14—
A Microcosm
At the end of the 1930s the dormitories at the First Higher School represented a microcosm of Japanese society. The committee for the self-governing dormitories had some resemblance to an administrative organ. Only a few students were interested in its work, while the majority were apathetic. A democratic system in form and bureaucratic control in practice. Most of the residents were not isolated individuals, for they belonged to small communal groups typified by the Sports Division. Each group had a clear-cut hierarchy between the leaders and the rest of the members. In principle, the collective goals of the group took precedence over the self-interests of the individual. But very often these communal goals were only vaguely defined, making it difficult to even distinguish between means and ends.
Within the dormitory there existed something equivalent to a news agency and even a quasi-literary circle. A weekly newspaper was published and read by all residents, but it had only a limited number of contributors. An even smaller number of students wrote stories or essays for the Alumni Magazine , which was published several times a year. Although the magazine was distributed to students free of charge, its actual readership, in all probability, was small. One might say that the magazine was similar to a coterie journal run by the editors themselves with their close circle of friends.
At the beginning of my third year, I left the tennis division and became one of the editors of the magazine. From then on I got to know almost all the Komaba students who were either practicing writers or interested in becoming so. A few among them were Marxists who had survived the government's suppression. There was no longer any left-
wing organization on campus, and I doubt if they belonged to any external organizations. They could perhaps be called isolated theorists. One of them held Tosaka Jun in high regard, was an enthusiastic reader of Omori[*] Yoshitaro[*] , and had a strong interest in Miki Kiyoshi.[1] But at the same time he thoroughly despised the entire Japanese literary world and the Kyoto school philosophers. Some students were drawn to more formal scholarship. A number of them tried to come to grips with the rather tedious concepts of German idealism, while others, as I mentioned earlier, tried to read the Man'yoshu[*] in its original text. There was even a poet among us. A great admirer of Tachihara Michizo[*] , Nakahara Chuya[*] , and Miyazawa Kenji, he also read European and particularly French poetry at the turn of the century and wrote poems that succeeded only in baffling everyone.[2] One student revered Tokuda Shusei[*] as the premier novelist and tried his hand at the "naturalist I-
[1] Tosaka Jun (1900–45) taught philosophy at Hosei[*] University (1931–35) and founded the Yuibutsuron Kenkyukai[*] (society for the study of materialism) in 1932 before a 1937 Home Ministry's order forbade him and other Marxist writers such as Nakano Shigeharu and Miyamoto Yuriko to publish; charged with infringement of the Peace Preservation Law in 1938, he died in a Nagano prison in 1945 (see his writings in Tosaka Jun zenshu[*] , 5 vols. [Keiso[*] shobo[*] , 1966–67]). • Omori Yoshitaro (1898–1940) taught economics at Tokyo Imperial University, edited the influential Marxist journal Rono[*] (Labor and farmers), and helped compile the complete works of Marx and Engels for Kaizosha[*] . • Miki Kiyoshi (1897–1945) taught philosophy at Hosei University in the late 1920s after study in Germany and France (1922–25); a student of Nishida Kitaro[*] and Martin Heidegger, in Yuibutsu shikan to gendai no ishiki (Historical materialism and contemporary consciousness, 1928) he related revolutionary Marxism to overcoming existential anxiety, but his part in the Konoe Fumimaro cabinet's Showa[*] Kenkyukai (Showa research association) of the late 1930s undercut his stature as spokesman for the intellectual left; a victim of the Peace Preservation Law, Miki died in prison in September 1945 (see Miki Kiyoshi zenshu , 19 vols. [Iwanami shoten, 1966–68]; and Miles Fletcher, "Intellectuals and Fascism in Early Showa Japan," Journal of Asian Studies 39, no. 1 [November 1979]: 39–63, esp. 48–52).
[2] On Tachihara see chapter 9 text and note 18. • Nakahara Chuya (1907–37), a popular Showa poet influenced by Dadaism—and once called "Dada-san" by his literary friends—and by Baudelaire's and Rimbaud's symbolic poetry, was noted for his lyric evocation of the weariness of modern life; he wrote two major poetry collections (Yagi no uta [Goat's songs, 1934] and Arishi hi no uta [Songs of bygone days, 1938]). • Miyazawa Kenji (1896–1933), whose Buddhist and agrarian background and fertile imagination mark his collection of poetry (Haru to Shura [Spring and Asura, 1924]) and children's tales (Chumon[*] no oi[*] ryoriten[*] [The restaurant of many orders, 1924]); see Sarah M. Strong, trans., Night of the Milky Way Railway (New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1991).
novel."[3] Another took Dazai Osamu as his model and abandoned himself to sake and women, or acted as if he did.[4] Occasionally, he would produce a piece based on his experience. One other student, an avid reader of Western novels, was also interested in the publications in both Jimmin bunko (The people's library) and Bungakukai (Literary world), sifting through them all to identify the ideal of the novel.[5]
I do not mean to suggest, however, that there were no crucial differences between the Komaba students and the Tokyo writers and critics. We were not professional writers, and we did not need to support wives and children by writing. Quite the contrary; our parents supported us. Our intellectual and literary contemplations were independent of any pragmatic consideration, and we had no misgivings about following wherever our interests might lead us. Our own experiences had taught us absolutely nothing about whatever significance there might be in the commodification of scholarship, the literary arts, and ideas. We were com-
[3] Tokuda Shusei[*] (1871–1943), an imaginative naturalist writer noted for his stark realism in depicting shabby urban life in such works as Tadare (Fester, 1913), Arakure (Tempest, 1915), and his masterpiece, Shukuzu (Epitome, 1941). See Richard Torrance, The Fiction of Tokuda Shusei[*] and the Emergence of Japan's New Middle Class (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994).
[4] Dazai Osamu (1909–48), a Burai-ha (scoundrel school) writer whose heavy drinking, flings with women, prewar flirtation with communism, and several attempts at suicide endeared him to many young readers living amidst the postwar moral crisis and social confusion. His best known works are two mid-length novels, Shayo[*] (The setting sun, 1947) and Ningen shikkaku (No longer human, 1948), along with short stories.
[5] The literary journal Jimmin bunko (1936–38), founded by Takeda Rintaro[*] , stood against nationalist right-wing literary groups such as the Japan romanticists; besides Takeda, its contributors were Takami Jun, Honjo[*] Mutsuo, Tamura Taijiro[*] , Enchi Fumiko, and Tamiya Torahiko—Takami Jun called them "a rowdy group of young, anti-establishment writers," and Donald Keene labels the journal "one of the last bastions of liberal thought" of the time (Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era—Fiction [New York: Henry Holt, 1984], 866). • Bungakukai (1933–44) began as an ambitious coterie journal of Kobayashi Hideo, Takeda Rintaro, Uno Koji[*] , Kawabata Yasunari, and Hirotsu Kazuo and grew into a literary who's who in Japan of the late 1930s (including Kawakami Tetsutaro[*] , Funabashi Seiichi, Aono Suekichi, Kamei Katsuichiro[*] , Nakamura Mitsuo, and Nakajima Kenzo[*] ); it published such outstanding works as Ishikawa Jun's antiwar story "Marusu no uta" (The song of Mars), Hojo[*] Tamio's haunting "Inochi no shoya" (The first night of life), and Kobayashi Hideo's acclaimed "Dosutoefusuki no seikatsu" (The life of Dostoyevsky) but came under the influences of jingoistic militarism and exclusive culturalism during the war (see note 12, below). It resumed publication in 1947 and continues to this day.
pletely ignorant about the commodification of the printed word, the ways it reached the masses through commercial newspapers and magazines, and then politics' intrusion into the picture. At the same time we were uninformed about the self-censorship of newspapers and magazines, changes in public taste, and the mass media's adjustments to such changes. Likewise, we were totally oblivious to the apprehensions pressing on writers whose livelihood was threatened when they did not flow with the currents of the time, and to the need they presumably felt to justify their position if they did. Our ignorance simply made us more conscious of their lack of moral integrity for allowing themselves to turn into willing conformists, and their inconsistencies when they tried to justify their actions. We were merciless critics, armed only with abstract notions of right and wrong.
At that time the government had concocted a numbingly large number of slogans in the name of kokumin seishin sodoin[*] (total mobilization of the national spirit).[6] One such example was Extravagance Is Our Enemy! "That's absurd!" a Marxist among us said. "Who can dispute the fact that Japan is a capitalist country supported and nurtured by low wages for its workers? How shameful to tell people on the verge of starvation that extravagance is the enemy!" And then there was this business of Yamato-damashii (the soul of Yamato), bushido[*] (the way of the samurai), Hagakure , and so on.[7] "Did those guys ever read Motoori Norinaga carefully?" a scholar among us said. "Don't forget that Norinaga identifies the essence of Japan with mono no aware . That's what you'd find in the world of romance in The Tale of Genji .[8] And 'the way
[6] The movement was initiated by the first Konoe Fumimaro cabinet in 1937.
[7] Yamato-dashii refers to the indigenous sensory perceptions, sentiments, and Japanese ways of thinking as distinct from continental influences; ultranationalist war propaganda made it an emotionally charged cliché to highlight the Japanese people's unique spirit by suggesting unhesitating self-sacrifice for the country's greater good. • Hagakure's full title is Hagakure kikigaki (11 vols., 1716), ed. Tashiro Nobumoto, based on statements by the Nabeshima samurai Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659–1719); before World War II this mid-Edo samurai manual was held up as a standard reference on the Japanese warrior's spirit.
[8] Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801), the most influential Tokugawa nativist scholar of Japanese classics such as Kojiki, Man'yoshu[*] , and Genji monogatari , whose Kojikiden (44 vols., 1790–1822), arguably his greatest work, is a monumental study of Kojiki's formation and linguistic peculiarities, and whose prolific writings also include commentaries on classical poetry anthologies such as the Kokinshu[*] [Kokinshu tokagami[*] , 1797–1816] and the Shinkokinshu[*] [Shinkokinshu mino no iezuto do[*] orisoe , 1795–1797], poetry collections(Suzunoyashu[*] [1798]), poetic treatises and linguistic studies (Isonokami sasamegoto [1816 and 1927] and Kotoba no tama no o [1785]); Motoori championed "indigenous" Japanese cultural sensibilities and forms against continental cultural influences (kan'i ), a position challenged by another fellow nativist scholar and writer, Ueda Akinari (1734–1809); see Harry D. Harootunian, Things Seen and Unseen: Discourse and Ideology in Tokugawa Nativism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988). • In The Tale of Genji and other early classics, aware refers to an intense emotional or sensory experience evoked by external phenomena: "the pathos inherent in the beauty of the outer world, a beauty that is inexorably fated to disappear together with the observer" (Ivan Morris, The World of the Shining Prince—Court Life in Ancient Japan [London: Penguin, 1979], 208–9). See Motoori Norinaga on mono no aware in Isonokami sasamegoto and Genji monogatari tama no ogushi (1799).
of the samurai' was a concoction by Edo bureaucrats at a time when discipline among the samurai was getting out of hand. Surely, it can't represent the soul of Yamato when the only thing it reflects is just one aspect of Edo society."
Students who favored concrete action over theoretical argument would spend their time drinking and womanizing. They admired novels like Yukiguni (The snow country) and Bokuto[*] kidan (A strange tale from east of the river), and they simply chose to ignore the militaristic rhetoric completely.[9] As for the slogan hakko[*] ichiu (the eight corners of the world under one roof), nobody quite understood what it meant, but somehow it was linked to the notion of "the divinity of the Japanese state" or the tradition of "the spiritual civilization of the East."[10] Such slogans struck us as nothing more than muddle-headed anachronisms.
Meanwhile, the world outside Komaba was witnessing the continuing suppression of the Marxists and the banishment of liberal scholars from their academic positions. Popular commentators were noisily
[9] Kawabata Yasunari's Yukiguni (1935–37, with sequel and revisions after World War II), considered one of the early Showa's[*] finest novels, centers on a fleeting love affair in a rural hot spring resort; the novel's techniques and the dramatic relationship between the central characters have been compared to those of a no[*] play. • Bokuto kidan (1937; Eng. trans. by Edward G. Seidensticker, 1972) is among Nagai Kafu's[*] (1879–1959) most celebrated novels of lyrical nostalgia for a vanishing cultural milieu; its enchanting zuihitsu -like story of a romantic encounter brings in the mannerisms and atmosphere of the Tamanoi red-light district and a thinly disguised Kafu[*] as the novelist "I."
[10] The expression hakko ichiu from Nihon shoki (720) originally referred to the idea of Japan's internal unification under a central authority before becoming a militaristic slogan during the Pacific War to dramatize (and legitimate) Japan's overseas expansion. • Clichés of state divinity and spiritual civilization from the militarist era ascribe to Japan a unique national or cultural identity.
[11] Or "Taikan shijin no goichininsha" (Kogito [July–August 1936]), an earlyessay by Yasuda Yojuro[*] (1910–81), the leading member of the Japan romanticist school. Along with the essay "Nihon no hashi" (Bungakukai [October 1936]), it helped launch Yasuda's career as a critic in the late 1930s (and see note 22, below).
making cryptic proclamations about "the spirit of sacrifice for the country," "the gratuitousness of faith," or "the imperial poet laureate."[11] In slightly more dispassionate language with a slightly more plausible manner of discourse the Kyoto philosophers, the journal Bungakukai , and many literary figures talked about the lofty goals supposedly inherent in "the Great Japanese Empire's expedition against China." They also spoke about the desirability for us Japanese to create a culture that would transcend "modernity" now that modern Western civilization was reaching an impasse.[12] With the ever encroaching tide of militarism, a serious schism began to develop between the community inside the school dormitory and the world outside. And this difference exploded in angry words when Yokomitsu Riichi, a man regarded in those days as "the god of the novel," came to give a lecture at the First Higher School.[13]
Yokomitsu made his appearance on time in a large classroom that overflowed with students. With disheveled hair and a somewhat pale complexion, he said just a few words, then clamped his lips tightly and
[12] Here Kato[*] alludes to a controversial two-day symposium, "Kindai no chokoku[*] " (Overcoming modernity), sponsored by Bungakukai in July 1942 and the papers (published in the journal's September and October issues) from leading literary critics (Nakamura Mitsuo, Kawakami Tetsutaro[*] , and Kobayashi Hideo), writers and artists (Hayashi Fusao, Kamei Katsuichiro[*] , Moroi Saburo[*] , and Tsumura Hideo), and other intellectuals (the Kyoto philosopher Nishitani Keiji, the Catholic theologian Yoshimitsu Yoshihiko). Only Nakamura Mitsuo's paper maintained that Japan's own pseudo-modern experience, not Western modernity, needed to be overcome. Debate over the symposium continued in the late 1950s (among critics such as Odagiri Hideo, Takeuchi Yoshimi, Ara Masahito, and Hashimoto Bunzo[*] ).
[13] Yokomitsu Riichi (1898–1947), a major writer and critic of the 1920s experimental Shinkankaku-ha (new sensationalist school) who tried to recreate experience's incoherent and impressionistic effects, as opposed to the proletarian literary writers who stressed ideological content. The new tone and narrative style of "Kikai" [The machine, 1930] established his prominence; this work was followed by Shanghai (1928–31), an ambitious study of the 1920s city, and Shin'en (Sleeping garden, 1932), a psychological story of entangled love. His short postwar career was marked by severe criticism from the literary left of his "war responsibility" (see Dennis Keene, Yokomitsu Riichi: Modernist [New York: Columbia University Press, 1980]).
stared for a while at a corner of the ceiling before uttering a few more words. He did not rattle away whatever came to his mind with flowing eloquence, nor, on the other hand, was he aiming at any rhetorical effect with his manner of delivery. Yokomitsu had the appearance of an anguished poet as he tried on the spot to revive his memory while gathering his thoughts and searching for the right expressions. It was difficult to imagine any other speaker who could be less predisposed to frivolous improvisations and affected mannerisms. While I disagreed with many of the things he said, I was favorably impressed with his personality. A heated debate began when we moved to a roundtable discussion over some simple refreshments after the lecture. About fifteen students sat in a circle with Yokomitsu in the middle.
"Your novel Ryoshu[*] (The melancholy journey) deals with the question of Western material civilization and Eastern spiritual civilization," one of us said. "Would you care to elaborate a little for us?"[14]
"Aren't they self-evident? Spiritual civilization is what exists in the hearts of the Japanese."
"By material civilization, do you mean science?"
"You might say that."
"Or is it technology?"
"That's right! It's about scientific technology."
"Now just a moment please! Aren't science and technology two different things?"
"No, they are closely related. I see them as one thing."
"But you can speak of a relationship precisely because you have two different things. And if you only have one thing, I don't think it makes any sense to speak of any relationship no matter how intimate or remote it may be."
"Now, you're getting too theoretical!"
"But science is about theories."
That's the way I remember the start of our discussion.
"I don't quite understand what you mean by science," another stu-
[14] Ryoshu (1937–46), an unfinished novel inspired by Yokomitsu's 1936 journey in Europe, offers his vision of incompatibility between Japanese and Western civilizations, and hints at his allegiance to Japan's cultural traditions vis-à-vis the West and to certain ultranationalistic ideas of Japanism. Early post-war commentators were divided over its merits, but more recently Nishio Kanji has seen it as "a mirror reflecting the mental pathology of the Japanese in the early Showa[*] period" ("Ryoshu saiko[*] ," Bungakukai [October 1983]).
dent said. "You have a short story in which the protagonist is a physicist, is that right? And there's a mathematical formula in the story. But if you don't have a proviso indicating what the letters in that formula stand for, the formula means nothing. Why didn't you . . . ?"
"I'm not a physicist." Yokomitsu cut him short. "That's a literary symbol."
But the student who started the question remained undaunted.
"But the formula as it stands has no meaning. I don't think you can say it's a symbol for science."
"That's why I called it a literary symbol."
"In that case, what in fact is it supposed to symbolize in a literary sense?"
"You boys can't expect to appreciate literature if all you care to do is to press your case with theories!"
"You may be right. In fact, you must be right. But, Mr. Yokomitsu, you equated material civilization with science. Since you brought up the subject of science, here's what I think. Forgive me for saying this, but based on what you said, I don't think you know a thing about what science is. Science is . . . "
"Once you bring up this subject, there's no end to the argument," someone interrupted. But the comment was not meant to rescue Yokomitsu from his predicament, only to pursue the question from a different perspective.
"Even if we leave aside the question of what science is, science clearly constitutes one aspect in the spiritual endeavors of humankind. If so, wouldn't it be a mistake to think of science and spiritual civilization as opposite categories?"
Very often Yokomitsu had no time to search for an answer because we had already started a debate among ourselves.
"I suppose what Mr. Yokomitsu means by material civilization is that science treats matter as its subject of inquiry."
"Now, just a second! Let me remind you that science is not just limited to the natural sciences!"
"You see, that's why the science Mr. Yokomitsu talks about is in fact the natural sciences. But the question is: the humanities are also well developed in the West, and they've come into this country too, right?"
"Whatever the case might be, it's odd to speak of Western material civilization as such."
"Instead of just going on and on about this subject, the right ques-
tion to ask is how do we deal with Christianity when we speak of Western material civilization?"
"Absolutely. And then Platonism, Descartes . . . In other words, the claim that spiritual civilization exists only in the East goes against the facts. First of all, we need to know what material civilization means."
"When I speak of material civilization," Yokomitsu said, "what I mean is the proclivity toward materialism in modern times. Japan, too, has been infected with this poison of modernity. In order for us to live through this difficult time, I think that we as writers are called on to perform our duty to cleanse Japan from that poison. That, I tell you, is the real meaning of misogi .[15] The spirit of misogi is at the heart of our race. We are now witnessing the greatest epoch in time. Now is the time for us to return to the tradition of Japanese literature."
"What tradition are you talking about?" one student asked. Before Yokomitsu could give an answer, somebody else immediately jeered, "Edo's Bunka and Bunsei years!"[16] At this, Yokomitsu exploded in anger. Turning in the direction of the speaker, he shouted in a thunderous voice, "You people are absolutely hopeless for saying things like this!"
I was the one who had invited Yokomitsu to give his talk. With no moderator for the roundtable discussion, I was somewhat conscious of my role as its organizer and had remained silent until then. But Yokomitsu's outburst agitated me. Even though the phrase "Edo's Bunka and Bunsei years" was obviously intended as venomous sarcasm, at least its author didn't make his utterance behind the protective shield of political authority.[17] We students no longer felt comfortable in expressing our opinions in public outside the Komaba dormitory even when we had the opportunity. On the other hand, even if Yokomitsu himself wasn't trying to curry favor with the political
[15] The traditional ritual of misogi purifies the body from sin or defilement with water by immersing it in the sea or a river. The early-eighth-century Kojiki mentions the purification ritual of Izanagi no mikoto; subsequent mentions of the ritual can be found in the Man'yoshu[*] , the early-tenth-century waka poetry anthology Kokinshu[*] , and the early-eleventh-century Shui[*] wakashu[*] .
[16] The Bunka period (1804–17); the Bunsei period (1818–29).
[17] Because Edo secular culture blossomed in the first three decades of the nineteenth century—in the production of popular gesaku (playful compositions), painting, and theater—to suggest that its urban materialism and unabashed epicureanism represent Japan's spiritual purity makes a total mockery of Yokomitsu's view of Japan's traditional, misogi -sanitized culture.
establishment, his position was endorsed and welcomed by the authority of Japanese militarism. He might be able to cut short a debate by having an outburst, but we could not. A military man could silence his opposition by crying out, "Hold your tongue!" but a Diet member could not. To yell at an opponent who is not in a position to yell back is not fair. Regardless of what his private thoughts might have been, in effect Yokomitsu's behavior struck me as very little different from a high-handed act behind the cloak of political authority. How arrogant of him to tell us, "You people are hopeless!" I was too emotionally charged to appreciate Yokomitsu's unpretentiousness in allowing himself to get genuinely angry with mere students like us. Nor could I even begin to imagine that his wild rage at somebody's pointing out his weakness was perhaps in itself evidence of his own awareness of it.
"I'm afraid I don't agree," I said, trying for neutral restraint. "Literary and artistic tastes reached the height of refinement during the Bunka and the Bunsei years. And you were saying they don't represent the true Japanese tradition, am I right? But if you take the Genroku period, I don't think you'd get any better. Genroku style and mannerisms had nothing to do with misogi . The same is true if you go all the way back to Heian prose narratives and, indeed, to the Man'yoshu[*] . So, what then is the Japanese literary tradition you talk about that has absolutely nothing to do with the Man'yoshu and The Tale of Genji , or with Saikaku and Chikamatsu?"[18]
"Mr. Yokomitsu, you said that Valéry was also practicing misogi in France. What do you mean by that?" another student asked.
"What I mean is that all enclosed meditations share the same spirit with misogi ."[19]
[18] Strictly speaking, the Genroku period dates from 1688 to 1704 but in narratives of Japanese cultural history it broadly refers to the period 1680–1709 under the rule of shogun Tsunayoshi, a golden period for Tokugawa culture (in painting, popular literature, and theater). • On Saikaku see chapter 9, note 16. • Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653–1724), the Edo period's greatest playwright for the puppet theater (lovers' dramas, Sonezaki shinju[*] [The love suicides at Sonezaki, 1703] and Shinju ten no Amijima [The love suicides at Amijima, 1721] and historical plays, Kokusenya kassen [The battles of Coxinga, 1715]) and author of kabuki plays (Keisei Mibu dainembutsu [Courtesans and the great recitation of the Buddha's name at the Mibu temple, 1702]); see Donald Keene, trans., Major Plays of Chikamatsu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961).
[19] The phrase "enclosed meditations" (misshitsu no shiso[*] in the original)comes from Valéry's Soirée avec Monsieur Teste (An evening with Monsieur Teste, 1896): "If this man had changed the object of his enclosed meditations, if he had turned the regulated power of his mind against the world, nothing would have resisted him" (quoted in Elizabeth Sewell, Paul Valéry: The Mind in the Mirror [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952], 22).
"I don't really think so. You know, 'Le Cimetière marin' lies right in the open air."[20]
"But I'm referring to Monsieur Teste ."[21]
"Oh, yes, indeed. But the work has nothing to do with misogi . Are you really serious when you talk about misogi ?"
"What do you mean, 'Am I serious?" Yokomitsu's voice began to tremble with anger.
"Because what you said makes so little sense. So I'm asking you if you're serious."
"All meticulous thinking pursued with great thoroughness shares something in common with misogi ."
"That's nonsense! Let me remind you that misogi is not a thinking process but a ritual!"
"You people just want to bicker about words! You should be ashamed!"
"Not at all! Aren't you a writer yourself? You'd agree that a writer is a specialist with words, wouldn't you? If the best you can do with words is get yourself into trouble, that by itself is a fatal flaw on your part, isn't it?"
"I'm through with you people!" Yokomitsu roared with anger. "This is absolutely outrageous! I've never seen anything like this."
"I expect you would feel that way." I again joined in the discussion. "See, at Komaba everybody talks freely about what's on his mind. If I could just add something about misogi —so there's no misunderstanding about it—Valéry doesn't take up the idea; it's The Golden Bough . Rituals of purification and exorcism and things of that sort are in no way peculiar to Japan. They abound in primitive tribal religions. You see, in
[20] Referring to Valéry's celebrated meditation at the graveyard by the sea (1920), the student comments on its "good ventilation" (kaze toshi[*] wa yoi desu yo [which I translate as "lies right in the open air"]).
[21] Whether Valéry's protagonist in La Soirée avec Monsieur Teste is "the high priest of the idol of intellect," "a portrait of his intellectual robot," or an image of Mallarmé or Degas, he symbolizes "honest pursuit of knowledge and purity" by "being and seeing myself; seeing myself see myself" (Agnes Ethel MacKay, The Universal Self: A Study of Paul Valéry [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1961], 82–92).
order to understand Africa or 'Eastern spiritual civilization,' these religions are more telling than the rhetoric of 'loud weeping' of the Japan romanticists. Could we really 'transcend' Western modernity with 'loud weeping'? Today, a century and a half after the Déclaration des droits de l'homme , isn't it anachronistic to speak out for the idea of misogi and Japan as a divine nation?"[22]
Yokomitsu did not rise and leave in indignation. As long as he was still with us, we continued to go after him. Gradually Yokomitsu's words grew more guarded, his complexion ashen with anger. But because we knew his writings so well, we could anticipate what was on his mind and all together we spared no effort in smashing his ideas to smithereens one after another. No sooner had one of us stopped to catch his breath than someone else began.
We took up one point Yokomitsu had written about, "The West itself is aware of the impasse of its modernity."
"But does this make Japan the country to break that impasse?"
"And why not?"
"Because it's not Japan's impasse. Whether a modern Western society thousands of miles away finds itself in an impasse or not, Japan is not a modern society. It's simply out of place for us to lose any sleep over this kind of thing. The 1868 revolution was not the French Revo-
[22] In The Golden Bough , the Scottish anthropologist James George Frazer (1854–1941) traces the development of the world's religions from their earliest forms. • The Japan romanticists (Nihon romanha[*] ), a very diverse literary group in the late 1930s, included Yasuda Yojuro[*] , Kamei Katsuichiro[*] , Jinbo Kotaro[*] , Nakatani Takao, and later Dazai Osamu and Hagiwara Sakutaro[*] , who collectively felt a sense of crisis regarding Japan's cultural identity and its problematic modernity; their advocacy of a new "romanticism" during a time of ideological conversion (tenko[*] ) soon developed into a nativist interest in the Japanese classics and medieval Japanese aesthetics before the group was swept under the wings of fanatic ultranationalism. Their emotionally charged but often nebulous rhetoric included "loud weeping" (dokoku[*] ), "our poignant aspiration" (higan ), and "the idea of returning to the primitive origin of history written with the blood of race" (minzoku to iu chi de kakareta rekishi no genshi ni sakanoboru gainen ). On the dynamics between the Nihon Roman-ha[*] and the Matinée Poétique group (discussed in chapter 18), consult Kamiya Tadataka's provocative Yasuda Yojuro[*] ron (On Yasuda Yojuro [Kari shokan, 1979]), 26–33; see also Kato[*] Shuichi[*] , "Senso[*] to chishikijin," in Chishikijin no seisei to yakuwari: Kindai Nihon shisoshi[*] koza[*] , vol. 4 (Chikuma shobo[*] , 1959); and Kevin M. Doak, Dreams of Difference: The Japan Romantic School and the Crisis of Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994).
lution. Now, mind you, the farm rent in this country is still paid in kind! Moreover, it takes up more than half the harvested crop. How on earth can anyone call it a modern land system? This is a country in which more than half the labor force is concentrated in the rural villages, and as long as Japan still keeps the feudal system of land ownership and goes on exploiting small farmers, I think it's meaningless to speak about 'modernity'—to say nothing of the totally ludicrous debate about whether we can transcend it."
"No, it's not ludicrous!" But despite Yokomitsu's protest, our group was no longer prepared to take it seriously. Instead, we rattled on about what was on our minds.
"Small farmers impoverished under the system of feudalistic exploitation became the source of cheap labor. Since Japanese capitalism took off from that springboard, naturally its domestic market is small. In essence, the Dai Toa[*] kyoeiken[*] (Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere) is simply its logical conclusion in the form of continental expansion. The emancipation and independence of colonies? What a joke! I suppose the Japanese government might want to emancipate the British and American colonies, but it'd never think of emancipating its own. That is evident because they never even breathe a word about Korean independence. On the contrary, haven't we seen how Yanaihara Tadao got kicked out of the university just for criticizing the colonial policies in Taiwan and Korea?[23] And then they bring up this business about 'total mobilization of the national spirit.' Who is trying to mobilize the Japanese people and for what purpose? I don't know much about literature, but, Mr. Yokomitsu, I don't understand how our writers can talk about 'this great age' and things like that when they don't even have a firm grasp of the matter. What exactly is so 'great' about it anyway? If writers like you are being deceived, you can only blame your own stupidity. But if you aren't being deceived, then aren't you prostituting your own soul?"
At that time what we were doing, to follow Ogai's[*] phraseology, was simply fortifying ourselves by drawing our ammunition from Kafu[*] when we cited the Bunka and Bunsei periods, from The Golden Bough
[23] The liberal colonial economist Yanaihara Tadao (1893–1961) was forced to leave Tokyo Imperial University in 1938 for openly criticizing Japan's China policy but—after World War II—became its president. See Kato's[*] reminiscences of Yanaihara as his teacher at Ichiko[*] in chapter 10.
when we dealt with the idea of misogi , and from the Koza-ha[*] when we offered our critique of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere and Japan's "sacred war."[24] On the other hand, Yokomitsu came to us empty-handed. His only ammunition was his literary fame and the current of the time unleashed by the authorities. Perhaps he did have something resembling a sense of conviction. But there is a difference between genuine belief and self-imposed faith. And I had no doubt that Yokomitsu himself could appreciate their difference more than anyone else.
For a long time I forgot about this encounter with Yokomitsu, my first and last with him. Then came Japan's defeat and the Occupation. Shortly after that, Yokomitsu passed away. His death was due to massive hemorrhage of his stomach ulcer. I was told that he had not sought medical attention, insisting that his illness could be cured not by science but by spirituality. When Nakajima Kenzo[*] told me this story, I once again thought that Yokomitsu Riichi had paid the price for his wrong-headed philosophy, this time with his own life. Some illnesses can be cured by medicine, while others cannot. Nearly all stomach ulcers can be cured with proper medical care. At that time Nakajima half-jokingly said, "You guys killed Yokomitsu! After he was attacked by you people at Komaba, he seemed to have taken quite a knock. He wasn't the kind of man who
[24] Mori Ogai[*] (1862–1922), novelist, critic, surgeon general of the Japanese army, and usually ranked with Natsume Soseki[*] and Shimazaki Toson[*] as one of Japan's three preeminent modern writers, translated German romantic poetry and introduced German aesthetics into Japan; Ogai's[*] short stories and other works include "Maihime" (The dancing girl, 1890), Vita Sexualis (1909), Seinen (Youth, 1910–11), Gan (The wild goose, 1911–13), Shibue Chusai[*] (1916), Izawa Ranken (1916), and Hojo[*] Katei (1917–20). Kato[*] notes that "the variety of theme and range of contemporary characters treated in his short stories and novels will probably never be equalled in Japanese fiction" (History of Japanese Literature , 3:146). • Nagai Kafu[*] , novelist, essayist, and an early advocate of naturalist literature in Japan, whose visit to France (June 1907—May 1908) began his lifelong admiration for French literature and culture and abhorrence of frivolous Japanese attempts at superficial Westernization; on Kafu's[*] elegiac novel Bokuto[*] kidan see note 9 above. • The Koza-ha (lecture faction) was a group of early Showa[*] Marxist economists and theoreticians who, contrary to its theoretical rival the Rono-ha[*] (labor-farmer faction), characterized Japanese capitalism as one founded on a semi-feudalistic land system and identified the Meiji state as a political absolutism under the emperor-system (tennosei[*] zettaishugi ). Chief members included Noro Eitaro[*] , Yamada Moritaro[*] , and Hirano Yoshitaro[*] (and the Rono-ha's[*] core members were Ouchi[*] Hyoe[*] , Yamakawa Hitoshi, Inomata Tsunao, and Kushida Tamizo[*] ).
would easily pull in his horns, but let me tell you, he was pretty upset about it until his death."
"Is that so?" I said. "I didn't realize that."
"You fool! After you tore him apart like that, don't tell me you didn't realize it!"
But at the time we were only too preoccupied with our own defense, not so much against Yokomitsu as against the tide of the times. We could never have imagined that nameless students like ourselves could in any way deal a crushing blow to such a prominent "master." If we could indeed deliver such a blow, I suppose it was only because our opponent was someone who didn't need one. It seemed to me that Nakajima was tactfully making this point. To deal a crushing blow to someone who needed it was beyond our ability.[25]
Yokomitsu Riichi was an invited guest at Komaba. But the Hitler-jugend band came uninvited. Whereas we were prepared to engage in vigorous debates with our own guests, we simply ignored the uninvited ones. Clad in uniform and marching in synchronized steps, they would show up in regular ranks at Komaba's main entrance. They were still baby-faced teenagers with somewhat stern demeanor and, like puppets, had no expressions on their faces. On a number of occasions, the few students who happened to be there would stop and puff on their cigarettes as they watched the group march by. Others would turn around for a quick glance before walking past them through the campus gate. We refused to have anything to do with them. We still could not imagine that some of our own friends would soon be walking out of the main university gate at Hongo[*] with rifles in their hands.
Those were the days when I spent many futile hours trying to write a novel. But my experience held no material relevant to what I thought a novel should be. I had never been romantically involved and hence I had never been betrayed in love. I had never experienced dire poverty, to say nothing of plunging myself into blood-boiling and heart-throbbing adventures. On the contrary, the things I had experienced and the things that had moved me seemed hardly material for a novel: books
[25] Kato[*] was one of many critics who tried immediately after the war to assess the war responsibility of Japanese literary intellectuals during the militarist era. See Kato's[*] essay on Yokomitsu in Bungaku jihyo[*] 6 (1946), along with ones by Odagiri Hideo and Obara Gen on Saito[*] Mokichi and Ishikawa Tatsuzo[*] , respectively (Nakajima Kenzo[*] , Kaiso[*] no sengo bungaku: Haisen kara rokujunen[*] anpo made [Heibonsha, 1979], 216–17).
and music. And from the sidelines I watched a society racing blindly toward madness like an automobile about to overturn on a downhill run. I wondered what kind of destruction we would see and know after all the sound and fury had ended. Yet these thoughts had no apparent connection to literary matters. Meanwhile, trying to force myself to come up with something resembling a novel, I felt more and more keenly the considerable discrepancies between my own sensibilities and experiences and the fictional world I was trying to create.