beat” Poet. Born and brought up in Vancouver but taken back to Japan before the Pacific War, Shiraishi at age 17 was discovered by the modernist Kitazono Katsue (1902-78) who founded the artists’ group VOU. Her initial influences were Miró, Dali, Jean Cocteau’s Orpheus, and Faulkner’s Sanctuary. She published her first book of poems, Tamago no furu Machi (Town Where Eggs Fall), in 1951, when a university student.
Seasons of Sacred Lust, My Floating Mother, and Let Those Who Appear: Poetry.
About the Translator
On Haiku, Japanese Women Poets, Bashō’s Narrow Road: Spring & Autumn Passages and others. His most recent book is 47 Samurai: A Tale of Vengence & Death in Haiku and Letters.
Revenge: A Village Tale, by Rebecca Otowa
(Illustration by Rebecca Otowa)
An excerpt from The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper and other Short Stories from Japan
By Rebecca Otowa
Tuttle Publishing (March, 2020)
I hate my dad.
Every day of my life when I was a kid, he used to beat me. Some days it was just a tap across the face or a box on the ear. Other days it was a real drubbing around the shoulders and back, with his fists or anything handy – a piece of wood, a rake handle. My dad used to be really strong. He was a builder. Carried heavy ceramic roof tiles and installed them all over the village. He had huge muscles in his arms. I used to go around with big bruises all over me.
His voice is really loud, too, and he never shuts up. All the time he was hitting me in my boyhood, he was yelling. I think kids’ hearing must be more sensitive than adults’. His yelling made my head hurt. Some days I didn’t know which hurt most – my head or my body.
I’m big now, I’m a grown man, so he doesn’t beat me – that’s changed, at least – but he still yells, and I can’t stand it. Sometimes my head hurts so bad it feels like it’s going to explode. That’s how it feels tonight. He just got through yelling at me because I forgot to bring the sake back from town. So what? He drinks too much anyway.
Tonight’s the night. I’m going to pay him back.
I think it’s dark enough now. He’s watching TV with my mother. I hate her too, for letting him do those things to me. But it’s him I really hate. Wait till he sees what I did!
Sneak out the back door with the kerosene can. Boy, it’s heavy. Don’t forget the matches. Don’t turn on the light in case they notice. Sneak down the lane in the dark, all the way to the shed where he parks his precious truck. He won’t let me drive it. I have to go everywhere by bike. I hate him.
Squeeze past the piles of roof tiles. Open the truck door in the dark. It smells like him – his revolting breath, his clothes. My head is throbbing. Lift the can and slosh the kerosene all over the seat. Now the match. Whooo! Look at those flames. I feel the heat on my face. Shut the door and sneak into Mr. Sato’s yard next door, hide behind the fence.
The fire gets bigger and bigger. The light shines through the chinks of the shed. I hear the fire roaring. What’s that? Another sound. Someone has seen the fire and called the volunteers. It’s the siren on the big red fire engine they keep down by the school. It’s coming this way.
Hey – what are you doing? Let me go! Hey, Sato-san, let me go!
⁂
(two years later)
It didn’t work. All the planning, all the guts it took to set dad’s truck on fire, and what it got me was a jail sentence for arson. It’s not fair. No one ever asked me why I did it. No one ever thought that dad might be to blame. That dumb Mr. Sato caught me and they figured out I did it, I don’t know how. The truck didn’t even burn much. Just the seats. The firefighters got there before the fire reached the gas tank. I was hoping for a big explosion. Oh, how I was hoping the whole shed would go up – dad’s livelihood gone. But it didn’t work. My head hurts worse than ever. It never stops now.
They sent me home – but I won’t live here anymore. They can’t make me.
Only, where can I go?
Actually… why should I leave? This is a perfectly good house.
Dad is out shopping with mom in his new truck. Fire insurance. Holy hell. He gets everything and I get nothing. Well, that changes now.
The official seals and bankbooks with his name – out the front door with them. They land on the path. I don’t want to leave him with nothing. I want him to live and think about what he did and be miserable every day.
Lock the doors on the inside. Move the furniture — the big wooden kitchen cabinet, the chests, the bureaus — up against the doors and windows. Barricade the place. I’m strong now, myself — as strong as he used to be. He’s an old man now, he can’t do anything.
Let him live in the shed, him and mom. They won’t ever get into this house again. This is my home now. The son takes over from the father, that’s the rule, and it starts now.
Oh, my head.
Copyright Rebecca Otowa, courtesy of Tuttle Publishing.
The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper available for order here.
About the Author
Rebecca illustrates all her books. She lives in Shiga Prefecture.
Kanji: The Shadowy Middle Ground, by Eve Kushner
(“Cat nose” photo credit: gratisography)
In all the years I’ve been studying Japanese, one of my dreams has been to read Haruki Murakami in Japanese. I mean, I’ve done it, using annotated readers to study two of his essays, but it’s hardly the same as picking up his novels and breezing through them unassisted.
Anyway, his Japanese unexpectedly came my way when I was writing about this term in essay 1681 on 濃 (concentrated, thick, dark, undiluted, dense):
濃淡 (のうたん/noutan: light and dark; shade (of color)) dark + light
When I took a break, the following passage immediately popped up in my Facebook newsfeed:
“It’s not as if our lives are simply divided into light and dark. There’s a shadowy middle ground. Recognizing and understanding the shadows is what a healthy intelligence does.”
―Haruki Murakami, After Dark
What a coincidence! Wondering if the original Japanese included 濃淡, I asked my proofreader if he could track down that text. To my delight, he did! Unfortunately the passage (the next-to-last paragraph at the link) doesn’t include the keyword, but I no longer care. I’m just tickled to have a manageable piece of Murakami’s Japanese to devour. On the off chance that you relish the same challenge, here it is, buck-naked (that is, without any yomi or translations). See what you can do:
ねえ、僕らの人生は、明るいか暗いかで単純に分けられているわけじゃないんだ。そのあいだには陰影という中間地帯がある。その陰影の段階を認識し、理解するのが、健全な知性だ。(pp. 267–268)
To block the “answers,” here’s an image of my book about kanji:
Okay, now I’ll dig into the text and see what it’s really like! Here’s the first sentence of the three:
ねえ、僕らの人生は、明るいか暗いかで単純に分けられているわけじゃないんだ。
It’s not as if our lives are simply divided into light and dark.
ねえ (hey; you know what); 僕ら (ぼくら: we (for men)); 人生 (じんせい: life); 明るい (あかるい: light); 暗い (くらい: dark); 単純 (たんじゅん: simple); 分ける (わける: to divide, shown here in the present-progressive form of its passive form, meaning, “being divided”)
Hey (ねえ!), that was straightforward! No fancy tricks, nothing to make me sigh in desperation or feel locked out of a secret room. So far, a few things jump out at me:
• Murakami is famous for his use of 僕. In the 2002 book Haruki Murakami and the Music of Words, author Jay Rubin spent several pages analyzing the uses of 僕 by Murakami’s male narrators. I know 僕 works fine for those narrators, but this statement is a universal one about the human condition. Why limit it to men? Oh, my proofreader suggests that the narrator may have been speaking to a man when he said this…. But no, I’ve just located the passage on page 226 of Rubin’s translation of After Dark, and in fact a man says this to a woman. The point isn’t to differentiate men from women, either; the woman has just said that people tell her she has a “darkish personality.” (Incidentally, darkness is a major theme in the book, which should come as no surprise, given the title and the premise; the novel is about people who are wandering around Tokyo between midnight and dawn. Shadows are important in the story, too. I found comments on page 204 about racing with one’s own shadow and the inability to outrun it.)
• There’s instant gratification, in that the “light and dark” bit has come right away in 明るいか暗いか. I’m surprised that Murakami used 明るい for “light” because I always see that translated as “bright, cheerful.” But given that 暗い can mean “dim” (not just “dark”), 明るい and 暗い are natural antonyms. As to why a か follows each word, that makes the phrase literally translate as “whether it’s light or whether it’s dark.”
• The word 濃淡 (のうたん: light and dark, dark + light) suggested to me that the Japanese habitually think of “dark” as preceding “light” in such pairings. In English it’s the opposite; native speakers say “light and dark.” With 明るいか暗いか, though, the sequence of the Japanese matches that of the English. My proofreader explains that, when listing items like this without a set expression, the Japanese often go from positive to negative.
Okay, on to the next Murakami sentence:
そのあいだには陰影という中間地帯がある。
There’s a shadowy middle ground.
そのあいだ (between those (extremes)); 陰影* (いんえい: shadow);
中間地帯 (ちゅうかんちたい: twilight zone)
Ah, the last kanji term is delicious and intriguing, particularly because I didn’t realize (until my proofreader suggested “twilight zone” as a definition) that “twilight zone” could mean anything other than, you know, The Twilight Zone!
The Japanese is certainly far more complex here than the English translation. And although “middle ground” sounds reasonable, balanced, and highly desirable, it’s shadowy in this case. At this point I have no idea if that’s positive or negative. “Shadowy” puts me on alert, as if dangerous people are lurking in the midst. Still, if you mixed light and dark, you’d come up with a grayness that I suppose one could call shadowy without any negative nuance.
Maybe the next sentence will clarify matters:
その陰影の段階を認識し、理解するのが、健全な知性だ。
Recognizing and understanding the shadows is what a healthy intelligence does.
段階 (だんかい: gradation); 認識 (にんしき: recognizing); 理解 (りかい: understanding);
健全 (けんぜん: health); 知性 (ちせい: intelligence)
Well, he has certainly served up an enticing batch of vocabulary words! I could feast on these for quite awhile! I know all the kanji, but I usually see them assembled in different pairs.
As for the shadows, I think what we ultimately have is a caution against black-and-white thinking. Or an acknowledgment that, as the saying goes, every life has ten thousand joys and ten thousand sorrows.
But what’s this about recognizing and understanding the shadows? Is there much to recognize and understand about the middle of the roller coaster ride, the part where it’s neither agonizing nor exhilarating?
I feel as if I’m failing his basic emotional intelligence test! But that’s okay. I set myself the challenge of understanding his Japanese, and I think I made good progress with three sentences. Imagine tackling 1Q84 in Japanese at this rate!! I would need 10 lifetimes!
About the Author: Eve Kushner is author of Crazy for Kanji: A Student’s Guide to the Wonderful World of Japanese Characters. Be sure to check out her Joy o’ Kanji website for more fun and exciting kanji explanations.
Review—Makoto Ōoka’s Beneath the Sleepless Tossing of the Planets
Twentieth Century Surrealism Tempered by Literary Discipline
Beneath the Sleepless Tossing of the Planets: Selected Poems by Makoto Ōoka
translated by Janine Beichman (Kurodahan Press, 2019)
Review by Christopher Blasdel
The title of this magnificently translated volume of poetry by the recently deceased Japanese poet Makoto Ōoka immediately conjures a sense of the surreal. Even a cursory look at the individual poetry titles in the table of contents reinforces this feeling: “Daybreak Leaf Alive,” “Cerebropolis,” “Comrades–the Earth is Cold,” and the enigmatic title poem which in many ways forms the nucleus of this collection, “Song of the Nuclear Submarine ‘Thresher’, Its Sexual Sea Passage and Suicide.”
One does not normally associate Japan with the surrealist movement that was an integral part of soul searching that defined 20th Century western thought. Nonetheless, surrealism in contemporary Japanese writing is not without precedent. When I was an early student of the Japanese language, I discovered the works of Taruho Inagaki (1900-1977). His One-Thousand-and-One-Second Stories (1923) is a collection of fantastical, unrelated stories that defy logic but at the same time are perfectly attenuated to the times in the way they poked fun at the monolithic, inflexible thinking that was prevalent in the nationalistic group-think of Japan in the 1920s. But even now, post-war, post-modern and post-bubble, Inagaki is a liberating read, and his writings are as profound and thought-provoking as any of the absurdist fiction by Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett or Franz Kafka.
Like Inagaki, Ōoka deftly blends and conjures words that are a reflection of his fantastical thoughts, his profound scholarship of traditional Japanese literature, and his love of language together with a highly sensual approach to the physical world. The result is a wonderful and entertaining journey through an extraordinary mind with thought processes informed by both the total immediacy of the present and the rich traditional literary heritage of Japan.
To quote from the book’s preface written by one of Ōoka’s contemporaries, the poet Shuntaro Tanikawa, Ōoka’s attraction to surrealism “lay not only in a personal affinity, but also in surrealism’s resonance with the dominant pantheism at the heart of the traditional Japanese sensibility.”
Reading this passage, I recalled a conversation I once had with Ōoka-san while attending one of his famous New Year’s Parties at his house in Chōfu. These parties were attended by visual artists, theater folk, musicians, writers and publishers, and oftentimes they included impromptu performances, readings or musical performances. Somehow Ōoka-san ended up giving a poetry reading while I accompanied him on the shakuhachi. Though I forget the poem’s title, what struck me about the work was its clear and pure sensuality, and that his words made me feel as if I were being seduced by a lofty, almost deific force. After that small performance, the topic turned to Shintō pantheism and how fluid and unalloyed the Japanese kami deities seem in their sensual and sexual proclivities.
It is the role of the artist to reflect the actions and thoughts of the gods. For Ōoka-san, this meant celebrating the love for his wife (and by extension, women in general), and for Inagaki it was an aesthetic love and appreciation of the young male (Shōnen Ai no Bigaku). Both are honest and valid expressions of the same primordial principle of existence.
Tanikawa calls this approach “paneroticism,” and writes that it is Ōoka’s salvation, “which saves him from the abyss of abstraction.” Indeed, Ōoka’s poems are written from the heart, overflowing with love but fully informed by the intellect.
“Cerebropolis”
—Leave tomorrow’s wind to tomorrow, you say?
Something terrible was going to happen.
Every room in every house felt it.Some people were already secretly building shelters.
Some had already drowned in the sewers, trying to escape.From the town’s first cell-room to its fourteen billionth,
shock and tension at the slightest change in wind pressure.And yet the sounds of music echoed, and there was love.
Lovers walked together tenderly.
but they too held their breath and waited.That voice for which everyone was waiting
was within each of them:“Oh, let’s just tear it all down already.
I want to breathe easy again. Easy.”To let it out:
That was the most terrifying
thing of all.
Translating contemporary Japanese poetry is a herculean task requiring precise scholarship, linguistic prowess and an ear tuned to the innate musicality of each word. (It is telling that the Japanese word for poem, shi,is a late 19 th century construct. Before that, in Japan all poetry was simply referred to as song, uta, signifying the importance of the human voice and musicality in recitation.) The translator must essentially recreate the poem in English, which means that each word of the original, imbued as it is with significance and inner cadence, must ring with the same resonance in English.
Janine Beichman does this with great success. Her translations are fluid and deeply informed by her long personal association with Ōoka and her knowledge of the subject matter. It is also helpful that all the poems in this volume are included in the original Japanese as well, which makes it invaluable for students of Japanese literature or students of translation. I found myself referring to the original just to satisfy my curiosity, and oftentimes I was pleasantly surprised to see how certain Japanese phrases and words could be rendered in English so clearly and artistically. Another helpful aspect of this book are the reproductions of Ōoka’a inimitable calligraphy of his own poetry. Beichman thoughtfully includes the reading and translation of the poems, thus enabling the reader to have another peek of this man’s extraordinary creativity.
About the reviewer
Christopher Blasdel is a shakuhachi performer and Adjunct Lecturer at the University of Hawai’i, Mānoa.
About the Translator
Janine Beichman has written and translated various other works including Makoto Ōoka’s Oriori No Uta: Poems for All Seasons and Masaoka Shiki: His Life and Works.