The Nakasendo was an Edo Period (1603-1868) road used for travel between the capital of Edo (Tokyo) and Kyoto, the former capital. The 69 post towns along the way provided accommodation and services to daimyo and their entourages, who passed through on their sankin kōtai biennial visits to the Tokugawa shogunate.
I’m set to hike the most popular and picturesque section, the lower Kiso Road, from the post town of Magome-juku in Gifu Prefecture to the next, Tsumago-juku in Nagano Prefecture. Over this 7-kilometer stretch, I aim to get some insight into the local palates and what travelers may have eaten along the path when it was Japan’s most-traveled highway.
Though it’s well known that the poet Matsuo Basho wandered the Nakasendo, it is Magome’s native son, Toson Shimazaki, who is most inextricably linked to this section of the Kiso Road. The Shimazaki family served as the village headmen, taking care of the feudal lords as well as pilgrims such as Basho and others who passed through.
In Magome-juku, the atmosphere is thick with the ubiety of Shimazaki (1872-1943), who is one of Japan’s most celebrated authors. The controversial figure (who fled to France after impregnating his niece) can perhaps be sensed in the stickiness of the local specialty, gohei mochi (grilled rice on a stick topped with sweet miso), while his softer side as progenitor of modern Japanese poetry is palpable in the marriage of textures and flavors of the various provincial chestnut confections.
Arriving in late afternoon, I stopped at the acclaimed Cafe Kappe along the steep main street inlaid with large flat stones. Inside, I found the proprietor sitting at one of the tables peeling a mound of chestnuts. “Chestnut parfaits!” she said with a smile. I ordered one and noshed on it while gazing at Mount Ena (2,191 meters) straight out the window.
I had booked into Eishoji, a Zen temple (formerly Manpukuji Temple in Shimazaki’s book “Before the Dawn”). Temple cats lounged around decoratively in the garden.
I had not come for the visuals, however, but rather the victuals: the shōjin ryōri (vegetarian food for Buddhist priests) for which the temple is known.
In a formal tatami room facing the garden a dozen bowls and plates of food were waiting for me. I immediately felt tense when I noticed that the scroll overshadowing me from the tokonoma (decorative alcove) bore the kanji for “patience.”
Eishoji temple’s bowl of tofu in a light sauce
The priest’s wife explained the dishes: ganmadoki (fried tofu made with shaved lotus root and potato), a bowl of fresh tofu in a light sauce, a square of sesame tofu with a drip of wasabi on top, steamed green vegetables, boiled pumpkin artfully arranged in a blue side dish, a sweet red plum, eggplant boiled to a sheen and graced with miso sauce, cucumber salad, soba noodles, a generous bowl of raw pink ginger and locally harvested rice. Plus tea, of course. She politely bowed, left the room, and I dug in, completely ignoring the ancient scroll’s advice.
A “kurikinton” candied chestnut.
After a visit to the Shimazaki family grave in the morning, I left the temple’s moss-laced pathways ringing with bird-song and continued up the steep Magome hill seeking treats for the trail. I procured individually wrapped kurikinton candied chestnuts from a confectionery run by a toothsome dowager who said she had lived in this village her whole life.
At the top of the hill, I glanced back at Mount Ena and the Mino Valley before padding across the ishitatami, the inlaid stones that mark the ancient Kiso Road.
The well-preserved trail is studded with tea houses, rest spots, toilets and water at regular intervals. After 5.5 km, the route crosses into Nagano Prefecture and the Magome Pass (801 meters), which winds down into Otsumago.
At times the route follows a stream, hopscotching from one side to the other via wooden pedestrian bridges. The two waterfalls are not-to-be-missed, and it is at the bottom of the Odaki waterfall that I enjoyed my kurikinton delicacies.
I drank sake with a little wooden horse.
Golden rice fields begging to be harvested and whispering fūrin wind chimes dangling in front of row houses greeted me as I descended into the hamlet of Tsumago-juku, where women were hand-making straw coned hats from hinoki (Japanese cypress). Small shops purveyed souvenirs and wooden toys.
Rows of soba shops that previously fed the legions of attendants to the daimyo during the Edo Period now serve their replacements: tourists who stream in by the hundreds via bus.
Suddenly, a tall man with a friendly smile hailed me from the open doors of a latticed wooden house: “Oyaki!” I bought one of the vegetable-filled hot buns and another stuffed with walnut paste. Mr. Hara has been selling oyaki from this shop since returning to his hometown 26 years ago.
“Matcha azuki” shaved ice.
Having arrived at my destination, I sampled the Jurokudai Kuroemon sake at a quiet shop called Shirokiya facing the old road, and imbibed with my companion, a small toy horse made from sakura cherry wood. Perhaps the sake invigorated me because after this short rest I yearned to go a little further that day. I hiked another 5 km to Nagiso Station in Midono.
I’m glad I did, because I discovered the perfect way to end a hot day on the Nakasendo: with a matcha azuki shaved ice desert at Cafe Izumiya, across from the station.
This article originally appeared in The Japan Times as part of a series called “Gourmet Trails.“
How many cartoons have I seen in which a man climbs a craggy precipice in search of a wise religious figure? Why must sages dispense advice from the highest places? To put it more broadly, why do people think that one has to ascend to find religious purity? It must be related to the idea that God or the gods are in the heavens. Whereas the common person needs food from the earth and rivers, religious figures are sometimes thought to survive on air alone!
I mention this because 詣 means both “to visit a holy place” and “to attain an elevated state.” Could there be a thematic connection? No, not really. Kanjigen does say that the Japanese used to read 詣る as いたる (itaru), translating it as “to arrive at a high place.” (Nowadays that reading is archaic, and 至る (いたる/itaru) is the way to say “to arrive at” or “to reach.”) And quite a few holy places in Japan are indeed way up high. Purifying oneself involves hard work, and some people have ensured that that effort isn’t just spiritual but also physical! However, many shrines and temples are on flat ground.
Meanwhile, the latter definition has to do with attaining a very high stage of study or artistry. The keywords featuring 詣 in that sense involve “deep knowledge,” so in those cases we’re talking about going down, not up!
When I propose a connection between visiting a holy place and attaining an elevated state, I’m mainly doing so as a mnemonic for the two definitions.
A Blurry Boundary
One of my proofreaders told me that, strictly speaking, 詣 is only for visiting shrines, whereas 参 is for visiting temples. She says that when she sees 詣, she imagines a shrine.
However, she notes, many words that should use 詣 instead include 参. One example would be 参道 (さんどう/sandou), the term for the path leading to any shrine or temple. Similarly, a visit to Ise Shrine is known as 伊勢参り (いせまいり/Isemairi), in which 伊 is non-Joyo kanji.
This blurry boundary could be a product of the era in which Japanese temples and shrines were located on the same grounds. That’s before an 1868 law called for the two to be kept separate. The law is known as 神仏判然令 (しんぶつはんぜんれい/Shimbutsuhanzenrei) or 神仏分離令 (しんぶつぶんりれい/Shimbutsubunrirei).
But let’s return to the idea that 詣 is for shrines and that 参 is for temples. Another proofreader consulted various sources and concluded that there is no such official distinction between the two characters. Our star kanji can be about visits to Shinto shrines or Buddhist temples or even a visit to a grave, he said.
I believe him, but I have mentioned the first proofreader’s perceptions because I imagine that other Japanese people also associate 詣 with shrines.
By the way, 詣 applies only to pilgrimages within Japan. When speaking about how Muslim pilgrims go to Mecca, the Japanese instead use 巡礼 (じゅんれい/junrei), as in メッカ巡礼 (Mecca junrei). When referring to the pilgrimages that Buddhists make in countries such as India, Thailand, Cambodia, and so on, the Japanese are again likely to use 巡礼.
The Suffix -詣で
Let’s start our study of 詣 by considering this suffix:
-詣で (-もうで/-moude: visit to a holy place; pilgrimage)
The English word “pilgrimage” doesn’t have to be religious. It could mean “a journey or long search made for exalted or sentimental reasons.” Someone could also use it sarcastically. For instance, I might say that a woman addicted to shoe shopping made a “pilgrimage” to her favorite store.
The Japanese almost always use -詣で in religious contexts, but when they don’t, the usage is similarly sarcastic. For example, one article title called Prime Minister Abe’s first visit to the White House a ホワイトハウス詣で (Howaito Hausu–moude: a “White House pilgrimage”). With that usage the author was critiquing the prime minister for treating President Obama so reverently that it was as if Abe were visiting a shrine or seeing a god.
Similarly, another article title contained 北京詣で to condemn a Japanese politician for being overly warm toward China on a visit to Beijing (北京, read as ペキン/Pekin). Apparently, some English speakers call such people panda huggers! I had never heard that until my proofreader introduced the term.
Aside from sarcastic usage, the Japanese tack -詣で onto the names of religious places, as in this example:
彼は熊野詣でをした。
(Kare wa Kumano-moude o shita).
He made a pilgrimage to Kumano.
彼* (かれ/kare: he); 熊野 (くまの: Kumano)
Kumano Shrines
The name Kumano is short for the area on Honshu known as 熊野地方 (くまのちほう/Kumano chihou: Kumano region). Located on the southern part of the Kii Peninsula, the region includes parts of Mie, Wakayama, and Nara Prefectures. For ancient emperors’ families, that area was the most sacred in the country, and the region became a UNESCO-designated World Heritage Site in 2004.
A “Kumano shrine” is a type of Shinto shrine that enshrines the three Kumano mountains: Hongu, Shingu, and Nachi. In fact, of the three main shrines — Kumano Hongu Taisha, Kumano Hayatama Taisha, and Kumano Nachi Taisha — the first and third are named after the mountains. Hongu, the oldest shrine, is said to have been built in 33 BCE.
In Japan people make pilgrimages to more than 150 temples and shrines. Here are the top 3, according to a Japanese source listing the top 10:
1. Kumano
2. The Shikoku Pilgrimage
3. Ise Shrine
Kumano is first, so it’s most common to associate 詣 with Kumano shrines.
Given their religious importance, this is an established term:
熊野詣で (くまのもうで/Kumano-moude: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage
That word lies at the heart of the sentence we just saw:
彼は熊野詣でをした。
He made a pilgrimage to Kumano.
Note that する/suru is the way to make that pilgrimage happen.
The Verb 詣でる
The suffix -詣で comes from this verb:
詣でる (もうでる/mouderu: to make a pilgrimage)
This is the Joyo kun-yomi of our star kanji. That should mean that 詣でる is a common word, but people don’t seem to use this verb often.
I’ll use it in this mnemonic, though: “Someone who makesa pilgrimage is a もうでる (model) citizen.”
The verb 詣でる came from まいず/maizu, a phonetic contraction of まいいず/maiizu (参出ず: to go see someone; visit).
On 詣 Versus 参
If 詣でる evolved from 参出ず, then 詣 and 参 have a relationship. That’s not hard to imagine because those kanji are interchangeable in various contexts. Take for instance this noun-and-verb pair, which introduce a non-Joyo kun-yomi for 詣:
-参り or -詣り (-まいり/-mairi: visit (to a holy place))
参る or 詣る (まいる/mairu: (1) to go; come; call; (2) be defeated; collapse; die; (3) be annoyed; be nonplussed; (4) be madly in love; (5) visit (a holy place))
Actually, the first keyword is primarily a suffix to nouns, though 参り and 詣り can also stand alone. When they do so, people usually add the prefix お-, as in this sentence:
先週末は、七五三のため神社へお詣りに行った。
(Senshuumatsu wa, Shichi-Go-San no tame jinja e o-mairi ni itta).
Last weekend we visited a shrine for the Shichi-Go-San ceremony.
先週末 (せんしゅうまつ/senshuumatsu: last weekend); 七五三 (しちごさん/Shichi-Go-San: name of a ceremony for children of certain ages); 神社* (じんじゃ: Shinto shrine); 行く (いく: to go)
The intransitive verb まいる introduces some complexity into our discussion:
• When it comes to the first definitions (“to go; come; call”) the Japanese render the verb only as 参る.
• For definitions 2 through 4 (“(2) be defeated; collapse; die; (3) be annoyed; be nonplussed; (4) be madly in love”) people use the hiragana まいる.
• We can use our star kanji only with definition 5 (“to visit (a holy place)”), rendering the verb as 詣る. However, even for that last meaning people commonly use 参る.
The Word 参詣
Thus far we have focused only on kun readings of 詣. Let’s shift to the Joyo on-yomi ケイ/kei, which pops up in this word:
参詣 (さんけい/sankei: (1) temple or shrine visit; pilgrimage; (2) visit to a noble person) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place)
The latter definition is archaic.
We’ve seen quite a bit about the close relationship between these two kanji, and here they are, bonded together in this term.
Taking 参詣 and adding する/suru forms a verb:
産土神社を参詣しました。 (Ubusunajinja o sankei shimashita).
I visited the shrine of the god of my birthplace.
産土 (うぶすな/ubusuna: birthplace)
「鉄道が変えた社寺参詣」
(Tetsudou ga kaeta shaji sankei) How Railroads Have Changed Pilgrimages to Shrines and Temples 鉄道* (てつどう/tetsudou: railroad); 変える (かえる/kaeru: to change);
社寺 (しゃじ/shaji: shrines and temples)
「初詣は鉄道とともに生まれ育った」
(Hatsumoude wa tetsudou totomoni umare sodatta) Being Born and Growing Up with Trains as a Way to Make the First Shrine Visit of the Year とともに/totomoni (together with); 生まれ育つ (うまれそだつ/umaresodatsu: to be born and to grow up)
Hey, the subtitle includes our star kanji in another term:
初詣で or 初詣 (はつもうで/hatsumoude: first visit of the new year to a holy place) 1st + visit to a holy place
The word 参詣 lies inside these spin-offs:
参詣者 (さんけいしゃ/sankeisha: visitor to a temple or shrine; pilgrim; worshiper) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place) + person
参詣人 (さんけいにん/sankeinin: visitor to a temple or shrine; pilgrim; worshiper) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place) + person
These words are completely synonymous. Apparently, 参詣者 is more common.
Remember our discussion of the Kumano shrines? Well, 参詣 lies inside a word closely related to them:
熊野参詣道 (くまのさんけいみち/Kumano sankei michi: pilgrimage route to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage (next 2 kanji) + route
To refer to the pilgrimage itself, simply chop off the last kanji:
熊野参詣 (くまのさんけい/Kumano sankei: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage (last 2 kanji)
This term is less common than a synonym we already saw:
熊野詣で (くまのもうで/Kumano-moude: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage
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We hope you enjoyed learning about 詣. But there’s more! This article has a more in-depth version, available by PDF for US $1.99 from the Joy o’ Kanji website.
The Wakasa Road is a historical trail that helped advance Japan’s culture and cuisine. The Wakasa region of Fukui Prefecture, on the nation’s west coast, was one of the strategic miketsukuni regions of Japan that produced food for the emperor in ancient times. Wakasa-mono were delectables from the Japan Sea such as fugu, karei flatfish and oysters transported via the Wakasa Road and its many arteries flowing into the heart of Kyoto. One particular branch gained popularity for bringing mackerel direct from the port in Obama by porters who carried 40-kilogram baskets on their backs, walking all night over mountain passes to deliver the goods to Kyoto before they spoiled. This route was nicknamed the Mackerel Trail, or Sabakaido (saba being mackerel).
This 72-kilometer fish route had been nibbling at my conscience for a while, and the fact that it’s not just a historic walking trail but also a culinary one piqued my stomach’s interest. It’s surprisingly easy to find someone to accompany you when gourmet food is involved. My friend Chris Thyregod was more than happy to take on the task.
The city of Obama has made the Mackerel Trail a major tool for tourism. The journey starts in Izumi-cho, in what is now a covered shopping street. There, the fish Sherpas filled their baskets with their piscine wares, heavily salted to preserve them for the long hike. It is said that the flavors were just right by the time the fish went to market in Kyoto.
If porters in ancient times could walk the Sabakaido in two days — in rope sandals, with full loads of fish on their backs — then Chris and I, with our latest Montbell duds, featherweight backpacks, hiking boots and voracious appetites, would have few troubles. Or so we thought.
Mention walking the Mackerel Trail to anyone working at the sundry information centers in Obama and they will smile and tell you the proud history of the Sabakaido. Ask for details about hiking the route, however, and they’ll squint at you, cock their heads to one side and start sucking air through their teeth. This is the telltale Japanese sign of utter perplexity.
The kind woman at the Obama train station information desk, for example, who is deft at renting out bicycles and finding overnight lodging for the woefully unprepared, hedged in this manner when we told her we were looking for information on the Mackerel Trail. She shooed us in the direction of the Machi no Eki (information center) in town.
An inquiry there made the woman at the information desk do the same while looking askance and searching the room for someone more knowledgeable. She even made some phone calls, but to no avail. In a final desperate attempt to give us some kind of guidance, she called in a bus driver off the street to see if he knew anything. He smiled, waved us on and wished us luck.
But at this point we didn’t care, because we had already started our own culinary version of the Sabakaido at the accompanying restaurant, swilling down cold beers while watching live mackerel get scooped out of the huge aquarium with a net. Minutes later, the poor darlings appeared as sashimi on our plates, served with sides of grated ginger, daikon radish and wasabi. For good measure, we also tucked into saba-zushi. Without even stepping onto the trail, we’d already arrived in saba heaven.
Finally, the woman urged us on to the michi no eki (highway rest stop), where she assured us they had special knowledge of the Sabakaido.
They didn’t. Lastly, we were motioned in the direction of the local library.
Each of these information gurus told us something different. Most hadn’t done the trail themselves but knew someone who had. Others tossed out random concerns under their breaths like “There may be landslides” or “The road isn’t paved all the way.” (Why do we need a paved road?)
We heard the local junior high school students had done the course in two days, camping overnight. (So, if kids can do it we can! Right?) One person said we could hike it in a day if we moved quickly while another, when asked about buses, looked doubtful, saying, “Yes, but they only run about once an hour.” (Um, isn’t that enough?) But most just smiled politely, handed us erroneous maps and wished us luck.
At the end of the day, we had amassed 13 different — mostly unrelated — maps and had spoken to dozens of people, none of whom could answer even our most basic questions about walking the Mackerel Trail.
There seemed to be plenty of information on driving the Wakasa Road, a highway with rest areas and petrol stations. But walking the Mackerel Trail? Why would tourists want to do that?
Undaunted, we chased down more beers, sorted through the unrelated maps and ultimately decided to just go for it the next morning.
That evening we slaked our thirst for adventure by taking part in more saba degustation — among all the maps, three were Obama restaurant maps — including heshiko (mackerel fermented in rice bran), nare-zushi (mackerel sushi salted and pickled in rice) and grilled mackerel.
The next morning, we were already five kilometers into our hike from Izumi-cho when we met someone who would alter our plans completely.
Just before the road went up into the mountains to the trail head, we stopped for coffee in a quasi-cafe/souvenir shop and information center. Full of optimism, we asked the middle-aged woman behind the counter if she had any advice on hiking the Sabakaido. As it turned out, she had done the trail three times herself!
But once we started asking questions about walking times, buses and where the nearest overnight accommodation was, she squinted at us, cocked her head to the side and started sucking air through her teeth. The ultimate blow was when she expressed concern that if we continued, we would be putting ourselves in grave danger. She even offered to drive us to a rental car agency.
The man at the rental car agency was just as bemused as marveled by two foreigners entering his small prefab office. He confided that he had never rented a car to foreigners before and, in that uniquely Japanese way, made us feel all the more honored for it.
With our new wheels, we experienced an unexpected wave of delight — something that previously felt forced upon us was now something we embraced, because now we could explore the Mackerel Trail with no concern for time limits, walking at night, losing our way or finding accommodations.
The road itself was lovely and lonely. Oftentimes just a single track, sometimes paved, other times not, it bumbled through the forest, meandered past wild monkeys, chased long, clear streams and rolled past sacred water gods. We even chanced upon the grave of a legendary 800-year-old woman who had — get this — eaten a mermaid!
We observed how the Sabakaido hiking path, like an uncoddled child, sallied in and out of the forest, hugging the car road for a few kilometers before ducking into the forest and back, darting out again, farther away this time, before reappearing in a self-determined pattern. More than a trail, it was a goat path: narrow, unforgiving and knee-deep in leaves. More untrodden than abandoned, it would swallow you whole in a dark forest lit by the sliver of a crescent moon.
No, the Mackerel Trail isn’t ready for hikers yet. It’s not exactly wilderness, since you’ll pass through tiny settlements of houses, but there will be no corner store, petrol station or place to curl up for the night. There is no infrastructure for walking pilgrims and the campgrounds are decrepit relics of an ’80s version of “glamping.” And it’s frigid at night, even in October.
We met only two cars and two motorcycles on the trail. We stopped by the roadside often, reveled in the accidental quiescence and envisioned porters crossing the Harihatatoge pass, hunched under 40-kg packs and a full moon.
Eager to cultivate a culinary trail, we went off-course to seek out restaurants and indulge in more local specialties: kodai no sasazuke (pickled sea bream) and hamayaki-saba (whole grilled mackerel on a stick). In truth, it took us all day just to drive the Sabakaido!
But, most importantly, I can say with confidence that we achieved our own version of mackerel enlightenment on this ancient Wakasa Road.
(This article originally appeared in The Japan Times in 2016. Hopefully, things have changed since then and the Mackerel Trail is more accessible to hikers).
In this episode of the “Hon” podcast, host Amy Chavez talks with William Scott Wilson, author and translator of over a dozen books on Japan and China. They briefly discuss a few of these including, Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai (by Yamamoto Tsunetomo), The Book of 5 Rings (by Miyamoto Musashi), and Cultivating Ch’i: A Samurai Physician’s Teachings on the Way of Health (by Kaibara Ekiken) before they zero in on the writing of Walking the Kiso Road. In this episode the author reveals a surprising fact about himself that we never knew before! (hint: If you like to kayak, you’ll definitely want to check this out). Show Notes available by clicking “more” below but be warned, they include spoilers.
I knew all about the magic of using rice straw. It is one of the main methods of Fukuoka-san’s Natural Farming (see One Straw Revolution, by Masanobu Fukuoka). In the mountains of Kyōto, his gaijin disciple had shown me the proper way to shake the rice straw onto the field, how to make it look as if the stocks had been laid there by nature or the hands of some unseen earth goddess. The movement is similar to a cheerleader waving pom-poms.
On Fukuoka-san’s natural farm, I had helped his live-in students scatter the seeds of winter wheat in an unplowed field. We must have a looked like dancing scarecrows as we imitated nature by covering the seeds with rice straw from the fall harvest. The idea is simple, but making it appear natural takes practice. After a rain or two, it’s easy to find the seeds sprouting between the cracks in the straw. Daikon radish and other hearty vegetables are easy to grow this way.
Those tough weeds and wildflowers we see in the cracks of city sidewalks and cement walls follow the same principle. Earth, rain, sun, and wind come together naturally allowing their lives to happen. If man or a bird lends a helping hand the process works better, but we are not really necessary.
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The author’s own timeworn jikatabi, slit-toed, cloth work shoes with high sides and rubber soles, worn by workmen and farmers.
At 8:00 a.m. on the morning of a national holiday, we assembled on the steps in front of the shrine. People were dressed in garb that ranged from traditional happi coats and jikatabi shoes to jogging suits, blue jeans, and brand-name sneakers. Our task was to clean up the local shrine and its precincts for the annual fall harvest festival to be held in a week, and most importantly, to weave a new shimenawa straw rope for the shrine and its torii gate.
The workers were mostly male, ranging in age from 30 to 80. It seemed our purpose was not only to clean the shrine and make the shimenawa with the newly harvested rice straw, but also to experience the communal aspect of the neighborhood, take pride in our local area, and perhaps in ourselves, too. It was a ritualistic upholding of a clan tradition, preserving the rice culture in a primitive and basic sense. These seemed like lofty goals, so I was willing and ready to work.
I soon realized that the weaving of the cord symbolically interweaves the lives of the community together in a harmonious pattern, strengthening old friendships and, in my case, creating new ones. Could I become one of the unique straws woven into the rope of this microcosm of Japanese society? Better than being the odd nail that needs to be hammered down into some conforming space.
Theoretically I was a local, but I worried about a gaijin (foreign) presence at a custom connected to a native religion. I didn’t want to upset the traditional Japanese mood of the group. A few who knew me helped to ease me into the circle. My tree trimming and sweeping skills (learned as a gardener in Tokyo) plus my own worn jikatabi, helped me blend in.
Everyone worked together, teasing and joking with each other, chatting about their lives. It was an opportunity for Japanese-style socializing. At times, however, an occasional expression on someone’s face suggested something different. My guess was people might not be there of their own free will, but their presence was obligatory. They might prefer to have been elsewhere socializing with people of their own choice, but afraid of losing face by not attending.
A young man who arrived late from his amateur baseball team practice still wearing his uniform got a dirty look.
“Mata yakyu desu ka?” (“Baseball again?”) was a subtle criticism from one of the elders.
I too had been sucked into it. Shimizu ojii-san, a grandpa I liked and who had helped me learn the village ways, had invited me, so I felt I had to go. Anyway, I thought it would be a good learning experience. I had been in Japan long enough that societal obligation had somehow gained control of me at a basic, local level. Whether the others thought they were being controlled and whether they thought it was right or wrong is not something they would ever talk about. Or if they did, they’d likely give the standard reply I didn’t care for: “Shōganai” (It can’t be helped). When I heard that, I wanted to shout, “Shōga aru!” (There might be another way, literally “There is ginger!”)
A country road near the shrine and the old farmhouse with a Meadow Garden where the author began his back-to-the-land life. (Pinhole photograph).
For many, being rewarded at the end of the day for hard work with plenty of sake and a sashimi seemed to make it all worthwhile. “This is the best work time we’ve ever had,” several men agreed, as slices of raw fish slid down their throats and they fought for the chance to fill my cup with sake.
After the go kuro sama (Cheers for the hard work!) party, one man in his joyful intoxication invited me to his place for a cup of strong green tea. Grassroots internationalization and socializing: tsukiai with a broom and a cup. By helping to weave the sacred rope, part of my life had become entwined with the community. Our level of relating and greeting each other at the store and on the local roads changed in a pleasant and subtle way. I was now at least partially on the inside. In Japanese society, especially in the countryside, this was a big step.
These days most farmers are not much interested in the possibilities of rice straw, traditional or natural. They might save the best straw for making shimenawa, the sacred shrine rope and New Year’s decorations, but after that they are happy to let me take what I want to use in my garden. The straw makes great mulch and adds bulk to the compost pile. Using it is one of my ways of honoring the gods by giving something back to the earth.
This is an excerpt from “Whisper of the Land: Visions of Japan” by Edward Levinson (Fine Line Press, 2014). Text and photos copyright Edward Levinson.
About the Author:
Edward Levinson is an American photographer specializing in pinhole photography, who has lived in Japan since 1979. He is also an essayist and poet. Timescapes Japan, his award winning photo book, was published in 2006. In addition to Whisper of the Land he has published two essay books in Japanese (Iwanami Shoten). Edward’s photographs are exhibited regularly in Japan and abroad. He lives on Chiba’s Boso Peninsula inspired by nature and his garden. Edward’s photography site is Edo Photos. For book information and orders see his book website Whisper of the Land. (Mention “Books on Asia” for a 200 yen discount).
It was the most traumatic night of my young life. A chilling experience for a thirteen-year-old girl. I’d always been a light sleeper but I knew it wasn’t the wind or an earthquake tremor that woke me in the wee hours of the morning. It must’ve been two or three o’clock. I’d sensed an intruder and my instincts rarely deceived me. I’d always been very intuitive and able to sense danger. A gift that would diminish each year as I grew older.
A sliver of moonlight was breaking through the curtains, revealing a pair of fluorescent beady red eyes in front of me. They were as bright as the azaleas in our front garden. My eyes focused a little and I could just make out someone with a thick waist and slightly wider hips. A small, chubby girl was perched on the edge of the tatami in our living room which doubled as our bedroom. She looked from side to side before she placed one hand in front of the other and inched a little closer. I sat up and leaned both hands back against the futon. Reclining my back, I didn’t want to lean forward and get anywhere near this being in front of me. I blinked twice and my eyes focused even more in the dark. The girl with the strange, brightly-coloured red eyes began to slowly but ever so surely crawl towards me little by little on all fours. Her glowing pupils lit up her face as she approached and I realised I was staring at Saki-san, a student who had moved into a street not far from our home with her family two months earlier. Her first name was Sakiko but everyone called her Saki or Saki-san. She was in the same class as me at the local junior high school but she had no female friends and she’d made it very clear with her icy demeanour that she didn’t want any. Saki had deliberately distanced herself from nearly everyone in our class except for a couple of boys who were known for skipping school and smoking cigarettes in the alley behind the local pachinko parlour. Her ears were slightly pointy, her eyebrows were pencil thin, the end of her nose was too big for her face, and her lips were barely there. Her complexion was pasty, her shoulder-length hair was limp, and she was too short and stumpy for her age, even by Japanese standards. She was from Ehime Prefecture and she spoke with a rough Shikoku accent that had made everyone giggle when she’d given a presentation about her hometown in front of the whole class in August. You could tell that life would not be kind to her and she would become frumpy and unsuccessful as the years progressed if she had no desire to change, improve her attitude, or circumstances. As Saki approached me ever so hesitantly, I wondered why she was in our bedroom but I was too afraid to talk to her. I also wondered why her eyes were so red. I’d never noticed this before. I was sure they were dark brown when I’d watched her give that presentation two weeks earlier.
Saki flicked out her tongue a couple of times and hissed. Her tongue looked sharp with a silver glint, not rounded as it should be, but I couldn’t tell for sure. She was no longer in the light and I couldn’t see her face as clearly now. She reached the end of my futon, hissed at me again and sucked in air. A shiver went up my spine like a snake slivering up the skin of my back. Her hands began pawing the comforter as if she were hungry and rummaging for food. I gasped as she yanked at the end of my duvet. I finally found the strength to reach over to my mother’s futon and shake her shoulder. She instantly sensed something was wrong. My mother knew I’d never wake her unless it was absolutely necessary. She turned her head, opened her eyes, caught sight of Saki, jumped up off the futon, and pulled at the light switch. Saki sped past us, scuttled through the kitchen and jumped onto and out of the balcony in a flash. I was amazed she could move so quickly. I did catch sight of her eyes as she passed me and I noticed they were no longer red. They’d returned to their natural flat brown colour in the artificial light.
My mother left the light on and slipped back into bed as if nothing unusual had happened.
“It’s safe now Maya-chan. Go back to sleep.”
I believed her but I watched my mother’s caring, sweet face and listened to her gentle snoring for a long time before I shut my eyes and allowed sleep to envelop me. I didn’t dream but I didn’t sleep soundly either. I was restless and tired when I woke up the following morning.
My father worked the night shift for a security firm and almost always returned home at about eight. As usual, my mother was making dinner for him when I woke up. This morning she’d made raisin toast for me and she was preparing udon noodles for my father, but this day was going to start out just as confusing and inexplicable as the night before.
“Do you remember what we saw last night, okaasan?” I asked my mother as I sat down at the kitchen table and began nibbling on my thick piece of door-stop raisin toast smeared with lashings of butter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied with her back to me as she added a packet of white noodles to a pot of boiling water.
“That girl, if she is a girl, is a new student at my school. Her name is Sakiko Chikachikito. It’s a very strange surname, don’t you think? It sounds Spanish or Italian, but not Japanese.”
“Did you say her surname is Chikachikito?”
I nodded.
“That’s it. I’ve heard enough and I’m not going to discuss this anymore. You’re not going to school today either. You’re going to put all your belongings into boxes and then you’re going to help me pack up everything else in this house. We’re moving to Tokyo today. We’ll stay with your Grandfather until we find a place of our own,” said my mother.
“Sakiko isn’t my friend but more importantly what are you talking about? When did you decide we’re moving to Tokyo? Why didn’t you tell me? Just because I’m thirteen doesn’t mean you can make decisions about my life without me. I’m old enough to know what’s going on. You’ve always said I’m very mature for my age.”
My mother ignored me. I put down my toast and glared at her. “I don’t want to move to Tokyo. All of my friends are here in Nagoya. Don’t you want to talk about what we saw last night? Is that why you want to move?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You must’ve had a bad dream. Be a good girl for your mother and help me pack up everything when you’ve finished your breakfast. I’ve already called your father at work and he’ll be home soon to help us get everything ready.”
⁂
Forty years later
On a fine Thursday afternoon in September, I was walking home in a relatively good mood from our local Marudai supermarket, thinking about how much I enjoyed living in Tokyo rather than Nagoya where I’d spent my childhood. I even had a spring in my step as I walked past the bank and the dry cleaners carrying my shopping — a packet of dried shredded cuttlefish I’d bought at a reduced price and four bottles of Kirin Ichiban beer for my husband.
As I turned the corner at the end of the street my mood dropped, my eyes opened wide in horror, and my mouth fell open. An unimaginable sight made me stop dead in my tracks at the foot of our apartment building. A young man in his twenties, a woman about the same age, and a teenage girl with multi-coloured mohawks, studded leather jackets, and ripped jeans were slowly walking up the stairs in front of me whistling a tune I didn’t recognize. He was carrying a microwave, the woman was holding a pile of blankets, and the young girl had a rice cooker in one hand and a black kitten in the other. My eyes followed their every move as I watched them turn left on the landing above me and approach the apartment next to the home my husband and I had shared for the past thirty-two years.
As soon as the punks had entered their new apartment and closed the front door, I rushed up the stairs towards my own apartment. As I reached into my bag for my keys, I felt a sharp scratch on my left leg. Looking down I saw blood running down my calf towards my shiny black patent shoe. Their black kitten must have scratched me and run away. I entered my apartment in a panic. Once inside, I leaned back against the front door, breathing heavily and unable to think clearly. A minute or two later, my breathing returned to normal. I removed my shoes, arranged them neatly on the shoe rack, stepped into our small apartment, and put my groceries in the fridge. I grabbed a tissue and began dabbing my leg. I sat down at my well-polished table and wiped away the blood but when I looked at my leg again, I couldn’t see any scratches. I glanced at the blood on the tissue and back at my leg one more time. There was nothing there. No redness and no sign of a gash. I slumped against the table with my head in my hands, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Surely, they can’t be our new neighbours. The landlord would never have allowed it and why was there blood on my leg and no mark? I had definitely felt something scratch my leg and it hurt.
⁂
When Kenichi, my husband, returned home just after eleven, I was standing still on the small balcony at the back of our apartment with my phone in my right hand, gazing to the left with my head cocked to one side deep in thought. I’d been standing outside like this for the past thirty minutes waiting to hear a sound or to see any kind of movement coming from the apartment next door.
“Tadaima (I’m home),” yelled out Kenichi from the entrance. He was tired and slightly drunk as usual and he took no notice of the fact I was standing still out on the balcony.
“Okaerinasai (Welcome home),” I yelled back. I shivered, even though it was a warm evening, and stepped back into the apartment before sliding the balcony door shut and making my way into the kitchen. Opening the door of the fridge to take out a beer for my husband I wondered if he was hungry. I snapped off the lid of the beer and poured the golden liquid into a small glass.
“What would you like for dinner?” I asked him. “I have some leftover curry in the fridge or I can make you oyakodon.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ve just eaten yakitori with the Deputy General Manager,” said Kenichi as he took off his jacket and sat down at the table. He pulled out a half empty packet of Lark cigarettes from the front pocket of his white shirt.
I sat down next to him, picked up one of his gold-plated lighters from the shelf next to me, and lit the cigarette now hanging from his lips. “There’s something important I need to ask you. Have you seen our new neighbours?”
Usually, I’d wait for him to drink a couple of beers before I’d start my daily chitchat, but I’d been constantly worrying about the punks for the past seven hours and I wanted to broach the subject as soon as possible to alleviate the pressure on my mind.
“I didn’t know we had new neighbours and no, I haven’t seen them,” replied Kenichi indifferently. It was late, he was tired, and he was never in the mood for local gossip and inconsequential conversation. All he wanted to do was drink a few more beers, have a bath and go to bed.
“Three punks have moved in. I can’t believe it — it’s outrageous!”
Kenichi set his glass down, placed his cigarette in the ashtray, raised his eyebrows, and showed a rare interest in my conversation.
“Are they real punks? Did they have mohawks and were they wearing Dr Martens boots?”
“I don’t know what type of boots they were wearing, but yes, they’re what you’d call real punks.”
“Finally, some interesting neighbours,” said Kenichi as he took another long sip of his beer and smiled. “Life has become so humdrum and boring around here lately.”
“How can you say that?” I replied, refilling his glass. “There could be all sorts of trouble – loud music – graffiti – even violence and I really like our predictable lives. I don’t need or want any drama at this stage in my life!”
“Have you forgotten I used to be a punk before you met me?”
I paused for a moment thinking about the best way to answer this question. Twisting the opal setting in my necklace and looked up at my husband, I laughed nervously. “Oh, that’s right! I’d completely forgotten about that, but if I remember correctly it was a phase you were going through that only lasted a couple of weeks.”
“More like a couple of years! You wouldn’t know this but when I’m on the train, on my way to and from work, I often listen to popular punk rock and metal bands like the GazettE on my iPhone. Have you heard of them? No, probably not!” He paused to sip his beer. I noticed his eyes had taken on a misty, nostalgic quality as he spoke to me. “Sometimes I think if I didn’t have to continue doing this boring, never-ending pharmaceutical job I could get back into the punk scene, dress like a punk, and even join a band. I was actually quite good at playing the bass guitar many years ago.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” I replied.
I took great pride in the fact we both led an orderly and conservative lifestyle. I didn’t know one person who’d say we weren’t a decent couple. I always wore the latest trends from well-known brands but nothing too lascivious. My husband owned just four very smart navy suits and a couple of polo shirts as well as two pairs of jeans for the weekend. Kenichi may have had a few garish t-shirts when I’d first met him many years ago, but nowadays he always looked plain and respectable and I was determined to keep it that way.
As I stood up and headed to the bedroom in a huff to prepare our futons for the night, my husband opened his last bottle of beer, poured it into his glass, and took a short sip as he glanced back at me with a schoolboy grin. I pulled out our comforters from the bottom shelf in the wardrobe and spread them out over the sheets covering our futons. As I fluffed up our pillows, I looked across the room again and watched my husband take out his earplugs and his iPhone. He scrolled down the screen for a few seconds before he eventually found a song he liked. He was in a world of his own as he bobbed his head up and down and tapped his hands on the kitchen table in time with the music.
⁂
I spent the next few days hoping nothing would go wrong. Everything appeared to be normal, just like every other day, until the following Monday afternoon when I nearly barged into one of the new neighbours on my way out. The teenage punk was outside on the landing playing with her kitten. It tried to scoot into our apartment when I opened our front door.
‘Hello!’ said the punk girl in English.
I shut our door quickly to block the kitten as I stepped on to the landing. I looked the girl up and down wondering why she wasn’t at school. Both sides of her head were shaved but her mohawk was very long, purple at the roots and pink on the ends. This young rebel was wearing a monochrome striped t-shirt with a red spider image splattered across the front and a pair of ripped green camouflage jeans. She had three silver studs running up the edge of each ear and she was drinking from a can of Calpis soda.
‘Are you Japanese?’ I asked her.
‘Of course, I am,” she replied, reverting back to the Japanese language.
“If you’re Japanese then you should always speak in your native tongue to a Japanese person, especially someone older than you,” I said with haughty condescension. “You would know this if you went to school on a regular basis which you obviously don’t do. You should be studying in a classroom right now rather than standing out here speaking to me in a language I barely understand.”
“I’m not feeling well so I stayed home today,” replied the little punk who looked like she had the energy to run a marathon.
“What’s your name,” I asked her. “You don’t look sick to me,”
“Kaoru Chikachikito,” she replied.
Chikachikito, Chikachikito, Chikachikito, I repeated in my mind. It was such an unusual surname but somehow it sounded familiar. Where had I heard that name before?
“I don’t want your kitten coming into our apartment,” I said, breaking from my reverie. “It has already scratched me and if it gets in our home it will scratch the tatami flooring in our bedroom and all of our nice furniture. Do you understand?”
The young punk girl picked up the kitten in one fell swoop and twirled around in front of the door of her apartment, ignoring my question. As I was about to warn her again, I caught the young girl sticking out her tongue as she spun around and around.
“Don’t you dare stick out your tongue at me. You need to grow up and start acting like an adult. Only children create such unnecessary drama.”
The punk girl turned around and peered at me with squinting eyes. She took another sip of her drink and stuck out her tongue again, this time leaving it out as she did a little jig on the landing while she waved her kitten up and down with one hand.
I stepped back in horror when I noticed this girl’s oscillating tongue was split down the middle. “Your tongue – is – forked,” I said in a shaky voice. I suddenly decided I’d abandon my trip to the local shops so I could escape this situation as quickly as possible. The weather was also looking very feisty outside. Maybe another typhoon was on its way. My shoulders were trembling as I put the key back into the lock of our front door.
“My brother and sister have forked tongues as well. We think everyone in the world should split their tongues! It’s called tongue bifurcation. Doesn’t it look super cool?”
“It certainly does not!” I replied as I finally managed to pull open the door to our apartment. I could hear the girl giggling hysterically as I stepped into our entrance way and gently but firmly shut the front door. I decided to stay inside until my husband returned home. I was hoping he could talk to the landlord about the new neighbours and he could tell them to move to another neighbourhood, maybe somewhere in Shinjuku or Shimokitazawa and a long way from Sakura-shinmachi.
I went inside, took off my shoes and ran to the other end of the apartment to take down the washing that was hanging on the blue plastic laundry octopus above the washing machine outside. I was folding one of my husband’s shirts when I looked up and realised the sky had cleared but when I gazed down at the street below, I was surprised to see all the trees lining the pavement were covered in pale pink cherry blossoms, even though it was October. Cherry blossoms aren’t in season. They only start to bloom at the end of March or the beginning of April in Tokyo and they fall from their branches after just a couple of weeks, then the season is over until the following year at the beginning of spring. I suddenly remembered what a news reader had said some time ago on television. She’d explained how strong, gusty winds can occasionally affect the leaves and the buds on cherry trees and cause the blossoms to bloom much earlier than expected. Maybe it had something to do with the three typhoons that had swept through Tokyo in September. I shut my eyes, counted to five, and opened them again. The cherry blossoms were still there. I decided to have a bath to calm my nerves.
I shut all the curtains in my home and ran the bath, making sure there was plenty of hot water. I removed my clothes in our bedroom and crossed through the kitchen naked before stepping into the bathroom. Crouching on a small pink plastic stool, I washed my hair and scrubbed myself from head to toe before I doused myself with at least ten buckets brimming with steaming hot water. Stepping into the ofuro, our square, steep-sided wooden bathtub, I knew something wasn’t right. I realised this as soon as I began lowering myself into the tub. It was easy to get in but the water was up to my shoulders and my slender frame was nearly fully immersed even though I was still standing up. There was no way I could crouch down and hug my knees like I usually did. What’s going on? I asked myself.
I pulled myself up out of the bath, afraid I’d drown in the same bathtub I’d been using every day for over twenty years if I sat down. Putting on my clothes I decided to watch the news on TV until my husband came home. After an hour of watching NHK, I started to feel like normality had been restored. The breaking news and daily analysis were full of fairly depressing stories, but nothing out of the ordinary flashed up on the screen. The surprise appearance of cherry blossoms wasn’t mentioned when they discussed the weather. They only said it was a bit windier than usual with a small chance of a shower or two in the east.
Kenichi didn’t even have time to take off his shoes when he arrived home later that night, just after eight o’clock. I was waiting for him at the entrance to our apartment with my hands on my hips.
“You need to talk to the landlord about the neighbours and if he can’t get them to move then we’ll have to move. I met one of the punks today and she has a forked tongue. They all have forked tongues. It’s not safe here anymore. You’ve heard me say in the past I’d like to live in Daikanyama so why don’t we move there?”
“Let me get inside,” said Kenichi, pushing me back with the palm of his left hand as he kicked off his shoes and placed them on the shoe rack to the right.
“So, the neighbours have forked tongues. I don’t think there’s a law against that. Did they hurt you?”
“No, but they could be dangerous,” I blurted out as I stepped back, allowing my husband to cross the threshold and pull out a chair at the kitchen table.
“You’ve been watching too many foreign movies,” said Kenichi as he sat down. “You know I used to be a punk and although they may have looked scary, I can assure you my friends and I never caused any trouble when we were young.”
“But they look so frightening with their ripped clothes, their mohawks, and their strange tongues. And I hate to say it but some strange things have started happening.’
“Strange things? Like what?” my husband asked me, raising one eyebrow.
“Don’t worry,” I replied, retreating into the bedroom. “I’m probably just tired and scared.”
“You’re reading too much into this,” my husband yelled out to me. “Some Japanese punks have set ideologies but their style is usually just a fashion statement. I know they play alternative music and they can be a bit uncouth but don’t worry, I’m pretty sure there won’t be any problems in the future. Now, come back here. Have you prepared my dinner? I’m starving.”
⁂
I tripped on the stairs three times over the following week in my rush to get in and out of our apartment building and avoid the punks. I wanted to believe my husband’s reassuring words but I still felt very nervous. When another fortnight had passed and I’d neither seen nor heard anything from the new neighbours living next door I began to relax but I still had my own reservations about them. Everything seemed to have returned to normal. I didn’t see their black kitten again, there were no cherry blossoms outside now and I avoided having a bath and showered instead.
On the last Friday in November, Kenichi called me from his cell phone just after midnight to tell me he’d missed the last train and he was going to stay at the Capsule Value Kanda hotel near Otemachi Station. I didn’t like being alone in our apartment at night, especially when I knew there was only a single wall separating me from the punks next door, but I went straight to bed after the phone call and I fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning, I had no idea what time it was when I woke up to find my husband kneeling beside me. The blackout drapes always kept the bedroom very dark and it was difficult to know exactly what time it was without sitting upright and twisting to the left to look at the clock. I rubbed my eyes and peered up at my husband but I had sleep in my eyes I and I could barely see him in the dark. “Oh good, you’re home. Is it time to get up?”
“It’s still early. Stay where you are. I’ve come to tell you I’ve just been chatting with our new neighbours. I caught the first train home this morning and when I arrived at our front door the three of them came out and invited me into their apartment about an hour ago. We’ve been drinking Whisky and playing guitars. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us.”
I could smell the liquor on his breath but I couldn’t see him properly. My eyes were still blurry. I rubbed them, trying to focus in the dark.
“You’ve been talking to the punks?” I said to him as I stretched my arms above my head, trying to wake up.
“Oh yes, they’re very nice,” replied Kenichi. He leaned forward and smiled but when he opened his mouth I reeled back under the covers, terrified. I could see his face more clearly now.
“Your eyes are bright red just like . . . oh no . . . and your tongue is forked just like those young punks next door!” I squealed.
“Yes, it is!” replied Kenichi with matter-of-fact pride. “Now, I want you to stick out your tongue.”
“No, go away!” I shrieked.
Increasingly afraid of my husband’s forked tongue with its metallic glint, I pulled the comforter up around my neck and retreated back even further away from him. I wanted to hide or escape but I couldn’t stop peeking out from under the covers and staring into my husband’s unusually kind and strangely hypnotic red eyes.
“No one else can see you. Go on, stick out your tongue,” encouraged Kenichi. He tenderly placed his hand behind my left shoulder, drawing me towards him.
I poked out my tongue just a little and Kenichi leaned forward bit by bit, slowly edging his face towards me. I was still clinging on to the top of the comforter with white-knuckled fear when his tongue swiftly slithered towards me and slipped straight into my mouth. I felt Kenichi’s forked tongue scissor my tongue down the middle and split it in half. I felt no pain. In fact, I was almost euphoric. ‘What have you done?’ I asked.
“I’ve just given you a forked tongue and right now I think you look absolutely beautiful,” he said as he gently laid my head back down on the pillow.
“Hontou ni? (Really?)” I whispered. I smiled meekly as I felt my cheeks turn pink. It had been a long time since my husband had paid me a compliment.
“Is this a dream?” I asked as I pulled back the comforter and made room for my husband to slide in beside me.
He sidled up to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me towards him.
“Do you think you’re dreaming?” he asked me.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” I replied, caressing his face and his lips. As our tongues became entwined, my heart melted and a passion burned inside me like I’d never experienced before. We were no longer two, we were one.
___________
About the Author:
Renae Lucas-Hall is an Australian-born British novelist and writer at Cherry Blossom Stories. She grew up in Melbourne but has been living in the UK for the past 15 years. She completed a B.A. in Japanese language and culture at Monash University and an Advanced Diploma in Business Marketing at RMIT University. Renae taught English in Tokyo for several years and continued to teach English part-time to the wives and children of Japanese expats when she returned to Melbourne. She also worked for several Japanese companies in Australia. Renae now lives in Gloucestershire in the UK with her British husband and their Siberian husky.
*The title, “Stick Out Your Tongue in Secret” is adapted from the Japanese proverb: 内緒で舌を出す (Naishō de Shita wo Dasu)
“Stick Out Your Tongue in Secret” is entirely a work of fiction. This short story was written to pay homage to Haruki Murakami and the genre of magical realism. It is not fanfiction and it was not written to plagiarise Murakami’s writing in any way or form. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this story are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
This short story is copyright to Renae Lucas-Hall and Books on Asia in 2019. This story has been published subject to the conditions that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be sold or circulated without the author’s or publisher’s prior consent in any form.
A trend has developed over the past few years whenever there’s a discussion on Haruki Murakami or a review of his latest book. Murakami is a prolific writer, novelist, and translator who has written over 25 books. Millions of people have enjoyed his stories but whenever he releases a new novel the tall poppy syndrome comes into play and he tends to receive copious criticism. Since its release in 2018, Killing Commendatore has been the subject of quite a few unfavorable reviews. It didn’t help when this epic novel was banned at the Hong Kong Book Fair last year. Hongkongers must be over 18 to buy the book there and every copy has to have the cover hidden under wrapping and a warning sticker. Obviously, this 681-page multi-volume tome is getting a bad rap so it was time for me to plunge down the proverbial rabbit hole and decide for myself whether the book deserves such negative criticism.
The narrator of the story is a portrait painter who has recently split up with his wife who no longer wants to be with him. His friend Masahiko Amada offers him a place to live on a mountain near Odawara. This house is owned by his father, the famous artist Tomohiko Amada, who is now senile and living full-time in a care home. The painter is commissioned by a millionaire called Mr. Menshiki, who is living nearby, to paint his portrait but he soon discovers Menshiki has underlying motives. Menshiki wants the painter to help him get to know another neighbor who is also the painter’s student, the 13-year-old girl Mariye Akikawa. Menshiki believes she could be his daughter so he has purposefully bought his mansion on the same mountain to keep an eye on her.
Kindle US cover
As the story progresses, the narrator finds a bell in a pit behind a neighbourhood shrine. He also finds a violent painting in the attic with the title Killing Commendatore based on a scene from Mozart’s opera, Don Giovanni. These discoveries open a circle of bizarre events, and several characters from the painting come to life, so the narrator must find a way to restore normality. A two-foot apparition appears first and calls himself the Commendatore, the physical manifestation of an Idea. This little fellow becomes a kind of mentor. Later in the story, another character from the painting, the bearded Long face, appears and leads the narrator down through a portal into the Land of Metaphor where the narrator must close the mysterious circle and use all his strength and courage to save himself and Mariye as well.
Keep in mind that Murakami translated The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald into Japanese in 2013. He loved the book so much he pays homage to Gatsby in Killing Commendatore, but Menshiki’s character is nowhere near as dashing and sophisticated as the Gatsby we studied in high school. Having finished the book, I can see why some people are less than enthusiastic about Killing Commendatore. If Murakami’s Menshiki more closely resembled the stylish Robert Redford who appeared as Jay Gatsby in the film version in 1974, this book would appeal to more readers.
In fact, Menshiki comes across as creepy. His obsessive-compulsive qualities, his stark white colorless hair, his strange views on life and death, the fact he uses NATO-issue military binoculars to spy on Mariye, the wardrobe in his millionaire home that is full of his ex-lover’s clothes, and the way he just wants to breathe the same air as Mariye made me feel uncomfortable as a female reader and wary of this character.
Paperback, Amazon Japan
It’s difficult to understand why Killing Commendatore was banned from the book fair in Hong Kong. The sex scenes are fairly brief and not too nasty (although one of the narrator’s sexual dreams was a bit graphic but also far-fetched so it was difficult to take it seriously). The situation between Menshiki and 13-year-old Mariye Akikawa seems very unnatural but their relationship is purely platonic. Mariye seems obsessed with her body and the onset of puberty but other authors have written far worse about this awkward stage of adolescence. The reason for the ban may have more to do with the fact the 1937 Nanjing Massacre was mentioned, an event in which at least 100,000 Chinese soldiers and civilians were murdered and/or raped by the Japanese. Or, the ban may simply have been enforced because Haruki Murakami sent a supportive message to Hong Kong’s pro-democratic protestors during a huge protest in 2014 and this was China showing their disapproval, flexing their power, and warning Murakami to stay in his lane.
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Norwegian Wood, the book that made Murakami a worldwide literary superstar, is extremely popular with twenty-something readers because of the way it deals with death and grief in such a heartwarming, nostalgic and intelligent way. Fans of this novel will be disappointed if they’re expecting the same from Killing Commendatore.
Murakami is best known for his interpretation of magical realism and his extremely popular books Kafka on the Shore and A Wild Sheep Chase are great examples. The Land of the Metaphor in Killing Commendatore provides a unique way of expressing a world that seems like a dream but isn’t a dream. The magical realism in this instance lacks the highly imaginative ingenuity I’ve come to expect from this author. Murakami might be the master of creating worlds that blur fantasy into reality but this land really failed to impress me. Critics expect more these days so he’ll have to pull out all the stops next time around, especially if he wants to win a Nobel Prize. These are the only faults I can find in the book and that’s the extent of my negative criticism.
On the other hand, there were so many wonderful reasons to love Killing Commendatore. There are plenty of Murakami-esque themes to discuss at length. The symbolism is very profound, the similes are a delight to read, and the narrator provides a terrific amount of insight into Murakami’s writing style and how he feels about his work as a creative genius.
Powerful, recurring themes and symbolically charged objects, animals and motifs really make this a typical and very wonderful Murakami creation. Nostalgia, grief and death are always in the background but issues such as morality, confinement, resolution, as well as purpose and strength of character are themes that will make Harukists—the die-hard fans of Murakami—squeal with delight. Time and the way it expands and contracts, and the fact our perceptions change over time are also subjects explored throughout the book. The focus on art and war, relationships, marriage and divorce are other issues that make this story relatable to nearly everyone who reads it.
Thoughts on Themes and Symbolism
Love and loneliness are deeply linked to nostalgia in Killing Commendatore. For the narrator it’s how he feels about his wife Yuzu, for Menshiki it’s Mariye’s mother, and for Tomohiko Amada it’s his girlfriend who was brutally executed by the Nazis.
Cover, Amazon Audiobook
I’ve always been intrigued by the food and drink Murakami includes in his books. Although his characters live in Japan, they eat a lot of Western food. Thousands of international restaurants, cafes, fast food outlets and patisseries have opened in Tokyo and other parts of Japan over the past 30 years. These days, Japanese people are eating more Western food than ever before but traditional Japanese food has and always will be very popular. The narrator in Killing Commendatore likes to cook fairly simple meals. He’s partial to a home-made ham sandwich and a tossed salad. When he stops at a road-side restaurant he opts for shrimp curry. He pre-prepares dinners so they’ll last a few days like macaroni mixed with broiled sausage and cabbage. He also thoroughly enjoyed the fine French food served at Menshiki’s home.
When Murakami writes about Western food, readers outside Japan don’t feel so alienated. His references to non-Japanese fare are also a very real reflection of how the Western influence is infiltrating Japanese culture as well as the way Japan is allowing Western lifestyles to blend into their everyday lives.
Cover, Amazon Audiobook
I love Japanese food so it was also refreshing to see the narrator enjoying some Japanese dishes. On one occasion, he visits a noodle shop in Odawara for tempura soba. At home, he prepared broiled yellowtail marinated in sake lees, deep-fried tofu, a cucumber and seaweed salad with vinegar, and miso soup. He also delighted in the sashimi Menshiki prepared at his home. This combination of food cultures allows for international appeal.
Let’s take a look at Murakami’s narrator, the portrait painter. He’s a typical Murakami character. He’s a man in his mid-thirties. Kind and respectful, he’s a mentor for young people, and committed to his artwork. Although a very giving person, he’s also a little naïve. Straight-laced, conservative, and a people-pleaser, he can be easily manipulated by others who have stronger and more persuasive personalities. Disappointed his wife wanted to break up with him but not particularly angry with her, he internalizes this pain. He also suffers from claustrophobia, a weakness integral to the plot.
As time goes by, the narrator in Tomohiko Amada’s home becomes more susceptible to the old man’s neurotic personality and his mind opens up to some strange and bizarre happenings. By this stage, the narrator’s grounded personality and seemingly normal disposition combined with his sensitive nature allow for the introduction of extraordinary and outlandish circumstances that appear perfectly plausible to the reader. Murakami goes into great detail about this narrator’s attitudes to life and his art so you start to see a correlation between the painter and the author. Could this narrator and Murakami share similar characteristics? Was Murakami asking himself the following questions as he wrote this book?
“As I gazed at my reflection I wondered, Where am I headed? Before that, though, the question was Where have I come to? Where is this place? No, before that even I needed to ask, Who the hell am I?”
“As I stared at myself in the mirror, I thought about what it would be like to paint my own portrait. Say I were to try, what sort of self would I end up painting? Would I be able to find even a shred of affection for myself? Would I be able to discover even one thing shining within me?” (pp.23-24)
Menshiki’s compliment below could just as easily be applied to Murakami’s style of writing, explaining why he’s so popular all over the world:
“There’s something about your paintings that strikes the viewer’s heart from an unexpected angle. At first they seem like ordinary, typical portraits, but if you look carefully you see something hidden inside them.” (p. 84)
Murakami has said in interviews that he writes what he wants to write. He may have written Norwegian Wood to break into the mainstream world of publishing and gain worldwide literary credibility, but his books full of magical realism seem to be written just as much for his own personal pleasure as ours. Whether you like Killing Commendatore or not, without a doubt, Murakami must have enjoyed writing it.
“What I wanted now was to paint what I wanted to paint, the way I wanted to paint it (something Menshiki wanted as well). I could think about the next step later on. I was simply following ideas that sprang up naturally inside me, with no plan or goal. Like a child, not watching his step, chasing some unusual butterfly fluttering across a field.” (p 178)
“What I’d created was, at heart, a painting I’d done for my own sake.” (p. 191)
Murakami is one of those writers who clearly wants to get under your skin. He wants you to think deeply about the book and feel really connected to its characters. The narrator has the same intentions in Killing Commendatore as a portrait painter:
“I had to find what was hidden beneath the surface. What underlay her personality—what allowed it to subsist.” (p. 407)
Some people have said this story finishes with too many loose ends but I completely disagree. I thought everything tied together beautifully at the end of the book but Murakami is well known for leaving details unsettled. In Killing Commendatore, the narrator deliberately leaves two of his artworks unfinished: the painting titled The Man with the White Subaru Forester and his portrait of Mariye Akikawa. A concrete reason is not given for either decision.
Another of Murakami’s books Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage finishes abruptly and leaves the reader with all sorts of questions at the end of the novel. This state of leaving a creative piece unfinished is typical of Murakami. He wants his readers to find their own answers to his riddles.
“Paintings are strange things: as they near the end they acquire their own will, their own viewpoint, even their own powers of speech. They tell the artist when they are done (at least that’s the way it works for me).”
“But the artist knows. He or she can hear the painting say, Hands off, I’m done. The artist has only to heed that voice.”
“So it was with The Pit in the Woods. At a certain point, it announced itself finished and refused my brush. Like a sexually satisfied woman.” (p. 475)
Western music is a common theme in Murakami’s novels. In fact, Haruki Murakami owned a jazz bar called Peter Cat (named after a beloved pet) in the 1970s in Tokyo. He worked through the night for many years here and this is where he wrote his first novel, Hear the Wind Sing. Murakami loves the rhythm and groove associated with jazz music and he has said in interviews he tries to emulate this flow and tempo in his writing. There are several references to Western music in Killing Commendatore. The narrator enjoys listening to old jazz like Thelonious Monk. He also likes classical music and mentions Mendelssohn’s Octet by I Musici and popular singers from the Seventies and Eighties like Bruce Springsteen, Roberta Flack, Sheryl Crow and Donny Hathaway.
I have my own interpretation of certain themes and symbolism in Killing Commendatore. The bell the narrator finds in the pit represents claustrophobia and confinement. The pit represents darkness. Crows appear here and there throughout the entire book to signify the passing of time. The narrator is always aware of the rain or if it has been raining. Rain becomes a symbol of reality and life. The hornets that killed Mariye’s mother represent death. Mariye’s cat is a symbol of comfort for her. Walls are physically and metaphysically present within the story and represent the shackles of our existence. This story teaches us to recognize those walls that subjugate us so we can free ourselves from them and lead more exciting and satisfying lives.
“When you’re locked up alone in a cramped, dark place, the most frightening thing isn’t death. The most terrifying thought is that I might have to live here forever. Once you think that, the terror makes it hard to breathe. The walls close in on you and the delusion grabs you that you’re going to be crushed. In order to survive, a person has to overcome that fear.” (p. 271)
The narrator must overcome his fears in order to save himself and his student Mariye. His trip to the Land of Metaphor gives him the opportunity to strengthen his mind as well as his character and realize his true direction in life.
Drawings of an owl, as well as complete and incomplete ensō circles, are on the cover and the final pages of the book. Owls represent wisdom and magic in Western culture and good fortune in Japan. In the story, an owl flies in and out of the attic and the narrator values its presence.
When you’ve finished reading the book, you’ll inevitably go back to read the first chapter so in this way you’ll have come full circle. This is a very clever technique most readers will appreciate. The ensō circle in Japan can represent universality, strength, simplicity, beauty, nothingness, or everything.
In Zen Buddhism, painting the ensō circle is a discipline to free the mind of all emotions and help you reach a form of enlightenment. Murakami may be using his craft to achieve a sense of self-realization but at the same time, he has either deliberately or inadvertently provided a self-portrait of his own literary landscape for all of us to enjoy.
From the Fatherland, With Love by Ryū Murakami (Transl. Ralph McCarthy, Charles De Wolf, Ginny Tapley Takemori)
(Pushkin Press, 2013)
Reviewed by Andrew Douglas Sokulski
From the Fatherland, With Love is an exhilarating, poetic, tearful, shocking, thrilling, and intensely realistic novel that focuses on what could occur if a force from North Korea were to invade Japan. At over 600 pages, the book provides immense detail on every aspect of both the North Korean and Japanese sides, while conveying the complexity of the associations between humanity, loyalty, individuality and community.
Ryū Murakami chooses not to portray North Korean as a heartless, vicious people, but as people who have been put through painful training and who carry severe, harsh experiences from their past.
From a simple story about a man’s relationship with a boomerang, to stories of characters who struggle with family or the staleness of society, the author detects a ray of brightness shining through each character’s individual and shared life experiences. Despite the caustic differences between major character groups, there also lie intimate similarities. Murakami does a stellar job at conveying to the reader that at the end of all discussions or disputes, greetings and partings, we are, at the most foundational level, all part of humanity.
Murakami writes with a captivating prose that clearly links each small story with another to create a magnificently beautiful entirety. From time to time, his exhilarating poetic sense not only rhymes powerful points together, but at intervals, matches one’s own heart beat. As the reader’s eyes follow the words he or she can feel the beauty and excitement: a wondrous tension of both clarity and shock.
In one stand-out scene is a Korean officer decides to pull his gun on himself rather than be captured. Murakami writes: “With a groan he reached toward his chest, looking for the button on the pocket. He found it and wrapped the thread around his index finger. He was about to pull it, when a strange image floated up in his mind. It was of the dog inside the gate at the house of the felon Maezono. A black dog with shiny fur and an elegant, slender face, its legs and body sleek and supple. Why was he thinking of it now? Such a beautiful animal. Choi pulled on the thread with all his might.”
Murakami elaborates how a small group of Koreans took over the entire city of Fukuoka with such finesse, they were deemed impossible to usurp. The Japanese government, despite working long hours and ruminating tirelessly over strategies, could not come up with a successful plan to retake the city.
Known as a writer who supports underground, under-represented aspects of society, Murakami proves again that those given the least amount of spotlight know best the strengths and weaknesses of others.
“From The Fatherland, With Love” is a lovely, intimate read that both broadens and deepens the reader’s perspective on the different classes, sectors and levels of society that divide our world. Read an excerpt!
An exclusive Books on Asia interview with Jane Lawson
Before we start our interview with Jane, I want to give a little background on my first encounter with her Tokyo Style Guide: Eat, Sleep, Shop. I was traveling in Australia with my husband and we stopped in one of those typical little Aussie country towns where cars are parked at angles to the sidewalk on the main drag and people are pushing coins into meters. We parked, fed the meter the proper coinage and wandered into the local bookstore (as you do). It was a tiny store crowded with people. I always go to the Travel shelf first, to see what they have on Japan and there were scant few books (like, three!). One was Tokyo Style Guide.
The first thing that struck me was how beautifully bound the book is. The cover is embossed, and reminds me of Japanese washi paper. The photo art was very appealing. Upon opening the book, I was taken by the quality of the paper, which while thick, didn’t contribute to the weight of the 319-page guide, designed to be light and compact enough to carry in a handbag. My first thought was: A lot of love that went into making this book!
Books on Asia: Once I opened the book and started reading, I was entranced by the writing. I even called my husband over from the other side of the bookstore and said, “Take a look at this!” Being a bit of a stickler for Japanese manners myself, it was rewarding to see your first paragraph on what to wear while visiting Japan:
“You’ll quickly notice that the Japanese are rather snappy dressers and, even at their most relaxed, almost always immaculately groomed. So, when you plan your travel wardrobe, bear that in mind in order to feel less self-conscious.”
This paragraph alone showed me how well you know Japan and that you yourself take some responsibility of being a tourist here. You’re telling your reader right away that we’re stepping into a special place, so please take note!
Jane Lawson: I’ve been living in or travelling around Japan for 35 years and, as you know, the more you know about this fascinating country – the less you know… its layers are deep. Sometimes it’s hard to pull out the basics and pare them back for sharing with first-timers but I felt there was core information required for visitors in accessing the best of Tokyo – and a big part of that is respecting cultural nuances.
BOA: How much of a part of this creative process were you? Did you have any input on the design or cover? Or is Tokyo Style Guide part of a series of such guidebooks of cities around the world?
Jane: The book is part of a ‘loose’ series but they all have their own personalities. For Tokyo I wanted to break away a little from earlier titles because what translates well for one city doesn’t necessarily work for the next and I felt Tokyo needed to be really user friendly, as a city this busy can be overwhelming. So I broke it into chapters around areas I like to focus on and designed them as structured but flexible walks. I shot the book while I was researching and plotting out the routes so they are a visual aid as well as an embellishment to the text. I worked closely with the designer to ensure the images gave readers a true ‘feeling’ for each area. The maps look simple but we worked painstakingly on them to make sure they were easy to understand.
BOA: Let’s talk about your “Suggested Walks,” which I really loved. The maps are charmingly simple and easy to understand and you offer a bit of nature and Japanese culture along the way; places for people to take a time-out after ducking in and out of myriad shops all day. You even recommended a cemetery! I love that.
Jane: I designed the walks so readers could get the most out of each area in a balanced way—spending time in a garden or visiting a gorgeous temple, admiring traditional buildings, viewing spectacular art in locations as they naturally fall along each walking route which includes fabulous shopping and excellent coffee, bar and dining options. If you’re in the middle of a walk and you don’t know where to find a toilet or stop for caffeine or a bite to eat it can ruin the flow and send you on a wild goose chase. I’ve included all the sorts of things I would if I was actually guiding the reader around for the day.
BOA: So, how did you discover Japan?
Jane: I became quickly fascinated during Japanese language and culture classes at high school and at age 15, I visited Japan for the first time with my family. I was completely smitten. Tokyo was mind-blowing even back then! After high school I started working for a Japan Airlines travel subsidiary in Sydney—Jalpak—with mainly Japanese co-workers and excellent staff travel discounts which fed my obsession!
BOA: At some point in your book, you come right out and say that this guide is not for otaku, like gamers, cosplayers and maid cafe dwellers. And I noticed there was only a little bit of kawaii, hardly any Hello Kitty.
Jane: I certainly don’t want to alienate anyone but the series is aimed at those who fancy their travel or holidays with a good dose of style, design, beautiful scenery, culture, comfort, great food, coffee, shopping and insider secrets.
BOA: Let’s just do a sampling here of these ‘insider secrets.’ A little quiz, if you like. Ready?
What part of Tokyo would you go to buy wax food models?
Jane: Kappabashi, aka ‘kitchen town,’ very close to Sensōji (or Asakusa Kannon Temple)! It’s great to explore both of them while you are in the Asakusa area.
How about vintage children’s books?
Jane: There’s a gorgeous little place in Koenji called Ehonya Rusubanbansuru Kaisha – it’s a mouthful but worth seeking out for beautifully illustrated pages with a bit of history.
How about Japanese cooking knives?
Jane: Kappabashi (has several knife specialty stores) but you can also purchase them at Japanese department stores and there’s a good shop in Tokyo Midtown that beautifully displays all kinds of stunning cutting implements for the home.
What if one should have a hankering for natural Japanese cosmetics made with green tea, konyaku starch, and yuzu?
Jane: Oh, in gorgeous Kagurazaka—the atmospheric sloping streets and cobbled laneways of this area, not far from Shinjuku, make this one of my favourite places to wander alone in Tokyo. This previous samurai entertainment quarter still boasts a couple of geisha houses and plenty of traditional stores. Makanai Kosume (cosmetics) is one of them.
BOA: You also recommend some dining precincts tourists rarely get to see, and certain department store gourmet basement dining where one can get the real deal to take back and eat in the hotel room.
Jane: Food is an important part of travel experiences as it can offer you great insight into the culture. Sure I recommend a few flash restaurants for those wanting to have a special night out, but it’s the local joints specialising in a specific dish or styles of Japanese food, where the locals eat, that can bring unexpected joy – and a way to make friends! I really wanted to make sure I included a wide range of eateries so that folks could try a bit of everything along the way and feel like they’d truly tasted Tokyo. It’s probably not obvious to readers but a lot of thought went into what landed on the pages food and drink wise. Of course some nights you just need a break from being out and about. Fortunately, Tokyo’s department store food halls or depachika are out of this world!
The choice of fresh, flavoursome and often healthy dishes is stunning and of course there’s amazingly decadent desserts, chocolate and even ice creams which are secured and surrounded with dry ice packages so they’re still in pristine condition when you get ‘home’.
BOA: When you were talking about one of the museums of Japanese arts and crafts, where to find second hand kimonos, natural dyed fabrics and even festival wear, I couldn’t help but think of Kyoto. I had no idea you could find all that in Tokyo. That said, we hope you’ll be putting out a Kyoto Style Guide…
I so appreciate your support and am keeping my fingers there will be a Kyoto Style Guide (or similar) one day!
BOA: What else do you have in store for your readers? What tours would you recommend for lovers of Tokyo Style Guide?
Jane: Well…. I’m a bit biased but if people dig my Tokyo Style Guide I think they’d really enjoy my tours. Zenbu Tours are high-end but we stay in wonderful accommodations, eat amazing food and work hard behind the scenes to ensure each tour is unique, fun, fascinating and delicious! There’s a real focus on the Japanese aesthetic: design, architecture, art, beautiful spaces, places and presentation. We spend time with local experts in everything from ceramics to textiles, from tea ceremony to markets, and zen meditation to cuisine like shojin ryori and kaiseki. Of course they’ll just have to come along to find out exactly what they are! 😉
I really hope Books on Asia readers enjoy Tokyo Style Guide —and tell them not to be shy —I love getting little reports from people who are in situ. Tokyo is a place you could keep exploring until the end of days; this book is really just a start and I hope provides encouragement for folks to keep returning!
About the Author:
Also by Jane Lawson
After many years working as a chef in Sydney, Jane Lawson moved into publishing, combining her love of travel, cooking and books. She is the author of Snowflakes and Schnapps, Spice Market, Grub, Yoshoku, A Little Taste of Japan, Cocina Nueva, Zenbu Zen and 2016’s Milkbar Memories. She is also the co-author of BBQ Food for Friends, which won a Gourmand World Cookbook Award in 2003. Jane has been traveling around Japan for over thirty years. She runs independent tours to Japan on a regular basis, guiding her clients to the best that the country has to offer, from culture to fashion, food and lifestyle. Her particular area of interest is Japanese cuisine. Visit zenbutours.com for more information.
Author Barry Lancet chats with podcast host Amy Chavez about Lancet’s popular thriller series (Japantown, Tokyo Kill, Pacific Burn, and The Spy Across the Table) based on the exploits of Jim Brody, an antiques dealer who travels between Japan, Asia and the U.S.
When you’ve finished reading the book, you’ll inevitably go back to read the first chapter so in this way you’ll have come full circle. This is a very clever technique most readers will appreciate. The ensō circle in Japan can represent universality, strength, simplicity, beauty, nothingness, or everything.
