Miyazawa Kenji: Selections - Kenji Miyazawa

Rating: ★★★

13/04/17

I said, “The evening sun the color of ancient gold,”
and your eyes reproach me:
Why seize on despicable gold
to compare to this solemn evening sun?

The family of Kenji Miyazawa (1896-1933) practiced Pure Land Buddhism, a prominent branch of Mahayana Buddhism. In 1915, the poet shook the foundations of their relative’s faith when he decided to convert to Nichiren Buddhism, another branch. Such conversion was prompted by the Lotus Sūtra – a deep influence on his poetry, which brims with Buddhist terms without actually delving into essential notions. I had to return to some texts since I had forgotten some concepts.

My rating is based on my inability to relate to most of Miyazawa’s poems. Perhaps their complexity exceeded my understanding and a clear image turned into labyrinthine symbolism. But I did find some enjoyment. Some of his poems are imbued with the serene expressions of nature, with the sense of a challenging yet reachable enlightenment. With the verifiable elements of science, the volatile human nature, and religion trying to build bridges between them.

Other poems are infused with the monochromatic presence of death. Miyazawa's verse was deeply affected by the demise of his younger sister, Toshi, on November 27, 1922. That same day, he wrote three poems. With that loneliness you must make music. Always.

This collection of somewhat disjointed thoughts started with an excerpt of a poem called "Mr. Pamirs the Scholar Takes a Walk." I marveled at the juxtaposition of simple yet sophisticated visuals which express an ideal version of ourselves. A faithful portrait of the chasm between a sublime sight and a worldly kingdom, transient by definition. Someone subscribing to such values is a rare treasure. The rest is just noise.

* Photo credit: Kuon-ji, temple founded by Nichiren, a Japanese Buddhist priest, in 1281 / via Panoramio

Patriotism - Yukio Mishima, Geoffrey W. Sargent (Translator)

Rating: ★★★

02/02/17

On -isms

It seems that I had some issues with this novella. And the reasons, as usual, are completely personal and thus, irrelevant to your reading experience.

Beyond tradition, beliefs, fear and indignation at the imminent prospect of Imperial troops attacking Imperial troops, I can't find a story breathtakingly infused with romanticism. I can't relate to the concept of patriotism. To a sort of world citizen, the attachment to a portion of land is somewhat feeble. Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire, says Lord Byron in his Letters and Journals; something about this made me think of that quote. My connections (abstractions to which I aspire, at least) are with people, not with theories involving nationality, and I'm against any kind of generalization that such notion engenders. Certain values and beliefs, the religion I was raised in – the first origin, a matter of geography. I still can’t feel pride for the doings of chance or let's say even fate, juggling with the concept of a plan designed by someone else.

The degeneration of patriotism is a debate for another time, so I will refrain from expanding on nationalism and such, a reality that it is being forced on many of us, now more than ever.

In any case, patriotism might be foreign language. I dislike most terms which end in the suffix -ism that don't involve my favorite writers.

On licking blades and finding it remotely erotic

Another issue – the real theme in this novella – which prevented me from greatly enjoying this story was the excessive fascination for the concept of death, the morbid enchantment by the blade which was juxtaposed to a sense of beauty and sensuality; elements that when combined, I usually fail to identify with. The leitmotifs of this story, and of its creator’s life. I watched a part of a documentary a couple of days ago where the narrator explained how Mishima’s last actions in the form of a coup might have been, above all, an excuse to achieve the aesthetic death he always dreamed of. The last artistic manifestation of will.

It struck him as incredible that, amidst this terrible agony, things which could be seen could still be seen, and existing things existed still.

On writing

A brief yet tough read. Despite the lack of connection between the story and me, the beauty of Mishima's prose remained intact. I’m more and more impressed by the care with which he described the remarkable, the inconsequential, by means of his contemplative and delectable writing. The scenes of love between husband and wife were beautifully portrayed. Regardless of my thoughts on the subject, with the precision of a surgeon, the author associated the concepts of patriotism and death with a sense of eroticism, until they were one single reality. The beauty of skin. The brutality of blood. The rite of love and death.

I failed again.

Thus, so far from seeing any inconsistency or conflict between the urges of his flesh and the sincerity of his patriotism, the lieutenant was even able to regard the two as parts of the same thing.

On myths

The red string bringing these characters together.¹ At one point, one is honestly thinking how the sublimity of love actually feels, the act of giving oneself fully. Unreservedly. Sharing perspectives on life. Breathing somebody else’s air. Thinking about words to express feelings. Voicing those words. Not knowing what to do at the thought of the absence of such words. Following the fate of those words. And then, the fear. He who gives himself up like a prisoner of war must give up his weapons as well.² And deprived of any defense, not convinced by the fusion of words, voices and individuality, the fracture of self, the fear of loss, the constant feeling of being another one’s burden, one stops thinking about it, until the next day. I imagine it might be simpler to make decisions when people return their gaze and silence is no longer a wall.

On random thoughts

This novella became even more vivid once I watched Yūkoku, a 1966 short film “produced, directed, acted and written by Yukio Mishima.” I watched it at night. A sleepless night. The night the bell jar broke.³

With regard to Mishima’s works, nothing is ever certain. This is the third book I read by him – apart from two short stories. Fortunately, I don’t know what to expect, but I already look forward to the wonders of the second volume of his tetralogy. I long for another deep contemplation of my reactions to every one of his words.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
1. Allusion to a review of Anna Karenina
2. Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Part Three: Words Misunderstood
3. I wrote this the same night I wrote something about The Bell Jar
4. Oh, who's going to read this far.

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World - Haruki Murakami

Rating: ★★★★★

26/09/16

And I couldn't be any other self but my self. Could I?

There is always a possibility.

In the summer of 1962, a poet wrote a song that would later become the last hymn to be heard as the

end of the world approached. That is the song I chose to be my companion while writing another non-review; a song that is being followed closely by the mellifluous gusts of wind that break the silence of this monochromatic night.

Being my first Murakami, quite frankly, I didn't know what to expect. This is, without a doubt, one of the most original novels I have read this year. And I can't only ascribe this notion to the creativity of the plot, since the variations of the language used to illustrate it were another element that left me quite impressed.

I felt disconnected. Converting numbers in my brain was my only connection to the world. Most of my free time I chose to spend alone, reading old novels, watching old Hollywood movies on video, drinking. I had no need for a newspaper.

For a moment, I walked out of the comfort zone provided by classics and plunged into the world of more contemporary expressions in which I still feel like a slightly awkward guest. Murakami's writing stirred my senses from beginning to end. It did justice to the concept that was always hovering over this story: the duality of things around us, the dichotomies within ourselves. For this is a book that includes two different worlds that may or may not coalesce into one single reality someday. The first world is “Hard-Boiled Wonderland”, where I found a peculiar voice; a somewhat stark, unvarnished writing. Words that tried to conceal the tiniest trace of emotional connection, congenitally unable to do otherwise. Detached words probably under the influence of an old pledge to keep distance from the world as a desperate attempt to protect themselves, to prevent their fragile system from blowing to smithereens. Words uttered by a narrator who was able to drink gallons of alcohol and then face inconceivably difficult situations and the most disgusting creatures ever, while thinking about sex on every given situation but still capable of disclosing colorful beads of a philosophical nature, which he tried to camouflage with waves of indifference, or rather fear wearing the translucent robes of indifference.

Who remembers stars? Come to think of it, had I even looked up at the sky recently? Had the stars been wiped out of the sky three months ago, I wouldn't have known... My world foreshortened, flattening into a credit card. Seen head on, things seemed merely skewed, but from the side the view was virtually meaningless—a one-dimensional wafer. Everything about me may have been crammed in there, but it was only plastic. Indecipherable except to some machine.

The second world is, ironically enough, “The End of the World”, where Murakami's writing acquires a more expressive tone with which places and people are vividly portrayed. There, a narrator depicts a seemingly perfect world echoing an ancient nirvana, an empty world, a tempting world; descriptions that also convey one significant distinction: everything might be happening now. Only living will remain. Undisturbed, peaceful living.

Facts unfold following the familiar cadences of a foreign narrative and I – stunned, in deep thought, marveled at how every piece falls into the right place, slowly, cautiously, with desperate detachment and stoic passion until the puzzle is almost complete – contemplate once more how life bifurcates and reveals two realities intrinsically different and yet strongly connected: one belongs to the actual world and the other to the realm of the mind. Everything might be connected in this world surrounded by walls . But then again, perhaps everything is an illusion, nothing is connected and we are truly alone. Hopefully, that too could be another figment of one's imagination.

You tell me there is no fighting or hatred or desire in the Town. That is a beautiful dream, and I do want your happiness. But the absence of fighting or hatred or desire also means the opposites do not exist either.

Despite the differences that perhaps exist only in the mind of this inexperienced reader, both forms of writing converge eventually. That is what made me change my opinion, since four solid stars became a glimmering 5-star rating after reaching to a certain point amid the distinctive ebb and flow of this novel. From that moment on – a moment which I will keep to myself, hoping you find yours – an unbridled desire to know more took over my body and I couldn't put this book down until it was over. Shortly after, I realized the mistake I had made, since I wasn't prepared for the billows of emotions that were about to sweep away every vestige of a former calm. (Not many are able to resist the allurements of the literary anxiety.)

That's the way with the mind. Nothing is ever equal. Like a river, as it flows, the course changes with the terrain.

After stepping in the middle of seven sad forests, and being out in front of a dozen dead oceans, questions began to haunt me, relentlessly, until some invaded my whole being and there one still lingers, for I haven't found any word willing to form a decent answer.

Here, in the palm of my hand, I have the story of a man facing an impending fate, remembering distant errors that will never be mend, old lyrics and classic scenes, the discrepancies between desire and reality, between who we are and who we would like to be; the little we say, the echoes of regret through the mountains of things unsaid; the departure from a world with the aftertaste of nothingness to enter one resembling everything. Despair, disillusionment, hell, reality; himself. Love, fear – love. Multiple shades of existence encapsulated in twenty-four hours. A woman, a song, the park under the sun. Some limited happiness had been granted this limited life. One last peal of a winter bell. The sounds of the end of the world.

Could I have given happiness to anyone else?

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads. 

Snow and sun via wallhere.com

No Longer Human - Osamu Dazai, Donald Keene (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★

28/08/16

LXXXV

They say that “time assuages”,—

Time never did assuage;

An actual suffering strengthens,

As sinews do, with age.

Time is a test of trouble,

But not a remedy.

If such it prove, it prove too

There was no malady.

Emily Dickinson, Part Four: Time and Eternity, The Complete Poems

*

Everything passes. (169)

A gentle breeze brushes the branches of luxuriant trees brimming with cherry blossoms which surround the quaint park bench I chose as my reading spot. A diaphanous cloud softly attached to the sun creates the sensation of being part of a watercolor painting bound to become the antithesis of an actual winter day. Away from the bustle of an anonymous city, from the thoughts that keep accumulating after roaming awkwardly around the mind, trying to repress relentless pangs of sadness. The only sound I would like to hear is the one pages make as they silently turn in order to unfold this heartrending story; one page after the other, reverberating through the Gardens, ensuring the quietude which, by virtue of a book's mere presence, clears my mind completely. If only for a few hours. Or for the briefest minute unable to last sixty wretched seconds.

I wonder if I have actually been happy.

No Longer Human, published in 1948, is a timeless piece of writing that portrays the sense of disqualified as a human being.

isolation of Oba Yozo, a confused child who became a troubled man; roughly, a deceitful person unable to show his true nature to most people, a man

The book is mostly composed of three memoranda; the last one is divided into two parts. Dazai interwove significant personal experiences into his writing; it was somewhat striking to identify those autobiographical aspects as I read our tormented protagonist's story.

The first memorandum is about Yozo's childhood. From an early age, he felt overwhelmed by a profound sense of alienation, which was increased by the presence of his overbearing father. In the end, incapable of understanding human beings, confused by their selfishness and artificial personalities, he steps into the world and becomes another unauthentic person, begetting the perception of having a jocose and amusing manner in the eyes of people around him. In his mind, such farce was the only way he could find to face the creatures he feared the most: humans. As these attempts take place, he ends up harboring a feeling many of us are familiar with but, in another display of egotism triggered by human condition, perhaps the limitations of our surroundings, we tend to think we are the only ones feeling that way.

All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it? – I don't know.

I could connect with some of Yozo's reflections, naturally. I am not someone who immediately trusts in people, especially after many close encounters with disappointment. In that sense, I understood completely the character's reasons for keeping his agonies locked in his chest, imbued with a persistent sense of mistrust. Nevertheless, I could never endorse his absolute insincerity towards everybody. It is impossible not to take this book to everyday life; how distressing it must be to interact with someone so irrationally fearful and indecisive, unwilling to respond when another person tries to reach out, incapable of seeing his ability to actually love. Yozo's feigned emotions, which culminated with the perfect role of the farcical eccentric, somehow shielded the people who cared about him from his recurrent fears, though the element he chose to protect himself (and them, who knows) was deception.

The second memorandum is mostly about the continuation of Yozo's self-destructive behavior, which by then included excessive drinking, smoking and many encounters with prostitutes (to whom he dedicates some degrading observations). Until he finds a woman who makes him feel, for the first time, as if he had freed himself from fear and uneasiness. He didn't feel the need to hide his gloomy disposition. Unfortunately, things rapidly started to go awry.

The weak fear happiness itself.

Even though he had many love affairs, one thing did not change: he was equally cruel to all women who cared about him (view spoiler)[(to the point of witnessing the rape of his own wife and not thinking for a second about helping her; yup, a good fella – great movie, by the way). You may blame it on his father, on his “friends” who took advantage of him, on another sad anecdote from his childhood; you name it (hide spoiler)]. The seemingly cogent arguments and plausible excuses to justify his actions are infinite. In any case, the results were indelible wounds and irreparable consequences.

“You look like someone who's had an unhappy childhood. You're so sensitive–more's the pity for you.”

That same memorandum also reflects the conflicts that are present in human relationships in the context of an adverse socio-economic status. At one point, the humiliation of not being able to provide for a woman was insufferable; the last straw that culminated in another mistake.

The third memorandum chronicles the protagonist's late twenties.

Several ambivalent feelings arise from reading about a character such as Yozo. I was able to comprehend some of his fears and his genuine sense of alienation, though other times I saw him as an inconsiderate man who epitomized cruelty and selfishness.

After a life of lying to himself and to others, Yozo chooses to write about his miseries and atrocious acts without a shred of falseness. Without resorting to any sentimentality – in contrast to his entire existence, his notebooks do not try to please anyone – he tells his story without engaging in unavailing circumlocution, elegantly gliding to the brink of brutal honesty as he circumvents every rule of an ostensibly civilized world. Despite the stark writing style which predominated in the novel, Dazai endowed it with not only plentiful profound meditations which may resonate with many readers around the globe, but with an exquisite language reminiscent of wistful fragments of poetry written in some bleak hotel room. There is no rhapsody of praise to nature, no writer simply extolling the virtues of silence. This novel is a one-way ticket to a person's psyche. Indubitably, a memorable journey since Dazai's words might linger in the vicinity of one's mind for far too long.

Unhappiness. There are all kinds of unhappy people in this world. I suppose it would be no exaggeration to say that the world is composed entirely of unhappy people. But those people can fight their unhappiness with society fairly and squarely, and society for its part easily understands and sympathizes with such struggles. My unhappiness stemmed entirely from my own vices, and I had no way of fighting anybody... Am I what they call and egoist? Or am I the opposite, a man of excessively weak spirit? I really don't know myself, but since I seem in either case to be a mass of vices, I drop steadily, inevitably, into unhappiness, and I have no specific plan to stave off my descent.

Selfishness or a weak spirit. I am not in the position to ascertain to which of those personalities Yozo belongs. Recently, I stumbled upon a quote by Jane Austen (which can be found in her novel Mansfield Park) that makes me ponder his situation, since it states the following: “Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure.” In that context, Austen only refers to selfishness; she is not as bold as one M. de Norpois (I just met him so I still don't know what to think of him) who declared once that for every sin there is forgiveness.

We all carry within us some degree of egoism – in fact, it can be seen as another defense mechanism regarding the protection of one's heart; I should know. But of course, some humans are replete with it. So much so that sometimes they might seem incapable of feeling pain, as they might do everything in their power to avoid it, regardless of the pain they are inflicting on others. To me, Yozo's case is somewhat paradigmatic; he relied on his antics to deceive people – and thereby being able to deal with them – instead of turning to superficially veracious words he never meant to say or a perpetual pusillanimous silence. Either way, Yozo suffers; he is not a pretender who thinks that being unable to fit into society is something that makes him special. It makes him truly unhappy. However, fighting for our existence is certainly not impossible; as a matter of fact, it is a more reasonable plan than sitting comfortably, feeling miserable and just waiting for the world's gaping maw to tear us apart.

I thought, “As long as I can make them laugh, it doesn’t matter how, I’ll be alright. If I succeed in that, the human beings probably won’t mind it too much if I remain outside their lives. The one thing I must avoid is becoming offensive in their eyes: I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky.”

Unlike Austen, I can't say for sure that there is no hope of a cure. The idealistic within me, breathing optimism and naivety daily, will claim that there is. The cynical within me, a little bruised due to some unpleasant experiences in life, will guarantee that, in reality, there is no remedy for such unfortunate malady. Despite this state of uncertainty, I agree with the first part of Austen's statement; we should forgive. As Dickinson's poem continues to echo in my head, the thought that time alone doesn't heal all wounds resounds just as much; indeed, it is what we do with that time that may alleviate certain symptoms. Forgiveness is an active way to deal with anything that once caused a small cut or unfathomable pain. It is not only part of a process which is essential to avoid hardening one's heart, it is also a humane way to treat others, even those whose actions leave a bittersweet aftertaste, even if I am not forgiven. Not that the world needs my foolish perspectives in the form of endless paragraphs of little merit, of course, but I for one choose to forgive, and that decision is made taking into consideration, among other things, the possibility that such cure, in fact, does not exist. I wouldn't want to magnify the weight of the cross that some people have to carry around, for the absence of said remedy might be already too harsh a punishment.

I turn the last page and the previous luminous scenery metamorphoses into a typical winter day. Storm clouds are already appearing above the horizon; they will soon cover these empty cherry trees, and me. I walk back home, trying not to think about the intense sky's azure, the park bench, the limpid lake I never mentioned, the cherry blossoms, the tragedy of being no longer human. Trying not to think.

Indomitable thoughts.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Palm-of-the-Hand Stories - Yasunari Kawabata

Rating: ★★★★

26/04/16

a symmetrical simplicity denoting the depths of human complexity.

He understood that human beings cannot make other human beings unhappy. he murmurs, as I gaze up at the bewildered night sky.

the ephemeral life of time.
the beating of a hummingbird's wings.
a world contained in a vase filled with peonies.

death throes under the fading light of dusk.
fragments of a dream that never belonged to this place.
the atmospheric silence of an afternoon wrapped in autumnal colors.
a bowl being dashed against a rock; the sound of somebody's heart breaking.

'My novel has found a beautiful soul. How shall I write it? Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words. . . .' he whispers, as I hold an obstinate pen reminiscing what has never happened.

brevity that distills a universe down to its essence.
the absolute harmony between a snow-covered mountain engulfed in amber flames
and us.
a minimalist expression of beauty.

solitude in the palm of my hand.



* Quotes:
"There is a God" (Kami imasu, 1926)
"The White Flower" (Shiroi hana, 1924)

“Many writers in their youth write poetry; I, instead of poetry, wrote the Palm-of-the-Hand Stories. … The poetic spirit of my young days lives on them.” - Kawabata

Snow Country - Yasunari Kawabata

Rating: ★★★★

18/04/16

[ ▷ ◻ ]

Bashō's evocative haiku is referenced by the end of the book, as one of the characters contemplates small drops of fire that, in contrast to the quiet atmosphere of a country made of snow, were floating in the air, ablaze with fury and disenchantment, sheltered by the absolute splendour of the Milky Way. The sublimeness of a firmament under which existence manifests itself in the shape of beauty and sadness.

As always, Bashō depicted an entire universe in three lines. Trifling matters and existential crisis coexist under the breathtaking vastness of a starry night. They live, they breathe; quietly, in raptures. They are likely to sink in the rough, turbulent sea. Tolerating the company of others or facing a self-imposed solitude, like the disgraced inhabitants of Sado Island. Above all these relevant and mundane issues of ours, one finds the Heaven’s River. The Milky Way. Where everything is silence. A distant blanket with scintillating pearls scattered all over it. An ethereal image replete with possibility; with hope. Nature's attempt at pacifying our tantrums and mitigating our misery.

That is how I feel about Kawabata's prose. His minimalistic and poignant style. His sincere and nostalgic voice. A unique melody on a quiet night amid a stream of twinkling stars.

His words are my night sky, my via lactea.

It is rather strange to look at this book and see something I hold dear since it has some condiments I dislike (hence, the absence of a perfect rating). Primarily, a love story. A romanticized love affair. An apparently cold married man with a couple of women in his head. Women giving everything they have, obviously. A dramatic display of each emotion. An abyss of vulnerability. An obstinate behaviour that does not even consider relinquishing everything that is destined to failure. A relationship that was meant to perish in front of the whitened mountains, before it even started.

Snow Country is ready to obliterate any vestige of passion that may disturb its gelid landscape. That is where she belongs. He looks at her from another side of the country. And thus they will remain, concealing any stubborn tear that may wish to appear.

That being said, this novel also brims over nostalgia. The delights of nature. A simple kind of beauty. A Japanese kind of beauty, pure, unadulterated; one that refuses to fall under the spell of Western modernity; desperately trying to preserve its traditions and values. The world of a geisha. Lesson after lesson on how to entertain others with a broken heart.

Seemingly incidental elements that become substantial meditations on the world around us when touched by Kawabata's majestic pen. An avalanche of introspection roaring down a mountainside, seeking for one's attention. Or complete annihilation. Couples and every unexpressed emotion that abided by fear's wishes and satiated their pride. Everywhere.

In any case, this writer's deeply poetic language was fundamental for me to actually enjoy this book. It saved this story from being trite and overly sentimental. There is an imaginative use of the word to convey widely known sentiments. The air was pervaded by the scent of vivid reminiscences; words uttered in an elegiac tone that never felt so alive.

Paraphrasing Byron, the characters of this novel were two parallel lines prolonged to infinity side by side but never to meet, but that could not refrain from trying. One can't help wondering if it is worth letting someone in when parting is already on the horizon; latent, existing...

...after all, the Milky Way illuminating an entire world made of snow might be the only thing some people have in common. Or, perhaps, the reason of it all might rely on the fact that, despite any complication or obstacle that these characters encountered, they were able to elude – for a season, for an instant – Dostoyevsky's idea of hell.

That may also happen under the comforting light of the sun.

* Photo credit: Milky Way Panorama and Longs Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado / Glenn Randall via this blog
Maiko Snow Resort looking towards Yuzawa town / via Snow Japan

The Saint of Mt. Koya - Kyōka Izumi

Rating: ★★★★
16/02/16

During a fine journey, the narrator happened to meet a priest, Shūchō. They started to talk and then decided to stay at an inn. Since the man had trouble dealing with the night and was never able to sleep until late, he asked the priest to tell him a story. And so he did. The story includes another journey through the desolate Hida mountains. A dreadful forest with many unpleasant surprises, a medicine peddler that questions the priest's faith...

Come on, admit it. You claim to have renounced the world, but you really want to hold on to your life after all.

...a lovely account about snakes which was a delightful thing to read, especially at night. Such vivid prose that made me almost hear that charming, little hissing and forced me to close my window, just in case. Same thing with the tree made of ravenous leeches that made the priest run in a frenzy of fear and disgust. Charming stuff.

Besides those quaint details, the priest's story was mostly about a woman. A lonely woman that was afraid that under these circumstances she herself would eventually forget how to talk. A beautiful, gentle, yet strong-willed; light hearted yet calm, comfortable, yet fearsome at the same time kind of woman that left this holy man on the verge of temptation. Uncertainty and infatuation flooded his heart as the walls between religion and worldly matters began to collapse.

...and return to that lonely house deep in the mountains where I would spend the rest of my life living with the woman there.

It was a good short story to get acquainted with Kyōka's writing.

A delicate attention to details. Beauty, the supernatural and the grotesque are perfectly balanced. The descriptions of the surroundings and the different impressions of people and their actions were portrayed with an exquisite writing that, at times, sounded like a profound meditation that you simply wish it would last for days.

Two Short Stories: Rashōmon; In a Grove - Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

Rating: ★★★★★
23/01/16

Concatenated thoughts #1 - #2

There was a man sitting by the ruins of a gate known as Rashōmon, listening to the sound of the rain

that was falling over the city of Kyoto. That man had been dismissed by his master and had nowhere to go. So there he was, looking at that gloomy landscape. His thoughts were wandering inside his mind like withering leaves on a windy day. Thinking about a tomorrow when there was nothing to hope for. As the pouring rain started to increase and the day became colder with every passing minute, the man found himself with only two options concerning his inevitable future. He revolved those options in his mind as a set of morals started to make pressure over them. The world had nothing more to give to him. Fate had nothing more to give to him. It was one of those times when responsibility is too much to bear; when freedom interweaves with absurdity and we wish for some Providence to give us a hand. When being alone is the only truth that can be obtained.

Two options. Nothing more. To die of hunger and become another one of those corpses that were taken to the gate. Or to dedicate his life to crime, and thus, keep himself alive.

For although the servant acknowledged that he had to do whatever he could to get by, he didn't have the courage to bring the sentence to its foregone conclusion: "I am bound to become a thief."

Amid such internal struggles, the mind begins to fabricate reasons. Justifications to lighten the weight of any decision that might jeopardize everything that is righteous, honorable, expected. But it was not the rationalization of such matter that helped him make his decision. It was a fire. Her dim firelight, on top of the gate, on that rainy night, barely illuminating the corpses no one would ever remember.

At that moment, if someone again raised the question that the servant had been thinking about under the gate—whether he would starve to death or become a criminal—the servant would almost certainly have chosen starvation, without an ounce of regret. Like the torch the old woman had jammed between the floorboards, this was how ardently the man's heart burned against all that was evil.

A dark, stormy weather that seems to evoke the collapse of an entire society. A flawless use of symbolism to illustrate the vanishing line between a man and a beast.

A savage place where once rational people now just do what they have to do. And yet, I wonder how rational can you be when your life's at stake.

You might have heard of a film named after this short story. A 1950 movie directed by Akira Kurosawa, starring Toshiro Mifune—an actor I love since the very first time I saw him impressing everyone in Seven Samurai. I decided to only watch this movie after reading two short stories. First, Rashōmon that provided the setting. The plot and the characters were taken from another short story named... 

Rating: ★★★★★

23/01/16

Concatenated thoughts #1 - #2

...In a Grove; another fine inspiration for Kurosawa's film. This story includes four testimonies, one confession, one repentance and a final account concerning the murder of Kanazawa no Takehiro, a 26 year-old samurai, and the rape of his wife, a 19 year-old woman named Masago, by a notorious brigand known as Tajōmaru. Those might be the most accurate details of the entire story since there are many contradictions among all the people involved in this case, making it impossible for the reader to actually know the truth, even when there might not be such a thing... rather than realities naturally connected with subjectivity. The witnesses' inconsistencies might have not been on purpose. Some sort of explanation can be found in the obvious fact that our memory is not completely reliable. Therefore, inconsequential details or relevant events might get lost in a sea of information, especially to those who are not used to such things that eventually improve one's observation skills. However, I do not believe the same can be said about the other three characters: the samurai (in fact, his spirit), his wife and the criminal, for they all have good reasons to invent, embellish or distort their versions to save their lives and honor.

A lie works as a mechanism of self-preservation for most people.

Am I the only one who kills people? You, you don't use your swords. You kill people with your power, with your money. Sometimes you kill them on the pretext of working for their good... It's hard to say who is a greater sinner, you or me.

The plot revolves around some interesting themes that include the inability to know an absolute truth since everything seems to be contaminated by our impressions; self-interest, beauty and lust, dishonor and the atrocities a person is willing to do to remedy that situation, the ephemeral essence of our existence and the heinous rationalization behind the act of taking somebody else's life.

'Truly human life is as evanescent as the morning dew or a flash of lightning', stated the traveling Buddhist priest in his testimony.

Since the film gave me the absurd idea of merging these reviews, it is only fair to say that Kurosawa's approach differs a bit from Akutagawa's story, where ambiguity controls every aspect of it. But the movie is something you do not want to miss due to stunning performances, sublime music and the symbolism they have employed that is simply mesmerizing, ranging from particular elements to a dichotomy conveyed through an exquisite use of light. Besides, you haven't cinematographically (?) lived until you see Mifune fluctuating between serious dialogues and sudden outbursts of laughter with his unique voice.

Anyway, as the book reaches its peak, everything seems rather superfluous. Even words. There was an implied communication between some of the characters in which many things were said through the eyes. A poetic interpretation would not apply here, since I believe they did it to find whatever they were resolved to find. Another excuse to justify their actions. Nonetheless, in the end, I suppose they were all guilty as they were victims.

The story ends with the account of the murdered samurai as told through a medium. It is the part I loved the most since it allowed me to take a glimpse at Akutagawa's beautiful and poignant writing, something that could not exist in the previous attempt to describe cold, hard facts. A desire for truth. An absolute truth that might never be able to avoid the contact with our personal experiences, our opinions, our interests. Our ego.

The Dancing Girl of Izu and Other Stories - Yasunari Kawabata

Rating: ★★★★
01/01/16

“When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.”
― Tennessee Williams, Camino Real

The Dancing Girl of Izu
looking from afar
wishing to break the silence
that haunts them tonight


Full review


Diary of My Sixteenth Year
lonely child
forced to grow
as leaves fall


Oil
crowded oil
fading away
amid the ashes


The Master of Funerals
existence whispers
ancient songs of winter times

solitude lingers


Full review


Gathering Ashes
old dust
makes the nose bleed
when cicadas cry


Hurrah
two loners meet
and start their journey
throughout Japan


The Princess of the Dragon Palace
sinners pay

they soon became
two lines
destined never to meet


The Honey Road
memories of loss
break into the mind
as a whitened pond
sings into the night

They say paradise is far away.

Chastity Under the Roof
I wonder
what to say
about this one

long sigh

moving on


The Moon
thoughts so heavy
that dig his clogs
into the snow

...one who intends to join her life with mine.

Enemy
a woman sees
a line of enemies
inside her screen


A Woman
where the gourds lie, a sullied sword pierced a tombstone to purify itself


Frightening Love
do the heavens
punish
too much love?

*

heavens punish
too much
doubt


Horse Beauty
ravishing horse
galloped off
leaving the cosmos flowers
behind


The Sea
stop hesitating
bring your silence
and walk with me

'Please take me where I can't look at the sea.'

Hands
silent hands
evoke her death
pomegranate flower

He believed that in this way his unexpressed feelings could somehow be communicated to others.

The Third-Class Waiting Room
Tokyo Station
has the feeling
she's not coming


The Watch
a lawyer
meant to talk
can't find the words
in his avalanche of thoughts

We mustn't condemn the vanity of these two. Vanity happened to give this man, who had groveled in fear of women, a little courage for love. ...perhaps, this thing called love is so absurd that it will manifest itself regardless of the means.

History
open your eyes now
under the fallen oak leaves
lie real intentions


Birthplace
financial
transactions
exhaust me

yet they brought the boy back to his land


Burning the Pine Boughs
the sounds of fear
cover the night
of the first sparrow


A Prayer in the Mother Tongue
the mind
remembers
as it says goodbye

'Perhaps Kayoko is something like a mother tongue to me.'

The Setting Sun
don't look at my past
she said to the poet
near the blossoms

*

the samurai's sword
grabbed a life
and broke it in two

your silence is sharper




* First review of 2016. One can only hope...

The Dancing Girl of Izu - Yasunari Kawabata

Rating: ★★★★
12/12/15

Naturally, I did not speak.

Love fades in most curious ways. Differences between characters, tastes, choices; monotony, the attraction that seems to dwindle through the years, in a minute. It evaporates when someone loves too much whereas the other party only exists, yearning for another opportunity. The tragedy of never been in love with somebody else's mind. Admiration slowly fading away. A growing indifference that cannot be concealed with a thousand cherry blossoms.

Possibilities that offer a myriad of colors and shapes.

A young student from Tokyo in a solitary journey through the Izu Peninsula. A walk of endless miles. The search for opportunities only to take a look at her face. To listen to the sound of her drum; evidence that she is still there.

I could not bear the silences when the drum stopped. I sank down into the depths of the sound of the rain. (13)

The universe conspires nothing; it is you deliberately looking for a fortunate stroke of serendipity. And then you achieve it. And then you stay silent. Because it is not your turn to speak and doubt floods your disquieted heart and you have to keep your sense of pride intact. The human way to go. The most common pretext to flee from the extraordinary.

This story is about one of the possible reasons as to why infatuation fades. Kawabata portrays with perfection the nature of first love. A love that merged with torment and later dissolved into thin air after a misunderstanding.

The burden disappeared. As to the extent of the burden, I think we all have a standard against which to measure it. We all have made its acquaintance.

The moment you realize you are free ends with a burst of laughter.

Ten Nights' Dreams - Natsume Sōseki

Rating: ★★★★
10/12/15

The First night

'The sun rises. And the sun sets. And the sun rises and sets... When the red sun rises in the east and sets in the west, then I will... Will you wait for me?'

The Second Night

'I cannot reach the state of nothingness.' Whenever I felt I was about to reach it, the pain seemed to become more intense, bringing me back. I felt anger. I felt regret. I felt deep chagrin at my failing attempt. Tears flowed from my eyes... But I remained sitting patiently. I had to endure this gut-rending sorrow.

The Third Night

I began to feel afraid of him even though he was my son.

The Fourth Night

The old man still made his way straight through the river, singing.

'The river will deepen.

The day will darken.

The world will straighten its path.'

The Fifth Night

The captain scrutinized my face in the firelight and asked me if I would live or die. It was the custom in those days to ask a captive that question. To answer that one would live meant submission; that one would die meant no surrender at any cost. I answered shortly.

The Sixth Night

At last I had to accept the fact that the Niō does not reside in the wood of the Meiji period. I also learned the reason why Ukei is alive today.

The Seventh Night

One night when I was alone on deck watching he stars, a foreigner came up and asked me if I knew any astronomy. Here I was almost ready to kill myself as a non-entity. What did I need to know about astronomy? But I kept silent. The foreign man began to tell me about the seven stars over Taurus. He said that the stars and the sea were something God had created. Finally he asked me if I believed in God. I just kept silent, looking up at the sky.

The Eighth Night

As I crossed the threshold into a barber shop, I saw several people there, all dressed in white, who asked in chorus if they might help me.

I stood in the middle of the room, looking around. It was square. The windows on two sides were open and on the other two walls hung mirrors. I counted six mirrors.

The Ninth Night

The world has somehow become unsettled. A battle may break out at any moment. There is panic in the air...

The Tenth Night

Shōtarō, doffing his Panama hat, politely declined, again and again. The woman asked him whether he preferred to be licked by pigs, since he would not venture to jump off the precipice.

Tonight

This is the dream I dreamed.

I was sitting at a table for one. The room was covered in a timid, dim light. I began to notice a scent. One that lifted my spirits in ways I cannot explain. While I was trying to guess the origin of such irresistible scent, I saw a woman approaching me. She was wearing a white apron.

“Miss, where is this exquisite aroma coming from?,” I gently asked.

“Over there,” she answered, pointing at my right. I could not discern a thing.

“What is it?,” I asked, almost whispering.

“What do you think it is?”

“I believe it is the scent of hope,” I replied, as I felt my soul absorbing all the poetry of the room. All the history of my homeland.

The woman got closer to me, stared at me for a while and then said:

"It is the scent of lemon pie. You are at my coffee shop. You read two books, had three lattes and two pieces of lemon pie. I want to close my shop and go home. Are you ever going to leave?"

The Master of Funerals - Yasunari Kawabata

Rating: ★★★★
07/12/15

Since I was a boy, I have had neither my own house nor home.

A gloomy mist is surrounding the entire room. A rush of silent reflections, nostalgic sighs and unheard questions join the inevitable melody that reality constantly plays.

Relatives, acquaintances, strangers. One. Two. Countless funerals.

Memories untold. Restrained emotions in black and white mourning clothes.

Life leaves a trace in his retina, one that inexorably blurs as time goes by.

One. Two. Countless lives. The feeling that I was all alone.

Naturally.

...funerals often inspired me to consider the lives and the deaths of people who were close to me. And, in the repose of contemplation, my heart grew still.

So it was that as a youth, my decorous behavior at the funerals of strangers was never feigned; rather, it was a manifestation of the capacity for sadness I had within me.

They made him the master of funerals.

And it all ends with a joke.

An eerie duality that pays tribute to the multiple dichotomies of existence. Frightening thoughts are depicted with the melancholic beauty of Kawabata's prose. It makes you wonder whether you are there, reading in your dimly lit room or in one of his visions.

In Praise of Shadows - Jun'ichirō Tanizaki

Rating: ★★★★
21/11/15
















The preference of a pensive luster to a shallow brilliance.

My quiet, soothingly minimalistic room seems of no consequence when juxtaposed with the unearthly beauty that Jun'ichirō Tanizaki described in this splendid essay on aesthetics.

A shōji. Lightning. Electric fans. The right heating system. Food. Architecture.

Every detail to avoid the disruption of harmony in a Japanese room.

An almost imperceptible line between an extremely refine taste and the subtlety of irony.

We delight in the mere sight of the delicate glow of fading rays clinging to the surface of a dusky wall, there to live out what little life remains to them. We never tire of the sight, for to us this pale glow and these dim shadows far surpass any ornament. (9)

Inside this book, there is a room that seems enraptured by the sobriety of the different shades of black.

So much space beholding the magnificence of a dim light on a particular spot, barely illuminating the serene twilight that those walls are made of.

Could this book be applied to people? It shouldn't. But that is subject to one's personality. You could be the reserved, darkened room. Except when writing. And that would be fine.

A book on beauty has its share of ugliness; people's skin and supposed degrees of purity.

Above all, an essay that exalts the enigmatic candlelight.

The particular beauty of a candle emanating a delicate brilliance that timidly embellish a silent room. A most idyllic view under its mystical light.

Nothing superfluous. Nothing pretentious. Nothing loud but the silence. A universe in your thoughts. The encounter with yourself under the tenuous radiance of a candle, evoking a somber night, the bright moon a world is gazing at.

Tanizaki observes. Tanizaki fights. Tanizaki misses. Tanizaki regrets.

The sound of the rain playing gently with the dusky light of a candle.

The mind wanders.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Japanese room / via bluebu.us
Tatami room / via Kyoto Contemplation
Candle / via Free images

The Classic Tradition of Haiku: An Anthology - Faubion Bowers (Editor)

Rating: ★★★★★
15/11/15

Haiku should be just
small stones dropping down a well
with a small splash
- James Kirkup (8)

Haiku or the complexity of subtlety

As a big fan of etymology, I was captivated by this book's introduction. It is renga, a form of collaborative poetry. Poets, in groups or by themselves, improvised connecting stanzas in order to create long poems. To sum up, by the 16th century, haikai-no-renga, a sort of "comic linked verse", was hipper than black glasses and courier bags today, all in contrast to the formality of the "language of the gods" of the time.

a clear and detailed recount of the history of haiku. The present enthralling subject we are tediously discussing here—I suggest a considerable amount of coffee in your system or ignoring these couple of paragraphs—has its origin in 12th-century

According to this book, "haikai became a little more than a display of wit and scatology" (7). Not what you were expecting, I assume. Nonetheless, everything changed when Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694) appeared on stage and elevated haikai to a dignified level; luckily, also keeping a subtle humor and the element of surprise intact. At that time, the opening 5-7-5 stanza of renga, called hokku, contained what is known as kigo, a seasonal word. Another requirement was that it had to be something complete, an entity on its own. (Modern Japanese haiku does not strictly follow this tradition; I wouldn't know, I haven't read anything yet.) Subsequently, hokku began to appear as an independent poem. However, it wasn't until the late 19th century that humanity became acquainted with the term "haiku", thanks to the arrival of Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902). "Hai in haikai means 'unusual' and ku denotes strophe, lines, stanza, verse" (8). The fact that you might know how to ask for directions to the nearest library or to order at a restaurant doesn't seem to be such a great deal, all of a sudden. Moving on.

After the enlightening introduction of this book, I found some explanations about syllables and sounds and other scholarly amusing details. I prefer focusing on another side of its beauty. Because in such a brief piece of writing exists an entire universe. A story, a picture, a truly evocative image, sheer wit and humor, dichotomies represented by diverse aspects of human nature, the act of giving voice to seemingly minor details of everyday life; all open to interpretation. I have read a couple of books about haiku before but it wasn't until this moment that I began to see a more complete panorama. For instance, a haiku poem includes specific words and images that assist the reader in order to understand the story: what, where and especially when, the most reminiscent part.

This anthology consists of several haiku written by poets from the 15th century until the beginning of the 20th century. Each translation is followed by the initials of the translator (they are listed at the beginning of the book). So, regarding structure and organization, this book is flawless. Bowers' footnotes are unbelievably helpful; lifesavers, dear reader. They include insightful remarks about the context in which some of the finest haiku were written. If you read something like...

kochira muke / ware mo sabishiki / aki no kure

Will you turn toward me?

I am lonely too,

this autumn evening.

...and then go to the note, you could find a less sentimental or existential origin for such poignant lines by Bashō. Even so, we have the liberty to assimilate them as we need them to be.

On another note, and as seen in the quote above, these haiku are written in English and also rōmaji (nope, there was nothing I could do to know more). Some of the most famous haiku have multiple translations below, so you can take pleasure in comparing a same idea and the different ways of expressing it. Different shades of unadulterated beauty.

The book opens with Iio Sōgi (1421-1502).

mono goto ni / oi wa kokoro no / ato mo nashi

everything that was

has vanished from my aged heart

leaving not a trace

A moving depiction of a man being led towards the end.

Then, Sōchō (1448-1532). Actually, a renga that began with Sōgi.

Sōgi: nao nani nare ya / hito no koishiki

Sōchō: kimi o okite / akazu mo tareo / omou ran

What could be the cause of it –

that I should feel such love again?

While I still have you,

why think of anyone else?

Why this discontent?

Two different translations were included about that one. All equally stunning.

When thinking about haiku poetry, one immediately remember the great four: Bashō, Buson, Issa and Shiki. However, this book pays also attention to women and their sometimes playful, sometimes heartbreaking verses. (One feels the need of praising a book that acknowledges the work of women writers. Alarming.)

Shōfū-ni (1669-1758), a lament for Basho's death.

haikai no / sode mo Bashō mo / kareno kana

Both the haikai sleeve and the plantain withered in the field

Takeda [Tome] Ukō-ni (1687-1743)

waga ko nara / tomo ni wa yaraji / yoru no yuki

If my child, I wouldn't let him go with you in tonight's snow.

Kaga no Chiyo (1703-1775)

tsuki mo mite / ware wa kono yo o / kashiku o kana

I've seen the moon

I sign my letter to the world

“Respectfully yours”

A deathbed verse conveying a sense of quietness and gratitude, surrounded by a slightly eerie mist of sorrow?

somekanete / kata yama momiji / kata omoi

No autumn colors tint that side of the mountain: a one-sided love

A haunting line.

After quoting a vast number of writers, the book ends with the reformer. The last haiku master.

yomei / ikubaku ka aru / yo mijikashi

how much longer

is my life?

a brief night . . .

The magnificence of simplicity

Centuries have gone by, a world that has changed too many times. And yet, certain things will never cease to be a cause of disquiet in ourselves. All things that I have seen inside the pages of this book. A book made of time and contemplation.

A tormented childhood, infinite existential doubts and voids that cannot be filled, worldly aspirations, death of the beloved, desirable solitude and overpowering isolation, the inexorable passing of time, the monotony of work, work that vainly tries to suppress the ordinary sense of emptiness; the comforting beauty of nature which eventually portrays a much needed haven for wandering souls. Nature. Out there, on the grass. Where the ravishing camellias bloom. There, on the land of the rising sun. On our land under the same sky.

A cherry blossom, a dewy chrysanthemum, a blue heron flying by, a hill whitened by the presence of the moon, a pond. A disconnection. Thoughts, crushing. The silence of the mundane, everywhere. As the person reaches a longed-for clarity to face the world again. Waiting for such a time. Waiting for that moment.

Nothing will disturb the silent tranquility of that moment.