In Kanazawa, David Joiner delivers a slow-burning family drama reminiscent of a film by Yasujirō Ozu or Hirokazu Koreeda. This is a modern tale that, like its protagonist, keeps one foot in the past. It tells the story of Emmitt, an ex-pat, who is seeking a connection with Japan’s history and tradition. He loves the city of Kanazawa with its history and traditions intact, and he dreams of settling into a machiya, a traditional home that represents Japan’s past as well as Emmitt’s idea of his future.
While Emmitt looks to the past, his wife Mirai is more inclined toward Tokyo, where her sister is accomplishing her dreams and where Mirai hopes to recapture her own missed opportunities. For Emmitt, Tokyo represents the opposite of what he seeks. The disparity in their needs and how they seek to resolve it is at the heart of the story.
When we first meet Emmitt and Mirai, they are living an uneventful existence with the protagonist’s in-laws in a not-so-new but modern home. While Emmitt and Mirai are navigating their plans for their future, his in-laws are having a similar marital tug of war over their past. Slowly the older couples’ history bubbles to the surface and needs to be addressed. Climbing Mount Hakusan becomes an imperative for the father-in-law and we come to learn it is connected to his secret. The mountain journey is where the narrative unravels and is the catalyst for the characters to start untangling their problems.
This is a domestic drama about family units, about homes (especially modern versus traditional), and about the cities that house these homes, particularly Kanazawa, Tokyo and Shiramine. Each family member is tackling at least one issue, but each is handling it in their own quiet way. This does not mean there isn’t conflict, but the conflict is muted since all four characters care deeply for one another and are navigating their issues while carefully avoiding hurting others.
At the heart of the story is Emmitt’s search for purpose. He leaves his teaching job without lining up another position so he can find his way. When asked how he feels about the risk he has taken, he responds, “I want to branch out into something new, where I can test myself in a way I never have before. I don’t mean just a new livelihood, which is part of it, but a new way of living. … Everyone needs a sense of purpose. I had none until I quit. Risking that was no risk at all.” (pp161-162)
He finds his way via Izumi Kyōka’s literature and Kyōka’s city of Kanazawa, both of which have the power to stir within him a longing for the past. Kyōka (1873-1939) had an aversion to contemporary society of his time and Emmitt also looks to the past for meaning and purpose.
Joiner adds a layer of reading pleasure by intertwining key aspects of Kyōka’s works into his own narrative. Even I, who was only able to access a couple of Kyōka’s stories, could enjoy the homage.
Emmitt commits to the challenging project of translating Kyōka and discovers an unexpected sense of fulfillment. “The idea that writing could be sacred made Emmitt approach translating with a deeper sense of purpose. More importantly, working with Kyōka’s writing helped Emmitt feel he was evoking the past, even keeping it alive. And in doing this he realized he was finding a place for himself.” (p184) I see this reflected in Joiner’s writing as well, where he treats language as sacred and uses it with delicacy and respect.
Emmitt is trying to absorb the culture, history and literary legacy of Kanazawa. He has the benefit of the eyes of an outsider. The Japanese culture is fascinating, beautiful and long, and for a non-native, the possibilities of investigation are endless. For a life-long learner such as Emmitt, this is ideal. In the end, Emmitt concludes that he finally discovered where he stands in relation to the past. This is what he had been seeking.
Kanazawa is a gentle tale. It is not chaotic and swelling with noise or action. Each scene is quietly painted and, even in distress, holds some comfort. There is no big conflict upon which the story turns, rather, there are a series of important decisions with consequences and after each one, the characters reshuffle and readjust to the new normal. The Japanese narrative structure of Kishōtenketsu is easily recognized here by the subtle shifts and the slow evolution rather than a destructive conflict.
This book is a reminder that there is meaning in our day to day existence. Literature of this sort encourages us to see the beauty of our mundane lives and to embrace our daily routines. Alex Kerr refers to Kanazawa as a “graceful novel of a graceful city” and indeed, it is just that.
Joiner has expressed his hopes that Kyōka’s readership spreads, that his work will not disappear. I for one, have had my interest piqued. I intend to visit Kanazawa and Shiramine. I want to read more Kyōka. And isn’t that what any author wants? To have readers think, and learn and investigate as a result of their art?
Setouchi Jakuchō—energetic nun, outspoken activist, and prolific author—passed away last month at the age of 99. Spending nearly half her life as a Buddhist nun of the Tendai sect, Jakuchō charmed the Japanese public with her television and public speaking appearances. Prior to 1973, the year she went forth into monastic life and took the Dharma name Jakuchō, she was Setouchi Harumi, a prize-winning author as well as a biographer of Japanese feminist pioneers such as novelist Tamura Toshiko. How did Harumi become Jakuchō? That is the question she sets out to answer in Places (University of Hawaii Press, Oct 2021), translated by author Liza Dalby, who counts herself as one of Setouchi’s many fans.
Places could be said to be just the beginning of an autobiography. Setouchi originally published the book in Japanese in 2001, at the age of 79. Yet she is only interested in showing us vignettes from the first 51 years of her life, entirely skipping the twenty-eight years of her experience as a nun. This tale is about the journey, rather than the destination. And though it is autobiographical, decades-old memories are enhanced by Setouchi’s venerated literary skill. Setouchi herself writes, “plausible-sounding lies are the stock-in-trade of a novelist.” Not wanting to doubt the veracity of our narrator, I favour Dalby’s assessment: “All autobiographies are fiction; all fiction is autobiographical.”
Places weaves a story with two entangled strands: the personal relationships of Setouchi Harumi, and her development into a successful novelist. The former had much influence on the latter, as Setouchi is known for her “I novels” involving intimate details and straight forward descriptions of sex that some critics at the time branded “pornography.”
I have to admit that the number of my love affairs is nothing like what has been rumored and whispered, but it isn’t limited either to what I have written about in my novels. —Setouchi
As the title of the book indicates, the twin threads of Setouchi’s early life are framed by revisiting places that represent significant milestones of her career or life. Liza Dalby explains Setouchi’s intention “to summon memories from the physical traces of that former time.” This delightful premise turns the book into more than a mere autobiography. We are treated to slices of daily life in rural Japan, as well as Kyoto and Tokyo, during the immediate post-war and high growth period of the 1960s. In her Endnotes, Dalby provides additional context on each location for non-Japanese readers.
Readers familiar with twentieth century Japanese literary history will be delighted by a string of celebrity cameos woven throughout the book: Shinsho Fumiko, Niwa Fumio, Mishima Yukio just to name a few. Dazai Osamu’s suicide casts a shadow over a middle section of the book, just as Setouchi is entering the elite community of Japan’s literati. One place featured is an apartment building Setouchi lived in. The tall building overlooks the New Edogawa Park in Tokyo, with a clear view of Mount Fuji, suggesting her career is reaching new heights. Other resident authors included Hirabayashi Taiko, Enchi Fumiko, and Setouchi’s hero Tanizaki Junichiro himself. She dotes:
If there was nobody in the hallway, I would sometimes touch his door with my forehead, or rub my palm on it, whispering, “May I share your good fortune.”
Each chapter follows a basic pattern. First a location from Setouchi Harumi’s past is introduced with rich, historical detail:
My recollection of the tactile sensation of my mother’s breast, velvety soft in its smoothness, is always accompanied by sound-the echo of the steamship whistle as the boats departed the wharf at Nakazu Harbor, not far from our house. That heart rending sound, ripping the night, came rushing up from the wharf straight to our bedside.
With the scene set, Setouchi spins a tale of dramatic events. She had much drama in her early years—divorcing young, leaving her child, living in poverty, having multiple affairs (sometimes simultaneously)—as she built up her independence. Such experiences are why so many people, especially women, sought out Jakuchō’s counsel. Unlike relationship advice from other monastics unable to speak from direct experience due to their vows, it is well known that Setouchi went through the highest highs and lowest lows. She speaks from both wisdom and experience.
After relating an illustrative vignette of her life and musing on the significance, each chapter draws down with a visit to the location in the present day. Setouchi, by now a Buddhist nun in her late seventies, regards the location and its elicited memories from a new perspective of experience and wisdom. The chapter then takes on a new dimension becoming a parable of impermanence.
I have experienced the height of pleasure in sexual love, but in the end it never fulfilled a spiritual need.
Setouchi Harumi’s path to Buddhism was not straightforward. From an early age a relation from Kobe dubbed “Amen Aunty” would “read the Bible to my sister and me, and enthusiastically teach us hymns.” She attended Sunday School. Late in the book, describing her nervous breakdown, a desperate Setouchi telephones her friend Endo Shūsaku, asking his advice on how to be baptized. Yet during Bible study she comes to the realization that having been raised Buddhist, “Intellectually and culturally, it was hard to extricate myself from that.”
Most readers picking up Places will be familiar with the smiling visage of Jakuchō, the “unlikely nun”, dressed in her robes. Such a radiant image indicates the book is not merely a story of Setouchi the writer achieving fame despite the odds. It is also about Setouchi the nun showing us the workings of the “monkey mind” and how she was finally able to tame it. Places is a braid of success stories: female independence, authorial achievement, and a mind taken to the brink of suicide, and back. Setouchi Jakuchō ends the book expressing her desire to wander, to leave the material world behind, which she achieved as a nun for the last 46 years of her life—until a very impressive age of 99. May she rest in peace.
Heaven by Mieko Kawakami (translated by Sam Bett and David Boyd) is a heartbreaking, yet uplifting story of two outcasts who find and protect each other through a horrible year of school bullying.
The narrator is targeted because he has a lazy eye. His classmates call him “Eyes,” and the reader knows no other name for him. Kojima is bullied for her lack of hygiene. They bond over their common experience and learn to understand each other and themselves better through the process. They find comfort in exchanging notes and in the handful of times they meet in person.
The story is told from the boy’s perspective but is propelled by the girl. Kojima initiates the notes, arranges the meetings and she plays life coach to them both. This story demonstrates how social interaction is a necessary component for self-understanding. Neither has had sufficient positive social interaction, so that their new relationship is revelatory for them. Their missives become long and meandering. They evolve into a means for them to delve into their own feelings. The few meetings they can safely maneuver develop into the same kind of emotional exploration.
The boy gives in to his role as a victim. Kojima, on the other hand, does not see the two of them as victims. She pities the bullies who are stuck in their ways, not knowing what they are doing, not having any real motivation, and blindly following others. Kojima sees her pain and sadness as having a purpose.
“But it isn’t meaningless. When it’s all over, we’ll reach a place, somewhere or something we could never reach without having gone through everything we’ve gone through. Know what I mean?”
Kawakami manages to place us squarely in the heads of these adolescents. Reader beware, your empathy will be stretched to its limits by the scenes of bullying, but the poignancy of the relationship between the two main characters is too beautiful to miss.
The translation is rendered masterfully by Sam Bett and David Boyd. They were able to achieve the difficult task of capturing the language of young teenagers for a readership in different cultures and make it believable.
In an era when we may be dropping our defenses around bullying, having implemented so many programs to address this scourge, do we believe, perhaps, that we have done all that we can do? Have we become complacent? Heaven is a harsh reminder that the suffering has not stopped. Although the subject may seem worn out, Kawakami manages to make it new. These children have unique attitudes towards their plight, and the author manages to include enough humor and heart to make the reader believe in some hope, without resolving the story in a neat bow. With Heaven, Mieko Kawakami has proven once again that she can produce a social critique while remaining entertaining.
Set at a pivotal point after the turmoil of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Liu Xinwu’s tale weaves together a rich tapestry of characters, intertwined lives, and stories within stories.
An Excerpt from The Wedding Party, by Liu Xinwu, translated by Jeremy Tiang (Amazon Crossing, Nov 16, 2021)
To many adults, the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution feels like it happened just yesterday. Ten years of turmoil put a sudden stop to many developments that had been well underway. When the chaos was over and people tried to pick up the threads of the past as they righted themselves, they had no choice but to treat the last decade as a blank, as if time had frozen in the summer of 1966 and thawed in the fall of ’76. For the last few years, newspapers have been referring to writers in their late thirties, or even those pushing fifty, as “young authors.” Most people, including the writers themselves, feel they deserve to have ten years deducted from their actual age.
But what about those born just as the Cultural Revolution was kicking off? Aged sixteen in 1982, they’ve lived through infancy, childhood, and their teenage years, and are now about to enter young adulthood. They’ve been quietly growing up.
One of them is now walking north along Drum Tower Street.
His name is Yao Xiangdong—“Xiangdong” as in “facing Dong,” meaning Mao Zedong. Many people his age have “Dong” in their names: “defending Dong,” “establishing Dong,” “praising Dong,” and so on. (Names referencing more controversial individuals, such as Weibiao—“protecting Lin Biao”—or Xueqing—“learning from Jiang Qing”—were swiftly changed after their namesakes’ fall from grace.) In kindergarten, their minders sang lullabies about “defeating turncoats, traitors, and thieves of work.” Toward the end of elementary school, their teachers told the story of Grandpa Liu Shaoqi’s great achievements. During the time of “open-door schools,” they took part in activities to “further the journey of Socialism and block the road of capitalism,” and the teachers raised their awareness by screening the Maoist film Pine Ridge and calling a session afterward for them to denounce the character Qian Guang’s selfish, corrupt behavior. When they were about to graduate from middle school, the national obsession with grades was at its height, and in order to help get them into a good high school, the teachers worked on their writing abilities by screening Dawn of New Hopes and getting them to write critiques of the extreme leftists violently trampling the reasonable hopes of country folk. Society told them love and money were shameful, but now love is everywhere, and households with more than ten thousand yuan are lauded, sending a signal that having more money is glorious. At this young age, having barely experienced anything, central nervous systems still not fully developed, they had to deal with these enormous, constant dramatic reversals. What psychiatric problems and mindsets did they develop as a result?
Anyway, Yao Xiangdong is idly walking north along the street, hands in the pockets of his pale-yellow padded windbreaker.
He’s just been kicked out of his home. The reason? That pale-yellow windbreaker.
Yao Xiangdong’s father is a former army man; in the late 1960s, he switched to being a security guard at a district-level government department. He’s always been very strict with Xiangdong. Ever since Xiangdong was four or five, his father’s been filling his brain with the notion that he should join the army as soon as he’s old enough. Xiangdong’s mother is a typist and naturally also hopes her son will grow up quick and become a soldier. When he was a kid, she sewed him a little uniform in army green, complete with red trim on the collar, and of course a tiny soldier’s cap adorned with an authentic five-pointed red star—his dad asked an old army buddy to take it off his own cap. Until he was ten or so, Xiangdong’s heart brimmed with a sense of superiority, pride, and confidence. “My dad was in the People’s Liberation Army, and I’m going to join up when I’m grown! My dad has so many old army buddies. If I live to be grown, he just needs to say a word to them, and I can enlist!”
When Xiangdong was in first grade, he was on his way home from school when he saw a ruffian stealing someone’s hat. A high school student was walking down the sidewalk when out of nowhere a guy on a bicycle sped past, reached out, and grabbed his army-green cap. The high-schooler yelled after him, but the guy turned into an alleyway and was gone. This exhilarating scene left Xiangdong feeling the hat thief was very cool and made him treasure army-green objects even more.
When he was in fourth grade, society began changing all around him. Street thugs no longer stole army-green caps, and high school students gradually abandoned the fashion of dressing in army uniforms or caps. At some point, everyone had started wearing blue: blue shirts, blue trousers, and snow-white sports shoes—the very definition of stylish. In the winter, there was a fad for leather jackets—or “pleather,” if they couldn’t get hold of the real thing—and round woolen hats with ear flaps. Ruffians started stealing these woolen hats. The next winter, wool was out and shearling hats were in, so of course the thieves switched targets yet again. Fashions kept evolving, and now, the winter of 1982, windbreakers are the latest thing. No one aspires to join the army anymore. Anyone whose grades aren’t completely hopeless wants to go to college. Those like Xiangdong, who didn’t get into a key high school after he failed to get into a key middle school, those whose grades are going from bad to worse, are clearly not going to get into college, but they no longer dream of being soldiers either. They end up sitting at home waiting to get a job, their minds in a fog, with nothing to hold on to.
Xiangdong’s parents haven’t relaxed their strict discipline. His father despairs of the boy’s poor grades and frequently rages at him, or worse, takes off a slipper and whacks Xiangdong. Inevitably, it takes his mom weeping, screaming, and holding him back before he’ll stop. This lesson never takes hold, partly because he’s teaching it all wrong, and partly because he doesn’t understand this swiftly changing society himself, nor can he cope with it. He has a bellyful of torments and anxieties, which makes him say strange things in front of his son, although his son isn’t allowed to talk back. When his son asks a question he can’t answer, he takes his rage and confusion out on the boy. The theories he’s spouting to his son have grown more and more abstract and out of date. That’s the main reason Xiangdong is becoming harder to raise. He’s learned to be a phony and only shows his parents what they want to see.
Although Xiangdong is not at a so-called key school, his teachers still work fairly hard. On one hand, they put a great deal of energy into supporting the few students who’re actually interested in learning, helping them navigate the choppy seas of academe to surpass all expectations and get into college, thus vindicating themselves and bringing glory to the school, which may then be able to get coveted “key” status if it’s able to produce enough such success stories. On the other hand, they try to keep “backward” students such as Xiangdong under control, so they don’t cause too much disruption during school hours or get arrested after class. Education has never been a panacea, though, and perhaps these educators are a little too harsh in disciplining Xiangdong. He’s learned to lie to them too.
Today, just before lunch, Xiangdong’s mom noticed her son’s windbreaker wasn’t the acrylic one she’d bought him, but a padded cotton one—though the color and style were similar. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Swapped with a classmate,” he said nonchalantly.
“How could you do that?” she lectured. “That’s padded cotton, it must have cost half as much again as yours. If you ruin it, how will you pay your friend back? Isn’t your acrylic one just as warm? Why do you need to be so fashionable?”
Xiangdong’s father happened to walk into the room just then. Overhearing, he glanced at the windbreaker and flew into a rage. Xiangdong had already owned a padded jacket, made out of his father’s old army coat. After wearing this over his blue duds for a while, he began clamoring for a new one. “Who’s still wearing ragged old jackets like this?” he’d wheedled. “All my classmates have windbreakers!” His father had held his temper. It’s certainly true that kids go around in windbreakers these days—it seems their parents have money to burn. Some even buy their children genuine leather coats. The Yaos are probably among the poorest of the parents—they both work for meager wages with no side jobs, and send their parents money each month. Xiangdong’s elder sister graduated from teaching college and now works at a kindergarten. She isn’t a Party member yet, so she only earns enough to support herself. Given their financial situation, when Xiangdong pestered his parents for a windbreaker, the best his mom could manage was an acrylic one. Rather than being content with that, he’s now somehow managed to acquire a classmate’s more expensive garment. Will he never be satisfied?
Seeing his useless son slouching around in a borrowed windbreaker, Xiangdong’s father hollered, “You shameless boy! Take that off at once!”
His mom hurried over and tried to soothe her husband. “Your blood pressure! No need to get worked up, let’s talk this over, nice and calm.” Then, to Xiangdong, “Tell your father you know what you did was wrong. After lunch, go find your friend and swap back. You hear me?”
Feeling like he had his mom’s protection, Xiangdong sat fearlessly at the table and said, “What’s the big deal? All we did was swap clothes.” With that, he picked up his chopsticks.
This enraged his dad beyond measure. Stamping his foot, he declared, “Don’t touch that food! This house has no room for someone like you. Get out of here right now!”
Xiangdong stood, shrugged, and walked out the door, ignoring his parents’ screams.
He wandered eastward to the Shicha Seas and squeezed into a crowded pavilion—a few local residents often gather here to sing Beijing opera. Naturally, Xiangdong isn’t actually interested in opera, he just enjoys making fun of how stupid the musicians and performers look. Next, he went to the Front Sea, currently frozen over, and menacingly “borrowed” a pair of ice skates from another guy his age. After some skating, he suddenly felt ferociously hungry, and that’s how he ended up on the wide avenue leading to the Drum Tower.
About the Author
Liu Xinwu was born on June 4, 1942, in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China, and has lived in Beijing since 1950. His short story “The Class Teacher” appeared in People’s Literature magazine in November 1977 and is regarded as the first instance of China’s “scar literature” genre. Liu’s other stories include “I Love Every Green Leaf,” “Black Walls,” “White Teeth,” and “The Wish.” His novellas include Overpass and Little Dunzi. The Wedding Party, was the winner of the Mao Dun Literature Prize.
About the Translator
Jeremy Tiang has translated novels by Yan Ge, Zhang Yueran, Yeng Pway Ngon, Chan Ho-Kei, Li Er, Lo Yi-Chin, and Geling Yan. He also writes and translates plays. His novel State of Emergency won the Singapore Literature Prize in 2018. Tiang is also the author of a short story collection, It Never Rains on National Day. He lives in New York City. Visit is website www.jeremytiang.com.
In Where the Wild Ladies Are (translated by Polly Barton) author Aoko Matsuda serves up eerie but uplifting feminist ghost stories. Each narrative has an original rakugo story, folk legend or kabuki play as its inspiration. The collection is enjoyable even without knowledge of the original stories, although luckily the US edition has a full appendix detailing the original tales. Unfortunately, the UK edition does not.
As the stories unfold, we slowly learn that Matsuda’s fierce and daring women are ghosts, each with a special skill or power. Matsuda challenges the tradition of the angry female spirit and shows us another side of her. This contemporary ghost is strong, but also independent, uninhibited and often upbeat. Matsuda gives these women a backstory so that their ghostliness and actions are understood in context, and any negativity associated with their behavior can be understood. They move through the world interacting with both the living and the dead. Death frees them, and as spirits they have more agency than they had alive.
Matsuda uses their stories as commentary on the gender disparity in Japanese culture, on the beauty standards imposed upon women, and on the unreasonable lengths women go through to live up to those standards.
A woman whose story, “Smartening Up,” opens at a depilatory salon, learns to transform into a hairy monster when she finally rejects the societal imposition that light-colored hair or no hair is more desirable. In a later story, we learn in passing that she has become more assertive and confident.
In “Quite a Catch,” a woman fishes a skeleton out of the river and later finds herself visited by the ghost of the skeleton. She bathes her visitor each night and they become lovers. She revels in how perfect the arrangement is, but also remembers how inflexible living with her boyfriend had been. In that relationship, she had stopped being herself and had become more concerned about gauging his needs and moods. This is one of the many instances in this book where women are rescued by other women.
In “Having a Blast” we are privy to a marriage from the perspective of both the husband and wife after death. First the husband confesses.
I don’t have any exceptional talents. After my death, I came to see that very clearly. It made me wonder what on earth I’d been playing at while I was still alive. People treated me well because I was a man – they treated me the way that men are treated. (p.218)
But the wife reminisces in a different way.
…I did go through a proper grieving period…But at some point I realized that it was actually easier being alone. It also meant a lot less housework. (p.223)
One of my favorites is “What She Can Do,” about a babysitting ghost. The mother has no support system in her family or community since she is faulted for leaving her bad marriage and selfishly “prioritizing her own needs.” The mother is forced to leave her child alone in order to go to work. The maternal ghost in this story slowly insinuates herself in the life of this single mother. A little at a time, so that the mother can get acclimated, she secretly cares for the child and cleans the house. Eventually, the mother comes to understand that her child is being cared for while she is away.
The main character in “A Fox’s Life” has a vulpine look and spent her early years following the most traditional route in her life choices. She never tried to outshine the men in her life even though she was brighter and more capable. She refused to further her education, took jobs catering to men, and looked the other way at their untoward advances. Later in life, as an empty-nester, she falls off a cliff and discovers upon landing that she is indeed a fox with all the freedom that affords. She realizes that she had been betraying herself, and embraces her newfound liberty.
The interlinkage of stories makes the collection feel much like a novel with a larger narrative arc and some revealed secrets. At first, it is not obvious that the stories are connected. Eventually, the layers peel away so that secondary, even tertiary characters in one story become the center of another. Once this pattern is noted, it adds an additional layer of pleasure as the reader searches for connections.
Japanese culture is known for the great paradox of embracing modernity while still respecting and partaking in the traditional culture. This is evident in Matsuda’s collection, where familiar ghosts are treated as commonplace. They are neither surprising nor frightening as they comfortably situate themselves in the modern world. By the end, you may decide that living with ghosts might be pleasant, and you may find yourself wishing to share your life with some, particularly such modern and relatable specters.
In this episode of the Books on Asia Podcast, sponsored by Stone Bridge Press, host Amy Chavez talks with Kathleen Burkinshaw in the U.S. about her book The Last Cherry Blossom, and about hibakusha, the Japanese word that refers to victims of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that ended WWII.
The rapid modernization of Japan after the Meiji Restoration is often expressed in kilometres of railway laid down, or number of telegraph lines strung up. But there was also a spiritual revolution happening: Japanese Buddhism in the Meiji Period (1868-1912) was in crisis. Changing laws revoked state privileges for Buddhist institutions and prioritized a new “national Shintō,” which disrupted the delicate balance between Buddhism and Shinto that had evolved over a millennium and a half. Soon a ban on Christianity—instated in 1637 and which provided the genesis for Japan’s policy to cut itself off from the West—was lifted, and Christian missionaries were once again able to grow their flock in Japan. Elites looking to modernize were filled with their own secular zeal. Crisis for some was opportunity for others.
Buddhism and Modernity: Sources from Nineteenth-Century Japan, (U. of Hawaii Press, Oct. 2021) edited by Orion Klautau and Hans Martin Krämer, gives us insight into how some prominent Buddhist thinkers of the era analyzed, criticized, and sometimes justified the momentous transformation underway. The book contains essays and excerpts from 1856 to 1912, divided into five interlocking sections representing some of the major challenges for Japanese Buddhism during its modernization including: the religion’s role in nation-building, sectarian reform, science and philosophy, social reform, and the relationship between Japan and Asia.
Buddhism and Modernity is a snapshot of influential Buddhist voices during the nineteenth century, but also offers analysis from leading English-language scholars of Japanese religion in the twenty-first century. Each chapter contains an introduction where the translator provides key information for the reader to understand the context of the essay. Chapters range across topics from clerical marriage, women’s education, ardent critiques of Christianity, to proposals on how to organize Buddhists. Although each introduces a new perspective, common themes thread them together. Often we see the Buddhist intellectual elite struggling to adopt some parts of modernity while rejecting others.
This collection provides an excellent counterbalance to the popular English-language writings of the era from famous monks such as Shaku Soyen—who introduced Zen to the United States through translations by his student DT Suzuki. Such texts tended to tailor Buddhism to Protestant Christian sensibilities. This is in contrast to the writings in Buddhism and Modernity which were written for Japanese audiences: politicians, Buddhist scholars and the wider public.
With the threat of Christian proselytism constantly looming, and Japan’s national goal of re-entering the international community, the story of Japanese Buddhist modernism is an international one. However, the book keeps its focus on the domestic story of building the new nation of Japan.
In the final section on Japan and Asia, the international outlook of some Japanese Buddhist priests are highlighted, including Ogurusu Kōchō, the first known Buddhist priest to travel to China in the modern period. In 1873 Ogurusu instigated “a plan to protect the Dharma” involving a team-up between India, China, and Japan to rise up against the imperialist West. However, as translator Erik Schicketanz notes “Anti-colonial solidarities could transform rather easily into ideological support for imperialism,” an attitude particularly palpable in Shaku Sōen’s essay, “The Japanese People’s Spirit.” In this essay, Sōen sites a “questionable rhetoric used by a Zen priest within the context of Japanese expansion into East Asia.”
Kawaguchi Ekai’s legendary trip to Tibet in 1903 can be seen in a clearer light thanks to the final chapter of the book which carefully translates the “Characteristics of the Three Races” section of Kawaguchi’s famous travelogue. Reading his descriptions of the Tibetans, Khampas, and Mongolians in his own words reveals that his commentary was not merely “lowbrow” but racist, an aspect obscured in the English-language edition of 1909 by the particularly euphemism-driven British translators of the time. How these writers and intellectuals of the time conveyed their thoughts in their own language gives us a peek behind the curtain and is what makes this source book so valuable to scholars who may be unable to read older forms of the Japanese language.
It is argued that translated works should be valued much more in academia than they currently are. I certainly agree with that argument, as translations unlock primary sources for the wider scholarly community. I would also extend the argument to include periodically returning to primary sources with a modern, more critical eye—another of this book’s contributions to the field.
A thirteen-part journey through contemporary Japan taking in themes as disparate as mental illness, Buddhism, the human drive for validation, workplace harassment, cults, tourist pollution, and the consequences of the COVID-19 pandemic.
“First Book” is a column where we ask first-time authors what inspired them to write their debut book, novel or translation.
Books on Asia: What’s your book’s “elevator pitch?”
Andrew Innes: The Short Story Collective is a thirteen-part journey through contemporary Japan with the odd stop along the way to visit both the past and the future. Taking in themes as disparate as mental illness, Buddhism, the human drive for validation, workplace harassment, cults, tourist pollution, and the consequences of the pandemic, amongst others.
BOA: You live in Himeji, right? and what made you decide to write about Himeji?
Innes: Yes, but the book isn’t only about Himeji. There are references to Osaka, Kyoto, Awaji Island, Ikuno and the little known village of Tada. The public bath in the story “When in Rome” is based on my favourite sento (public bath) in Kyoto, and the opening scene in “The Gaijin Parade” was inspired by a real hot spring deep in the heart of Shikoku.
BOA: Can you explain the title The Short Story Collective?
Innes: The book title comes from the lead story of the same name. The `collective` is a group of six writers who get together once a week and take turns to tell each other their latest offering. The group’s youngest member heads into the countryside of Ikuno for some inspiration and encounters a drunken salamander who tells him the most beautiful story he has ever heard. The story is so sublime that it brings grown men to tears and will make the young writer a god of the literary world. The only condition is that the story not pass beyond the boundaries of the river from whence he heard it. When he breaks his promise to the salamander, he befalls a surreal fate that cuts short his newfound fame.
BOA: What makes it stand out from other books of the short-story genre?
Innes: I have come across books and articles that discuss the aspects that my book deals with, such as hikikomori, cancel culture, workplace harassment, cults, discrimination, stereotypes, tourist pollution, Buddhism, and the consequences of the pandemic for young people, amongst others. I have also read books that describe the experiences of foreigners living in Japan. The one thing I think these books and articles have in common, however, is that they are often journalistic or biographical in style. With my book I believe the merging of fiction and fact is what makes it interesting.
BOA: How did you get into writing?
Innes: A friend and colleague recommended a teaching journal called The Font that accepts short stories on teaching in a foreign country. I submitted a story, had it accepted, and a year or two later, I was offered the job of editor of the actual journal and felt inspired to keep writing. I always like to have a project to keep me busy, and decided that I’d compile the stories I’d already written and set a goal of writing a total of ten set around the backdrop of Japan. Ten became thirteen, which seemed like an interesting number to settle on given the dark nature of some of the content.
BOA: Did you have any setbacks when writing the book?
Innes: Character representation was something constantly running through my mind. Identity politics is at the forefront of so many discussions these days, and I was very conscious of trying not to tread on any toes. Should this character be male or female? What nationality should this character be? So some of the minor characters don’t have any gender assigned to them.
About the Author:
Andrew Innes grew up near Manchester, England and moved to the castle city of Himeji, Japan, in 2002, where he now works at three universities teaching speaking and writing skills and editing the online journal, The Font. He holds degrees in psychology, and applied linguistics.
The Short Story Collective is currently only available in e-book form and will be released Nov. 20, 2021. Read an extract from book, “The Rotten Mikan” as it appears in The Font. or pre-order a copy of the book from the “Where to Buy” link at the top of the page.
Hiroaki Sato reveals how the radical brevity of the haiku genre contains worlds within worlds. This is a book to cherish, and which nurtures in return.
For the last five decades, Hiroaki Sato has been an eminent translator of Japanese poetry, translating over three dozen books into English, including a just-published anthology of haiku written by victims of the 2011 tsunami and earthquake. Born in Taiwan in 1942, his family moved to Kyushu after the war, and he studied at Doshisha University in Kyoto before moving to the US in 1968, basing himself in New York City. His landmark anthology From the Country of Eight Islands (1981), coedited with Burton Watson, has been an inspiration to many. I still vividly remember camping in the Olympic Mountains in Washington State, reading these poems in an alpine meadow amid melting snow, entranced, as if remembering past lives. Looking up, poems drifted in the endless sky.
New Directions released Sato’s On Haiku (2018), a collection of nineteen essays, some previously published in obscure journals or given in presentations. It has many strengths. Simply as a cornucopia of haiku, often from writers unknown in the West, it is a treasure. Each Japanese haiku is given in kanji, a transliteration into romaji, and Sato’s rendition, using monolinear form. Rather than tailor the original text to an English-speaking audience, his instinct is to trust the literal image with its myriad connotations, then provide illuminating commentary on the linguistic and cultural nuances. An accomplished poet himself, Sato speaks from the inside, giving a hand’s-on perspective. His explication of individual haiku is never dryly academic, but delightfully discursive, opening the poems in a way that touches our daily lives.
The essays cover a wide range of topics, from the roots of haiku in the Edo period as a hokku, “opening verse” in sequential renga, “linked verse” composed collaboratively in a guest-host relationship, to contemporary gendai, experimental forms which subvert the rules. Along the way, separate sections consider haiku and Zen; a close analysis of a single renga with thirty-six segments, ‘The Sea Darkens’, led by Matsuo Basho in a 1684 session with local participants; parallels between Issa and Hokusai in their use of perspective; military haiku; ‘From Wooden Clogs to the Swimsuit: Women in Haikai and Haiku’, spanning two centuries; and introductions to the work of many 20th-century Japanese haijin (haiku writers), particularly women.
‘Haiku and Zen: Association and Dissociation’ examines the contentious issue concerning the extent to which haiku is infused with Zen. Drawing on ancient Chinese Chan koans, it is a comprehensive survey that includes Basho’s famous frog, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, American Zen and Japanese practitioners such as Kōi Nagata who, Sato points out, modelled some of his haiku upon the life and work of the medieval monk, Master Ikkyū:
Gaikotsu ga namaeau aki mo nagori kana
Skeletons licking each other as autumn lingers
Two essays packed with historical detail track haiku during Japan’s war with China, followed by the Asia-Pacific conflicts. Shinzunojo Takeshita, a teacher and librarian, writes in 1937 about her son:
Yuku ako ni getsumei no nasu mugi kashigu
For my child going to war I pick and cook moonlit eggplants
Hiroshi Shimomura, a doctor, in the aftermath of the Nagasaki blast:
Enten no mukuro o hakobu jinkaisha
Carrying cadavers under burning sky a garbage cart
One of the strongest dimensions of Sato’s book is its introduction to the work of many twentieth century women haijin. ‘From Wooden Clogs to the Swimsuit: Women in Haikai and Haiku’ spans four centuries. Chiyojo Kaga, a contemporary of Bashō, writes about the loss of her child:
Tombo-tsuri kyō wa koko mada itta yara
Dragon-catcher, how far has he gone today?
Takao Hashimoto in 1937, nursing her husband who died that autumn:
Shi ni chikaki mo ni yori tsuki no teru o iinu
Up close to his face near death I said the moon’s shining
A decade later, she still misses him deeply:
Yuki hageshi dakarete iki no tsumarishi koto
Snow fierce how hugged I was breathless
The essay ‘Haiku Poet Called a Hooker’ focuses on Shizuko Suzuki, who lived with an African American soldier after WWII and abruptly disappeared, probably of suicide, leaving over 7,000 unabashedly sensual haiku dealing with taboo topics including prostitution, drug addiction and abortion:
Suki no mono wa ruri bara ame eki yubi shunrai
What I like crystal roses rains stations fingers spring thunder
‘In the Cancer Ward’ introduces Chimako Tada, a respected translator. She took up haiku only when diagnosed with cervical cancer, as a form of therapy encouraged by her daughter. After her death in 2003, one hundred and sixty of her haiku were published. Some two dozen are included in the book.
Natsuyase ya sukoshi fuetaru shi no omomi
Summer-thin: a little gaining the weight of death
and,
Kusa no se o noritsugu kaze no yukue kana
Riding from one blade of grass to another the wind goes where
On Haiku is filled with such jagged beauty. Throughout, what Sato calls his “meandering discourse” is wonderfully erudite, playful and profound. It ends with two poignant personal essays, ‘Receiving a Falconer’s Haibun’ and ‘Through the Looking Glass’, admitting the problematic relationship of translator to text, which invariably results in a variant of failure–each failure precious, a facet or shard of the original which itself engages in the same process. Again and again, Sato reveals how the radical brevity of the haiku genre contains worlds within worlds. This is a book to cherish, which nurtures in return.
