Chaos and Order in the Works of Natsume Sо̄seki 9780824841454

Citation preview

C H A O S A N D O R D E R in the Works

A STUDY

OF T H E

COLUMBIA

EAST

UNIVERSITY

ASIAN

ofNatsumeSöseki

INSTITUTE

CHAOS and in the Works ofNatsume Söseki

Sftngela Tiu

UNIVERSITY HONOLULU

OF

HAWAI'I

PRESS

© 1998 University of Hawai'i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 03 02 01 00 99 98

5 4 3 2 1

Library o f Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Yiu, Angela, 1962Chaos and order in the works of Natsume Soseki / Angela Yiu. p.

cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8248-1981-0 (alk. paper) 1. Natsume, Soseki, 1867-1916—Criticism and interpretation. PL812.A8Y58

1998

895.6'342—dc2i

98-4185 CIP

Studies of the East A s i a n Institute, C o l u m b i a University The East Asian Institute is Columbia University's center for research, publication, and teaching on modern East Asia. The Studies of the East Asian Institute were inaugurated in 1962 to bring to a wider public the results of significant new research on modern and contemporary East Asia.

University of Hawai'i Press books are printed on acidfree paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources

Design by Barbara Pope Book Design

To ¡Mother and Tather

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix

1

Chapter 1

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

Chapter 2

A Parody of Forms: Adventures in Narrative

13

in Kofu and Sorekara

42

Chapter 3

The Critic, the Teacher, and the Writer

82

Chapter 4

Space and Movement in Kojin

118

Chapter 5

From Garasudo no naka to Michikusa

156

Chapter 6

In Quest of an Ending: An Examination of Soseki's Kanshi Notes

197

Selected Bibliography Index

182

243

235

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many individuals have helped in the writing of this book. Kyoko Selden at Cornell University was generous with sharing her time and knowledge as she read Sôseki's 1911 lectures with me. Beth Ward, Hideko Secrest, Karen Kilby, and Dennis Washburn read the manuscript in its initial stages and made valuable suggestions and comments. Edward Kamens and John Treat read it in the dissertation form and provided constructive criticisms. Hilary Lutwyche reviewed the manuscript before submission to the Press, and Joseph Brown assisted with meticulous copyediting during the final stages of publication. I am grateful to all of them. I also want to thank Carol Gluck and Madge Huntington of the East Asian Institute at Columbia University as well as Sharon Yamamoto and Masako Ikeda at the University of Hawai'i Press for their support and encouragement in bringing this manuscript to publication. I began this book as a dissertation at Yale University and was supported by Sumitomo and East Asian Prize Fellowships. A Japan Foundation Fellowship allowed me to conduct research in Japan. My deepest gratitude goes to Edwin McClellan, whose wisdom and learning influenced the way I read and live. This book would not have been possible without his intellectual guidance and encouragement.

IX

INTRODUCTION

One must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Thus Spoke

Zarathustra

But mark how beautiful an order has sprung from the dust and blood of this fierce chaos! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, A Defence of Poetry

Beneath the emphasis on order, responsibility, and a clear sense of morality in Natsume Soseki's works lurks a dark, romantic voice that repeatedly directs our attention to the forces of chaos. Amid the austerity and intellectuality of his prose, Soseki strains his will to suppress the instability within himself as well as in the world around him. The eruptions of these elements of restlessness are conditions that make narrative possible and engaging, and, in the words of D. A. Miller, they form "the cluster of latent potentialities that permit a narrative to unfold." 1 This study attempts to delineate, on the one hand, Soseki's effort to give order to the dance of chaos through his innovations in narrative and, on the other hand, the subversion of form by the powerful emotions in the content of his works. I must clarify here that, when I speak of chaos, I do not mean disorder or randomness in thoughts or language. The chaos to which I refer is not the poststructuralist concept that says "nothing, whether deed, word, thought or text, ever happens in relation, positive or negative, to anything that precedes, follows or exists elsewhere, but only as a random event whose power . . . is due to the randomness of its

1

2

Introduction

occurrence."2 It is rather something cavernous and amorphous, like an unidentifiable fear or a formless anxiety, that threatens to overtake reason and self-control. In a thought-provoking work entitled Chaos Bound, N. Katherine Hayles points out that, in the Western tradition, Chaos and Eros have always been considered as "the two primeval forces of the world" and that "Chaos is the older of the two."3 In Chinese philosophy, the primeval beginning is also described as unfathomable and unnameable.41 use the word chaos here mainly in its sense of something undefinable, energetic, and powerful. In my discussion of Soseki's work, chaos specifically refers to the mental states of anguish, loneliness, fear, and disgust that so often dominate his world. Order refers to control and form. The medium of kanshi (poems in literary Chinese), for instance, is extremely attractive to Soseki by virtue of the fact that it forces the poet to express intense emotions in a set number of words governed by rhyme and rhythm as well as by parallel images and sentence structure. Its tightly controlled form is the epitome of order, and, in the last few months of his life, Soseki regulated his days by writing the novel Meian in the morning and kanshi in the afternoon. While Soseki finds comfort in the poetic form, he does not, however, seek refuge in it. His confrontation with form is in fact abrasive, in that he does not cease to reinterpret or invent a form until it expresses fully the complexity of his thoughts and emotions. Paradoxically, he frequently destabilizes form, through reinterpretation or parody, to achieve the kind of supreme order he seeks to govern the intricacy of meaning. In my analysis, I do not value chaos over order or vice versa. I wish to show only that, in his best works, order and chaos grapple with each other to produce profound meaning and exquisite form. Among the profusion of Soseki's works, I have chosen six novels, a series of lectures and critical essays, and his kanshi to illustrate the tension between order and chaos in his creative process. I selected these works over others not so much for their thematic unity as for their eloquent testimony to the gestation of new forms and the honest

Introduction

3

struggle of an artist who seeks to understand his life and his place in history through the process of his writing. These works reveal the confidence of one who is sure of his art and his greatness in a memorable era while at the same time conveying the humility of one who remains unsheltered and trembling in the face of irresolvable questions about existential loneliness, painful memories from the past, and death. I try to incorporate, when relevant, discussions of some of his other works not centrally featured in this book, but it is clear that any personal selection calls for an explanation of the criteria involved therein. My selection provides a fair representation of a variety of genres—novels, lectures, critical essays, zuihitsu and shohin (literary essays), tanpen (short stories), and

kanshi—and

appeals directly to my intellect and consciousness in my attempt to read Soseki better and to gain insight into his works. My argument proceeds as follows. Chapter 1 focuses on Nowaki (1907) and Gubijinso (1907), two novels written right before and after Soseki quit his university position and joined the newspaper agency Asahi Shimbun as a professional writer. This chapter deals with the notion of didactic closure and examines how the final configuration of events in his narrative often suggests a desire to restore order to a state of instability. Chapter 2 gives two examples of Soseki's manipulation of the literary tradition to destabilize and renew the conventional notions of comedy and tragedy. Kofu (1908) is an experimentation in form par excellence; in it Soseki parodies the confessional and tragic modes to give Kofu its ingenuity and lightness of meaning. Sorekara (1909) is a reinterpretation of the classical worlds of the kabuki and joruri. The circles of tragedy and heroism in the worlds of the classical theater break down completely in Sorekara and infuse the novel with a heightened sense of uneasiness. In their different ways, Kofu and Sorekara show the writer's preoccupation with devising new forms to accommodate his vision of the human condition. Chapter 3 delineates the multiple roles that Soseki undertakes in his lectures and critical works and discusses the tension between his

4

Introduction

critical and his poetic languages. This chapter deals with an area of his writing that is supposedly more analytic and straightforward, as opposed to the language of his fiction and poetry. But the division between the language of reason and that of poetry is blurred even in his public lectures. Without diminishing his achievement as a critic, I question his ability to sustain the momentum of a lecture or a piece of criticism when the language of his poetry constantly subverts the form. My question is not whether Soseki is a better artist or critic; it is whether he teaches more effectively through his literary works or his criticism. Apart from discussing his language, I examine the development of his critical standpoint, such as his criticism of naturalism and his comments on the enlightenment of Japan, in an attempt to understand his vision of morality and his struggle to balance his tutelary and artistic roles. Chapter 4 examines the structural factors that play a vital role in the development of characters and plot in a long and apparently fragmented novel. The manipulation of space and movement in Kojin (1912-1913) enables Soseki to sustain a narrative that is a clear departure from the classic narrative structure of beginning, middle, and end. Moreover, in depicting the psychological realm through the physical landscape, and in using wandering as a symbol of the course of human fate, he gives shape and expression to the elusive and inscrutable. Chapter 5 examines two works written in 1915, a year before Soseki's death, that deal with matters closely based on his life. I compare the narrative personae in the two works in an attempt to show that the order that Soseki labors to create through the self-contained narrative persona in Garasudo no naka disintegrates into emotional chaos in Michikusa when a different and unforgiving narrative voice examines the most painful aspects of his past and present life. In doing so, I try to portray Soseki's vision of self as he writes about his own life. Chapter 6 discusses the Chinese poetry written in the last months of his life. The stable poetic form of the kanshi serves as a receptacle, holding and restraining the poet's intense emotional outpouring as

Introduction

5

his life draws to an end, while its rich and romantic language enables him to create a separate word dwelling where myths and fantasies that are purged of the harsh and dry novelistic world of Meian continue to thrive. I reject the notion that his kanshi convey the simplistic theme "follow heaven, eliminate s e l f " (sokuten kyoshi) and suggest that, when Soseki is at his best, the kanshi demonstrate a superb balance of form and content. His most accomplished compositions show how the chaos of emotion is gently contained in a highly crafted, welldefined poetic form that is the epitome of order. In his rich and productive life as an artist, Soseki wrote over a dozen novels and numerous short stories that contribute significantly to, if not define, the development of the modern Japanese novel in the Meiji and Taisho eras. His works blend tradition with innovation and defy labeling; they range from the romantic Arthurian legends of Kairoko and Maboroshi no tate to the comic and satirical Botchan and Wagahai wa neko de aru, from the ornate and didactic Gubijinso to the open-ended Sorekara, and from the allegorical Kokoro to the introspective Michikusa and the criticism of society and manners in the realistic depiction of Meian. It is the least of my wishes, therefore, to impose a thematic unity on his works, but, at the same time, I do think that there is a distinct and individual artistic and intellectual consciousness that governs all these works. It is that spirit that I try to portray in this study. Soseki has written texts and created characters out of his own existential angst and questioning, and I do not apologize for taking the author himself into consideration when that is necessary in order to understand his work. In some current critical studies, the author has been relegated to the shadows, as though any hint of biography would deny the independence and vitiate the interpretation of the texts. Currently in Japan, Soseki's works are defined as a discursive space (gensetsu kukan) in which language, form, and meaning give rise to a special arena for interpretation. Yet interest in the author as a literary figure as well as his time has never been stronger, and crit-

6

Introduction

ics continue to dig deep into Soseki's life in an attempt to understand his relationships with his followers and fellow writers, his personal friendship with the poet Masaoka Shiki and how their shared interests and ideals influenced the development of the shaseibun (literary sketch) and the modern Japanese language, and, above all, the existential angst in his life that ignites his creativity. The most engaging criticisms often strike a fine balance between understanding the author and understanding the text, resulting in an illumination of the artist's role in history, his personal struggle with interpreting his life and the world, and his determination to create a language for his experience and imagination. The process of reading Soseki has been an adventure in understanding for me. Faced with the inevitable uncertainties and anxieties of life, I find Soseki's struggle in recognizing his inner turmoil and giving it shape and expression through language a viable process for dealing with the problems of existence. This study, then, explores the possibility of understanding self and reality by way of the long detour of literature, a path that Soseki has opened up for the reader. Soseki studies have burgeoned in Japan in the past decade. Whether this has to do with our anxiety and restlessness as the century and millennium draw to an end, as some critics like to suggest, one cannot tell, but it is reasonable to believe that, as we face the uncertainty and solitude of modern existence, we find that Soseki speaks to us with the depth, clarity, and even, at times, compassion of someone who has experienced standing at the precipice of an abyss of fear, looking into it and describing it, thus giving us a language to illuminate and interpret our own experience. Perhaps it is not only Soseki's achievements—his superb command of the language, his deep understanding of human nature, his keen perception of Japan's role in world history—but also his frailty and doubts, of which he speaks eloquently and honestly, and the diversity of interests in his texts that inspire readers and attract critics from various disciplines—linguists, novelists, social scientists, etc.—to contribute to the growing body of

Introduction

7

Soseki criticism. There are thousands of essays, journal articles, and monographs published on Soseki each year, and I can include here only some of the major voices in Soseki studies for the benefit of future researchers. The publication in 1993 of the third volume of Eto Jun's Soseki to sonojidai (Soseki and his time) marks the continuation of the painstaking study begun some twenty years ago, providing in-depth analyses of such works as Wagahai wa neko de aru, Kusamakura, and Botchan and bringing the chronicle of Soseki's life to the closing years of the Russo-Japanese War, when he resigned his position at Tokyo University and became a full-time writer with Asahi Shimbun. Eto emphasizes darkness and fluidity as the source of Soseki's creativity, elaborating on the namelessness of things (from the nameless cat in Neko to the nameless characters in the mysterious short story "Ichiya") and comparing it to the Taoist philosophy of nothingness and a fluid space that invites the dance of language. Eto carefully weaves the historical background of war, death, and loss into his readings, calling special attention to the presence in everyday life of death and the supernature. Ultimately, he gives us a portrait of Soseki as a man for whom solitude, rather than connectedness, is the condition for existence.5 Among the younger generation of scholars, Karatani Kojin has made important contributions to the field of Soseki studies, focusing especially on Soseki's Bungakuron (A theory of literature). Karatani argues that Soseki doubts the universal character of English literature and endeavors to address in his works the question, What is literature? "There was no other mode of existence possible for [Soseki] except as theoretician," Karatani boldly insists, asserting that Soseki's theory "gave birth to his fiction."6 Karatani argues that Soseki questioned why the history of literature should be defined in one way and not another and that his writings defy the confines of an individual school or a single genre and force us to reconsider the underlying meaning of modernity and literature.7 One of the issues that Karatani repeatedly addresses is shaseibun

8

Introduction

(literary sketch), a discursive form of writing found in many of Soseki's works, ranging from Wagahai wa neko de aru to Kofu and Higan sugi made. Karatani argues that the protean shaseibuti counteracts the symbolic order imposed by the genbun itchi movement (the unification of the written and spoken language) in the Meiji. 8 Shaseibuti almost always retains the voice of a narrator, while modern literature characteristically employs a third-person narrative from an omniscient perspective. The existence of the narrator in shaseibuti lends the text its duality, as in the case of the cat narrator in Wagahai wa neko de aru, who not only points out the foibles of the other characters but is also himself the subject of irony. Shaseibuti usually uses the present or imperfect tense—as opposed to the simple past (with the verb ending -ta), which renders the entire discursive space past and turns the narrative into a reminiscence. It thus avoids the corrective judgment of hindsight or an overall view that summarizes and judges the past, instead presenting the narrative as an ongoing process. The comic rambling of the young man in Kofu, for example, embodies the characteristics of shaseibuti.9 Karatani points out the structural fissure that occurs in many of Soseki's works, such as the abrupt switch to the epistolary form in Kdjin and Kokoro and Sosuke's sudden departure for a zen pilgrimage in Mori to avoid confronting the man he cheated in the past. He argues that the fissure occurs when the protagonist encounters an indescribable horror in the form of a nontransparent Otherness within himself, something akin to confronting the stranger in oneself. Soseki's texts, he emphasizes, should be read as a struggle to give words to that which is beyond expression. 10 Komori Yoichi and Ishihara Chiaki are two of the most active critics in the field. Both in their forties, they have made significant contributions to the "Soseki boom" (Soseki buumu) of the 1990s, regularly and assiduously producing critical works and participating frequently in zadankai.11 (Soseki studies) in 1993.

They also founded the journal Soseki kenkyu 12

Introduction

9

Komori and Ishihara helped launch the "Soseki boom" and their own careers with their highly controversial essays on Kokoro.li

Both

essays speculated the possible union of the young narrator and Sensei's wife after Sensei's suicide, sparking a lively debate that produced over two hundred critical articles, over two-fifths of the 450 articles on Kokoro since its publication.14 Ishihara is interested in structure; he points out that almost all Soseki's novels involve triangles with unequal sides, a structural form that undercuts the stable image of the symmetrical triangle and contributes to the precariousness of his texts.15 He also takes a historical approach, however, reinvesting the text with the full meaning inevitably lost with the passage of time. He points out, for instance, that in Kokoro the term sensei (a rough equivalent of professor or mentor, depending on context) signifies the social bond between the narrator (a high school student) and the protagonist (university educated, seen in the company of a foreigner), thereby presenting today's readers with an interpretive problem, partly because, through overuse, its meaning has been watered down, but also because it signifies a social division that, owing to the prevalence of higher education, no longer exists.16 Komori has gone on to produce many thought-provoking readings of Soseki's works. He is a close reader and loves details, drawing our attention to, for example, Mineko's personal bank account in Sanshird (a sign of her eventually curtailed independence) and Michiyo's decision not to wear the ichogaeshi

hairstyle in Sorekara. When considered

in the light of cultural history (what a certain hairstyle signifies), language (female as opposed to male speech), and the characters' social backgrounds, such details open up new readings of the texts that illuminate their richness and complexity. Many critics have begun to wrestle with the question of gender, as a result paying more attention to Soseki's female characters. Mizumura Minae's Zoku Meian (Meian—the sequel)—an attempt to give Soseki's unfinished magnum opus an ending—clearly makes Onobu,

io

Introduction

the protagonist's wife, the most interesting and important character. Among the many inspiring critical studies along feminist lines are Mizumura Minae's study of Fujio, which contrasts the language that describes Fujio (ornate, dark, emotional) with that which describes the male world (straightforward, bright, philosophical); Mizuta Noriko's study of Sensei's wife, Shizu; and Egusa Mitsuko's treatment of pregnancy and childbirth in Michikusa.17 It is impossible to classify the explosion of Soseki studies into different schools or trends. 18 In 1956, Eto Jun's presented a picture of Soseki that was radically different from the accepted image, a Soseki who embraced his own darkness and faced his own moral questions as he handled the tension between self and other, Japan and the West, the individual and the nation. In 1969, Karatani shifted the emphasis from the ethical to the existential. In 1978, Hasumi Shigehiko presented a close reading of various images in Soseki's texts, but, instead of organizing them by theme and searching for deeper meaning, he argued that the images penetrate the texts and serve to disrupt and problematize rather than unify them. 19 In the late 1980s, instead of searching for an approach that unified and defined Soseki works, scholars began to speak of his oeuvre as a bunretsu no sotai (disrupted whole), emphasizing its diversity, fluidity, and hybrid nature. Many new and exciting viewpoints and arguments have been added to the discursive space around Soseki in the recent boom, and words such as kurasa (darkness), hikisakareta watakushi (a divided self), andjikochiyu

nogensetsu (a cathartic discursion) are frequently

heard. Some critics choose to read Soseki historically and provide interesting biographical interpretations, while others closely analyze his writing style in an attempt to define the language that he has created to shape and define modern Japanese literature. Some critics, like Karatani, talk about the impact of eighteenth-century English literature and David Hume's philosophy on Soseki's works, and many have adopted the language of Western theoretically oriented criticism, their vocabulary bristling with such terms as ecriture, paradigm,

Introduction

11

double-bind, thematism, code, and signifier zero (zero kigo, Karatani), to name but a few. Reacting to the scant interest shown in Soseki in the United States, Hasumi spoke negatively of James Fujii's reading of Kokoro as a postcolonial novel,20 on the grounds that it is trifling to criticize Kokoro and accuse Soseki of complicity by pointing out General Nogi's failings in Manchuria and that it is wrong to think that we are more aware of the political situation than Soseki because we have more information nowadays. Asada Akira chimed in to comment on the kind of "politically correct" interpretation that has gained currency in certain circles in the United States—thus opening up an avenue for criticism from the margin (women, the colonized)—certain specimens of which he considers to be tangential at best. 21 While such outof-hand dismissals may seem like overreactions, it must be admitted that care must be taken not to let one's own preoccupations distort one's critical judgment, especially when challenging the dominant viewpoint from the margins. For those not familiar with the life of Natsume Soseki, a brief account can be given here. 22 He was born Natsume Kinnosuke in 1867, one year before the beginning of the Meiji era, to a father of fifty and a mother of forty-one. At two, he was adopted and renamed Shiohara Kinnosuke, then returned to his birth parents at the age of ten when the marriage of his adoptive parents failed. However, it was not arranged for him to resume the family name until he turned twentytwo, when two of his three older brothers died of tuberculosis and his father sought to secure the family name in case the third son died as well. When he finally chose a pen name for himself, he adopted Soseki, taken from the Chinese phrase soseki chinryu (rinsing one's mouth with a stone and resting one's head on a pillow of flowing water), essentially an inversion founded on a mistaken use of the words stone and flowing water. Despite his deep love of Chinese literature, Soseki studied English

12

Introduction

literature in college and graduate school and went on to teach at various middle and high schools. He married Nakane Kyoko at the age of thirty and set up house in Kumamoto, but from the beginning the marriage was unhappy, and at the age of thirty-four he accepted a fellowship from the Ministry of Education to study for two years in England. He led a meager existence in England, spending a large part of his income on books, and devoted himself to the study of English literature. Bungakuron (1906), conceived as a ten-year project but published just three years after he returned from England, was a direct product of that period of research, a work he was later to call "a dead illegitimate child." On returning to Japan, Soseki took a post teaching English literature at Tokyo Imperial University, but in 1907 he resigned from the university and became a full-time writer with Asahi Shimbun. From that time until his death in 1916, he wrote over ten novels, creating a language that shaped the development of modern Japanese literature as well as a body of work that probes deeply into the moral and existential questions of modern times. Many contemporary critics identify the bifurcation or split in the nature of Soseki's existence, his personality, and his works. While they treat Soseki's texts as a discursive space, they also look to Soseki's life to find clues to understand his works. The split that begins with his own multiple names becomes clear and profound as critics examine Soseki the theorist and Soseki the novelist, Soseki the intellectual and Soseki the romantic, Soseki's profound love and understanding of classical Chinese literature and his relentless struggle to complete a theoretical study of English literature. This study also examines a split that runs deep in the discursive space of Soseki's writings as order grapples with chaos, and in it I hope to show the strength and artistry with which Soseki negotiates these forces in creating a language for, instead of surrendering to, the complexities and sundering turmoils of existence.

CHAPTER 1

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

q J . a the same year that Soseki wrote Nowaki (The autumn wind; 1907), Tayama Katai wrote Futon (The quilt), a work that exposes human nature in the raw in its depiction of a schoolteacher's infatuation with one of his female students. Futon set the tone for and established the characteristics of what came to be known as the naturalist movement in Japanese fiction, a literary movement that reached its heyday in the next two or three years with the publication of Kunikida Doppo's Take no kido (The bamboo fence), Shimazaki Toson's Haru (Spring), and Tokuda Shusei's Arajotai (The new household) in 1908 and Toson's Ie (The family) in 1910. 1 All these works, by writers of different temperaments, vary in content and style, but they share an anti-idealist position and a concern with the everyday struggles of their characters, acknowledging and exposing both the weaknesses of human nature and the sordidness of the human condition. Written by an intellectual steeped in the traditions of Chinese learning and English literature, Nowaki stands apart from the works of the naturalist school in its audacity of moral judgment, its rigorous intellectuality, and its defense of certain literary and moral ideals.2 13

14

Chapter 1 Although by 1911 Soseki had come to view the inevitable break-

down of certain classical ideals and the rise of individualism in a more positive light 3 —and as early as 1909 he was beginning to raise serious questions as to whether the moral dictums of the past were still relevant 4 —in 1907 he still clung to a burning sense of mission to preach morality and to uphold certain literary ideals through his novels. Although his attitude toward the rising tide of naturalism was not entirely negative, it was complex, and he did criticize the naturalist writers vehemently for sacrificing the ideals of virtue (zen), beauty (hi), and austerity (sogen) in their narrow pursuit of reality or verisimilitude (shin).5 His early works in particular display a strong tendency toward didacticism and the making of pronouncements in order to make clear a set of moral teachings or ideals. While the two novels that he wrote during the course of 1907 are very different from each other both stylistically and thematically—Nowaki depicting the interlocking fates of an impoverished old teacher and a tubercular young man in their respective struggles to resist capitalist society, and Gubijinso (The poppy) attempting to define morality for the individual bound by traditional obligations—they do share certain characteristics. Each features a young man from the country trying to make it in Tokyo, and each displays conclusive closure, indicating the author's compulsion to make a definitive, authoritative statement about the struggles of the characters in the moral and social spheres into which they are thrown. Nowaki depicts the intersecting worlds of Takayanagi, Nakano, and Doya. Takayanagi is a sensitive and poetic young man from the country who aspires to be a writer but finds himself barely making ends meet on graduation from the university in Tokyo. Through his association with Nakano, a rich college friend, Takayanagi catches a glimpse of bourgeois life and society, whose snobbery repels him yet whose comforts seduce him. In the meantime, Doya, Takayanagi's

Strong Closures In the Early Novels

15

former teacher in the country, has drifted to Tokyo after losing a succession of teaching positions and has found work as a reporter for Koko zasshi, a minor journal.6 One day Doya happens to interview Nakano for an article he is writing. On hearing Nakano mention Doya and the interview, Takayanagi decides to visit his old teacher without revealing who he i s — as it turns out, in his school days he was one of a group of students whose actions caused Doya to lose a teaching job. Takayanagi senses a clear spiritual affinity between his own aspirations and Doya's moralism, but he also covets the freedom and leisure of Nakano's bourgeois world. As the narrative unfolds, we find out that Takayanagi is prevented from pursuing his creative work not only by his dire financial circumstances but also by his poor health. Nakano offers Takayanagi enough money to allow him to restore his health and write his book. At the last moment, however, Takayanagi decides to give the money to Doya in return for Doya's manuscript, "A Treatise on Character." The narrative ends with Takayanagi hurrying to Nakano's place, Doya's work clutched to his bosom, in order to repay Nakano and his wife for their kindness. The money-for-manuscript episode is the climax of the narrative, and we are left to infer that Takayanagi sacrifices his health and creativity to save Doya. In the end, the reader is forced to question Soseki's final treatment of these characters, to question, that is, his decision to sacrifice Takayanagi, affirm Doya's moralism, and frustrate Nakano's attempt to save Takayanagi. After all, Takayanagi is the only sensitive and modern character who crosses societal borders in the narrative, whereas Nakano and Doya are securely moored to the different worlds they represent. Why, then, does Soseki create a complex character just to sacrifice him to a dogmatic moralist in the end? I return to this question after examining the characters, their worlds, and specifically the language that shapes Takayanagi. Takayanagi is typical of many of the impoverished young men, including a number of the naturalist writers, who flocked to Tokyo

16

Chapter 1

to take advantage of the opportunities it offered for education and employment. 7 He is from Niigata, a predominantly rural province on the west side of Japan. His father was imprisoned for embezzlement when Takayanagi was seven and died of tuberculosis in jail. Takayanagi manages to make his way through college in Tokyo but after graduation finds himself barely scraping together a living by writing about the pedagogy of geography instead of channeling his imagination into more creative writing. Exposed to the comfort and power of high society through his association with Nakano, Takayanagi covets the freedoms of the privileged class, especially the freedom to nourish spiritual needs and indulge creative urges. Takayanagi is one of the most sensitive characters in a line of "social malcontents" in Soseki's novels, characters that include Ono in Gubijinso, Hiraoka in Sorekara, and Kobayashi in Meian. Eto Jun calls these characters "the illegitimate children of civilization and enlightenment," 8 men who find themselves equipped with an education but stranded on the margins of society. His counterparts in Western literature include Pip in Dickens' Great Expectations, Hyacinth Robinson in James' Princess Casamassima, Julien Sorel in Stendhal's Red and Black, and Tastignac in Dostoyevsky's The Possessed. Like these upwardly aspiring young men, Takayanagi is the typical young man from the provinces, one who, "equipped with poverty, pride, and intelligence," "stands outside of life and seeks to enter." 9 But, unlike his Western counterparts, who are transformed into gentlemen by some powerful hand, Takayanagi does not see the light of salvation. Soseki writes, "His past is full of transgressions, his future nothing but sickness. The present is mere scribbling to earn a living" (sz, 2:753). The poetic language that the author uses to portray Takayanagi's consciousness lends the character much nobility. While Soseki does not ultimately grant Takayanagi salvation, he no doubt lends him more dignity than is granted the other characters in the novel by enabling him to channel his acute sense of loneliness into poetic language:

Strong Closures In the Early Novels

17

The saying "One sees autumn in a single falling leaf" was an old one. Lamentable autumn invariably began with the paulownia. While the leaves still rustled over the fence, you forgot that they were a reminder of sadness. Yet the next morning, still with a rustle, they fell. Outside the shutters that you closed early against the autumn chill there was again a rustle. The leaves gradually began to turn yellow. From beneath the fading green leaves there seeped the fluid color of the draining resin. The resin thickened with the passing of every chilly night. Life, in its profusion, was on the brink of death. The wind blew. From somewhere unknown the wind quietly blew. Even before you could see the yellowish treetop sway, the leaves fluttered down by ones and twos. The rest held on. The resin thickened in the autumn frost of each passing night. In the resin, black fiber appeared. Struck with a broom, the resin made a sound like the snap of a rice cracker as it was broken. The black fiber spread out left and right. Life was in a perilous state. The wind came. From the chinks in the wall, from underneath the eaves it came blowing. The shaky leaves fell. One after another they fell. Not only did they look shaky, they dropped off the treetop until the tree was almost bare. When the bright moon shone, the tree appeared so skeletal that one could almost count the branches. The few remaining leaves were worm eaten. In their deep, sober color a hole appeared. Next to it another one appeared, and next to that yet another one. They became covered with holes. The withered leaves spoke of loneliness. The viewer said, "They must be lonely." The wind blew everywhere. The leaves were blown away. When Takayanagi suddenly looked up, the paulownia tree had gone through all these stages and was already bald. At the tip of a branch that arched toward the window, one single wormeaten leaf kept its grip. "How lonely!" Takayanagi murmured, (sz, 2:742-743)

i8

Chapter i Nakano, on the other hand, is a good-natured young man who

belongs to a social class that benefits directly from the rise of capitalism. He inhabits a fairy-tale world that is wholly Western—newlyweds standing under arches in gardens complete with statues of Venus, meals of rare beefsteak in fashionable Western restaurants, men in frock coats and women with big, bright ribbons twirling in and out of concert halls and receptions. Nakano even dreams of writing a romance in which a red rose turns deathly pale in a young girl's hand. As a friend, Nakano is kind and generous, treating Takayanagi to meals and entertainment as well as offering him money. While Sôseki calls both Nakano and his fiancée "virtuous people" (zenniti), he nevertheless clearly judges them for their naïveté. And, while Nakano's generosity is genuine and not patronizing, albeit undeniably easily exercised because of his comfortable circumstances, he is judged for his complicity in the Meiji nouveau riche society whose aping of the West and ignorance of social realities are ludicrous and shameful. Sôseki's merciless depiction of bourgeois antics reveals Meiji elitist society at its worst. At Nakano's wedding reception, for instance, one guest comments with a malicious snicker to his companion that another guest, who is apparently not wearing the proper kind of frock coat for the occasion, looks like a waiter. Meanwhile, someone else casually mentions that he smokes twenty yen worth of cigarettes a day, a figure equivalent to Takayanagi's monthly salary. Diametrically opposed to Nakano's bourgeois existence is the harsh world of Dôya. Dôya represents the die-hard traditionalist and moralist standing firm in the face of a modern Japan undergoing a rapid transformation into a capitalist and industrial country. He devotes his free time to writing and preaching about the dangers of the rising materialism and the importance of ethics. His lectures and writings, in fact, take up a fair amount of the narrative space of Nowaki, not least the seven-page article "Gedatsu to kôdei" (Liberation and conformity), the lengthy essay "Gendai seinen ni tsugu" (A word to contemporary youth), and the twenty-page lecture delivered in Seikikan Hall. The style of his public discourse is flatly didactic.

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Takayanagi sees a reflection of himself in the older and more decrepit Doya: "The teacher's clothes were, just as Nakano said, similar to his [Takayanagi's] own. The teacher's study doubled as a living room, and that was also the same as his own room. The teacher's desk was made of white wood, just like his. It was also bare, plain, and squarish, just like his. The teacher's face, in its pallor and thinness, was the same as his" (sz, 2:709). Mired in frustration and poverty, Takayanagi experiences exhilaration only in his encounters with Doya. He is awed as he watches the self-appointed emissary of morality on the podium, condemning materialism and lauding the deeds of the Meiji patriots in the fierce autumn wind, and he allows himself to be totally absorbed into Doya's world. Yet moments in which Takayanagi finds himself securely moored in the bifurcated world of materialism and morality are extremely rare and short-lived. He is usually uncomfortably straddling the barrier between the social and the spiritual differences that so clearly separate and define the realms of Doya and Nakano. His thoughts constantly question and unsettle the fundamental stability and independence of the divided world.10 He repudiates the values of the privileged class and embraces those of Doya only when he is trapped in the affluence and extravagance of the concert hall or displaced among the idle rich at the wedding party. At the same time, Takayanagi is aware that his spiritual mentor has severe limitations as a human being. A moralist who acts as though he does not live in the physical world, Doya is strangely untouched by suffering and extremely self-absorbed. When the autumn wind (nowaki)

blows, Doya, unperturbed, continues to feel

secure in his moral world, but his wife huddles by the weak flame of the charcoal stove, and Takayanagi is overwhelmed with forlornness: "In contrast to Doya, who was oblivious to everything, Takayanagi was aware of everything. He knew the looks of the passersby. He knew the sharp bite of the chilly wind. He knew how many geese flew across the sky. He was aware of beautiful women. He was aware of the value of money. He was constantly aware that his miserable self

20

Chapter 1

was treated like dirt, and the bitterness of life gnawed at his bones. He knew from his insides that the food in the lodging house was pitiful and that all they served was potatoes" (sz, 2:741). The use of this kind of highly structured and systematic prose to describe such restless and tormented awareness shows a disjunction in Soseki's desire to portray an explosive state of disequilibrium and at the same time prevent it from overturning the world governed by an identifiable and recognizable set of values. Much as Soseki loves the passion and poetry in the restless thoughts of a discontented character, he abhors narrative anarchy and disorder and will not trade control for chaos. He will not allow Takayanagi to develop into a Raskolnikov—although the potential is there—because, unlike Dostoyevsky, for whom ultimate salvation was a certainty despite the sins, social and otherwise, of this world, 11 Soseki knows no such religious assurance. He must find his own way to bring order to the anguished thoughts and lives of his characters, and that way is through language. Again and again he describes the tumultuous, autumnal landscape that corresponds to the lonely desperation of Takayanagi, yet he always keeps the potential for chaos tightly under control through his meticulous prose. One notable example is the scene in which Nakano catches Takayanagi watching the autumn leaves in front of the zoo: In the blackness of the thick trunk of the cherry tree a silvery light glistened in the reflection of the autumn sun, and the withered leaves that left the branches fell onto the shoulders of the passersby. Here and there, the fallen, dry leaves scuttled about on the ground. The colors were varied. If one were to expose fresh blood to the sun, print its daily transformation for seven days on the undersides of leaves, and carelessly fold the changes into a single leaf, then the colors would certainly be like these. That was what came to Takayanagi's mind after gazing at the leaves for some time. The moment he made the association with blood, Takayanagi

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

21

sensed something cold flow from his underarms to his shirt. He coughed—an

uncontrollable hacking cough.

The shapes, too, were varied. Toasted rice crackers came in a thousand different shapes, but they all said, "Look at me! Look at me!" and curled up. The fallen leaves of the cherry tree also curled up with a rustle; curled up, they were carried along in the wind. There was neither regret nor attachment in the parched substance. Perhaps it was the intention of those who thought nothing of entrusting their destinations to the uncertain wind to stir up much empty frolic in the festival after death. There was a kind of madness in the twirling leaves as they were swept away by the wind. It was the madness of something that desired death. As nature adorned itself with death and madness,

Takayanagi

drew up his emaciated shoulders and coughed again—a

hollow

hacking cough, (sz, 2:682-683} The parallel, systematic description of the colors and shapes of the leaves coupled with Takayanagi's recurring coughs are characteristic of Soseki's desire to bring order to chaos and to name, and thereby control, what is otherwise overwhelming fear and emptiness. He never lets thoughts or imagery of chaos flow unchecked, but keeps them in tight control. Another instance of such tight verbal control occurs in the scene that takes place in the concert hall in which Takayanagi finds himself trapped in a jungle of strange animals. Color here functions to push his perception of reality over the brink of order into chaos. First, he notices the enormous yellow ribbon sitting atop the black hair of a woman with reddish eye shadow. Then he is overcome by the yellow and green voices that are reverberating madly among the beams. Finally, amid the roar of applause, the violinist comes back on stage, trailing a skirt dotted with faint red leaves, and receives a bouquet of white chrysanthemums blooming in frenzied profusion (see sz, 2:689-691). At this point, color ceases to be the agent by means of which the

22

Chapter i

artist interprets the world; it becomes instead an overpowering, anarchic force that turns on and haunts the paranoid artist. In search of order and coherence, Takayanagi looks out the window: "Outside the window to his right, the lower half of a tall fir tree was visible, while the rest of it thrust into the sky beyond. The clear, bright autumn sun seeped through the green curtains on the left and shone obliquely on the white w a l l . . . . Takayanagi gazed at the way a kite was dancing near the fir tree. How wonderful it was, he thought, that the kite was dancing in time to the music" (sz, 2:690). Takayanagi's anxiety to restore harmony to a discordant, unorganized plane of existence reflects Soseki's attitude toward the novel at this stage in his career. Nowaki betrays the author's eagerness to bring order to a world on the brink of chaos. This is not to say that his later works do not exhibit a compulsion to tidy things up, but the neat closure of Nowaki reveals a particular zeal for the task. In Nowaki, one finds well-defined characters who fall into neatly defined and carefully segregated worlds, and the thoughts of the only character who disrupts the established social and moral categories are presented in highly structured prose employing recurring images. While Soseki introduces Takayanagi as the agent of instability and potential change, it is important to note that, in the end, he is in fact dispensable. What ultimately matters is not the salvation of the sensitive, poetic Takayanagi but the reestablishment of the morally firm and stable Doya. Such closure negates the complexity of the modern situation that the author was seduced into portraying. In his treatment of Takayanagi and Doya, Soseki has captured the "frightening discontinuity between the traditional past and the shaken present" 12 and in the end chosen to conceal the fissure. This brings us back to the question of the significance of the strong narrative closure in the novel. What is evident first of all is that Soseki is not willing to relinquish the voice of the teacher as he writes. While at this time the naturalist writers were increasingly tending to view the novel as first and foremost a confessional medium, a vehicle for relating their sordid past

Strong Closures In the Early Novels

23

— e s p e c i a l l y their sexual e x p e r i e n c e — S o s e k i held firm to the belief that the novel should be used to inculcate moral values. Of course w e do find in Nowaki the urge to tell a good story, but we also find the overriding desire to teach, to be of use. Indeed, writing is for Soseki not an elegant pastime but an important undertaking, equivalent to the work of the Meiji patriots: "If you regard literature as your life, then it is not enough just to have b e a u t y . . . . While I dabble in the art of haikai, I also want to try to write literature in the fierce spirit of the Meiji patriots w h o thrust their lives out in a battle of life and death." 1 3 By pointing to the limitations of works that express simply a sense of beauty, Soseki implies that literature should serve a larger and more constructive purpose in life. 14 Nowaki became his experiment in instilling morals through literature as he contemplated resigning from an academic job whose efficacy in imparting moral values he seriously doubted. To a great extent, the lines between teaching, lecturing, and writing are blurred in Soseki's mind at this point. Evidence to this effect can be found first in the form of

Nowaki—

the heavy-handed inclusion in the text of Doya's writings as well as the numerous lectures that Doya delivers in his exchanges with Takayanagi. 1 5 A d d to that the fact that, while the very first sentence of the novel proclaims Doya to be "a man of letters" ("bungakusha de aru"), it is evident that he is much more than that. Indeed, his very n a m e — Doya translates as "the w a y " — reveals the essence of his role in the novel. He is ultimately an allegorical figure, and the combination of teacher and writer that he embodies holds such symbolic significance that, despite the often ironic treatment of his character, his survival in the end is assured. Second, probably fueling the strong didactic bent of Soseki's novels is the frustration he encountered in his university teaching career. In 1903, Soseki succeeded Lafcadio Hearn as a lecturer in the humanities at T o k y o Imperial University. He would appear in class very smartly and formally dressed in a Western suit, complete with polished kidskin shoes and a black umbrella. In contrast to Hearn's

24

Chapter 1

lyrical style of lecturing, Soseki's lectures were intellectual and theoretical, which made him very unpopular among the students. 16 The texts that he assigned, such as George Eliot's Silas Marner and his own Bungakuron, were too difficult and dry for his students, who would literally fall asleep in his class. 17 He often expressed ambivalence about his teaching position, but his frustration clearly intensified toward 1906. On 3 June he wrote Morimake Yoshi, "This summer again I have to write the lectures. I feel stupid that I have to write them since they are insufferable, uninteresting, and people get bored with them." And on 18 July he wrote Komiya Toyotaka, "Next month I have to write the lectures again. Writing lectures is worse than death. When I think of that, I really want to just quit the university." 18 One can imagine the need for the enthusiastic but frustrated teacher to seek to educate by another means. Nowaki is the direct product of such a need. The ending of Nowaki tells us clearly that, of the three lives depicted in Nowaki, the author chooses to affirm Doya's moralism over Nakano's bourgeois kindness as well as Takayanagi's potential for change. To begin with, why is Nakano's generosity finally repudiated through Takayanagi's act of self-sacrifice? In real life, Soseki unabashedly shared Nakano's haute bourgeois taste, and much of his fiction depicts the moral and spiritual struggle of members of Nakano's social class, ranging from Daisuke in Sorekara to Sensei in Kokoro. Nakano's kindness is never depicted ironically, but, like the rest of his class, he lacks vision, a sense of morality, and a sense of purpose. The Meiji bourgeois world is unbearably effete and aimless, failing to provide moral leadership or bring about constructive change. Moreover, it is malicious, engaging in constant petty bickering, and frighteningly powerful, able to exclude the underprivileged. It is against this moral bankruptcy and spiritual paucity that Takayanagi's struggle and Doya's conviction command respect and sympathy. The author who feels a burning urgency to instill values in Meiji society cannot possibly convey his message through the gentle, unintelligent Nakano.

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25

The firm and nonnegotiable closure of Nowaki is also an indication that Sôseki is uncertain whether the malcontent ultimately plays a beneficial role in society. Although Takayanagi's poetic sensitivity c o m m a n d s the reader's mounting sympathy, his capacity for bitterness and meanness is unsettling. For example, in the restaurant where Nakano treats Takayanagi to a meal of beefsteak, they notice a swarthy industrialist laughing uproariously with no regard for those around him. Prone to self-pity, Takayanagi says, "I don't envy the industrialist, but I do envy his leisurely and comfortable lifestyle. Though I might have graduated, what's the point of a university degree if I have to exhaust myself scraping together a living like this?" W h e n the burning cigarette butt that he throws out the second-floor veranda of the restaurant happens to land on the hat of the industrialist, w h o is on his w a y out, Takayanagi laughs heartily as he has never done before (see sz, 2:647-648,655). The fact that Takayanagi enjoys such spiteful mischief reveals his taste for revenge of any kind on anyone w h o happens to represent the class that enjoys the privileges to which he aspires. Even his closest and only friend, Nakano, w h o treats him with brotherly affection, is not spared. W h e n Nakano suggests taking a walk in the park, Takayanagi reminds him that, while Nakano is wearing w a r m winter clothes, he himself is still in thin summer ones (sz, 2:662). On another occasion, as the two are walking together, Nakano starts tapping his own chest lightly with a pair of kidskin gloves out of embarrassment at the mention of his fiancée. The envious Takayanagi immediately skewers Nakano, remarking caustically, " W h y are you holding a pair of gloves that y o u aren't wearing?" Nakano stuffs the gloves back in his pocket, at which point Takayanagi's temper improves. Finally, w h e n they both notice a splendid horse-drawn carriage speeding by, Nakano points out that it carries the marquis Tokugawa. Takayanagi then taunts him, "You k n o w him well, don't you? Are you his retainer?" (sz, 2:685). Such meanness expresses the anger of the social malcontent at the injustice of being relegated to the margins of society. The firm narrative closure found in Nowaki reveals that, while

26

Chapter 1

Soseki's dissatisfaction with Meiji society was undeniably deep, as indicated by his merciless depiction of the idiocy and pretension of the garden party, there were definite limits to the threat to the established social order that Soseki would allow. Still, he did not sacrifice Takayanagi simply to preserve the status quo. As Nowaki clearly reveals, after forty years of "civilization and enlightenment," the standards of decency, judgment, and good taste expected of a truly enlightened society have yet to be established, and the sector of society that wields the most power displays its insecurity and sense of racial inferiority in its aping of the West. The order that Soseki reaffirms at the end of the novel is found in the personality of Doya and his unwavering conviction to certain classical moral values. Despite Doya's faults and the problems inherent in his worldview, Soseki is prepared to reaffirm these values in the face of the new, modern order. And, while he seeks to change society, he does not want to destroy it. Not only is there much that is good left in Meiji society, but the alternatives are radical and untested and will most likely, he feels, be unsuccessful. Better carefully to guard whatever remains of the good and stable. It is in this sense alone that Soseki can be considered a conservative. Nevertheless, readers are left in the end feeling betrayed and dissatisfied. The sympathy with Takayanagi and his condition that has been so carefully built up throughout the course of the novel is ruthlessly disrupted at the end. When Soseki brings his next novel, Gubijinso, to a similar conclusion, even he himself is dissatisfied with his heavy-handedness. Soseki wrote Gubijinso right after joining the staff of Asahi Shimbun. The extent of the media interest in the publication of Gubijinso can be gauged by the fact that, as soon as the announcement of the novel was made on 28 May in the Tokyo Asahi, the Mitsukoshi Department Store put out gubijinso yukata, and the jewelry store Gyokuhodo began selling gubijinso rings. 19 The novel was serialized between 23 June and 29 October in both the Tokyo Asahi and the Osaka Asahi.20

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

27

Gubijinso is a grand production marked by a language that is highly ornate, richly textured, and at times deeply philosophical. Many of Soseki's contemporary readers found the work difficult. Yoshida Seiichi, however, calls it one of the few novels in the history of modern Japanese literature that is renowned for its dazzlingly beautiful and rich language. Other critics, including Eto Jun, point out that, in terms of the method of the long novel, Soseki has learned much from such English novelists as George Meredith and Jane Austen.21 The plot of Gubijinso is sustained by a series of matrimonial arrangements. These involve six young people, three men and three women, coming from different social classes, but all of marriageable age. Fujio, a rich, glamorous, and self-centered young woman of twenty-four, has been informally promised by her father, now deceased, to her twenty-seven-year-old cousin Munechika, an aspiring diplomat who has failed his foreign service examination. Fujio herself is obsessed with the idea of possessing Ono, an aspiring young man who is making his way up the social ladder through academic achievement (on graduating from his university, he is awarded a silver watch by the emperor for scholastic excellence). Fujio's mother, a scheming and manipulative woman, is eager to have Ono marry into the family so that her daughter, instead of her stepson, can inherit the family name and wealth. Ono, however, is indebted to his old teacher from Kyoto, Kodo sensei, who supported him through his earlier schooling and expects him to marry his daughter Sayoko, a meek, very traditional young woman who plays the koto. At the beginning of the novel, Munechika is traveling in Kyoto with Kono, Fujio's half brother, a pensive and learned young man prone to philosophical rumination. By chance they encounter Sayoko on several occasions, and Kono is greatly drawn to the sound of her koto. On their way back to Tokyo, the two young men happen to ride on the same train that is carrying Kodo and Sayoko to Ono. Thus begin both Ono's struggle to wriggle out of his old obligation and find his way into Fujio's patronage and Munechika's attempt to foil Ono's maneuvering, first out of self-interest, and eventually in the name of justice.

28

Chapter i

In the course of bringing down Ono, Munechika mobilizes the help of his father and his sister Itoko, a bright-eyed, talented seamstress whose mild and generous character embodies family and traditional values. In the "grand reunion" scene toward the end when everyone gathers at the Kono residence, Ono publicly acknowledges his responsibility to Sayoko, and Fujio, consumed with pride and anger, dies suddenly. 22 Read for its plot alone, Gubijinso is at best a didactic novel in the tradition of kanzen choaku.23 However, since Soseki has introduced complex characters and problems that resist a straightforward didactic ending, the closure at the end of the novel is disconcerting and frustrating. In Gubijinso, Soseki juxtaposes the worlds of the privileged and the dispossessed and depicts a volatile social situation apparently on the verge of some terrible change. He rekindles problems that he introduced only to suppress in Nowaki, such as the struggle of the social malcontent to gain admittance to the exclusive bourgeois world. He introduces characters who threaten his keen sense of order, responsibility, and morality. Among them is the social malcontent Ono, the spiritual brother of Takayanagi, less threatening because he is less mean, but more relentlessly aggressive because he covets more. Then there is Fujio, a frighteningly hollow character who is born and buried in a bejeweled language that is opium to the writer and seduction to the reader. Both Ono's frustrated maneuvering and Fujio's death strongly suggest Soseki's desire to avert the chaos that the situation that he has created would otherwise have led to. Why does Soseki reopen the subject of the social malcontent after he has denied salvation to Takayanagi in Nowaki? Why does he channel so much energy into the creation of Fujio only to find her abominable in the end? Is it self-centered Fujio that he really fears, or is it his own mastery of a language that is capable of constructing a hollow shell of beauty? Does his creation of the strikingly handsome half siblings Fujio and Kono harbor a suggestion of incest? Does Soseki intend the firm, authoritative closure to teach the reader a moral lesson, or is he just using it to close the rift between what he wants and

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29

what he fears to say? By asking these questions, I am trying to explore what the narrative conveys beyond what Soseki intends. Soseki is apparently still preoccupied by the question of the social malcontent when he introduces the character of Ono in Gubijinsd. As a result of his exposure to the world of the bourgeoisie through the democratic education system of Meiji Japan, Ono yearns to leave his humble past behind and join the ranks of the rich. Ono's life is condensed into the metaphor of waterweed: Ono was born in the dark. Some would even call him illegitimate. Since he had begun commuting to school in a tight-sleeved robe, he had been bullied by his peers. Wherever he went, dogs would bark at him. His father died. Ono, badly treated by the world, became homeless. Indebtedness to others was his only means. The waterweed adrift in the depths of the dark waters does not know that the sun shines on the shore, where white sails float by. The wave teases it to sway to the right and bend to the left. As long as it does not go against the wave, it is fine. When it grows accustomed to the wave, it does not even mind it. It hardly has time to wonder what the wave is. It would certainly not ask why it is so cruelly exposed to the wave. Even if it did ask, it could not improve the situation. Fate says, "Grow in the dark," and there it grows. Fate says, "Sway day and night," and so it sways. Ono was the weed at the bottom of the water. In Kyoto, Ono became indebted to Kodo sensei. Sensei had a garment with a splashed pattern made for him. Each year, Sensei also paid Ono's monthly tuition fee of twenty yen. From time to time, Ono took lessons in reading. He learned what it was like to roam around the cherry trees in Gion. When he gazed on the imperial plaque in Chi'on'in Temple, he understood its loftiness. He became an adult. The waterweed at the bottom of the water leaves the mud and begins to float to the surface. Tokyo is a place that dazzles. People who lived to be a hundred years old in Genroku did not live as much as those who live

30

Chapter 1 for three days in the Meiji era. In other places, people walk on their heels. In Tokyo, people walk on tiptoe. They stand on their hands; they walk sideways. Eager people flock in. Ono whirled around in Tokyo. After Tokyo, when he opened his eyes to look, the world was different. He rubbed his eyes, and still it was different. It's only when things change for the worse that people think it strange. Without pausing to think, Ono moved on. His friends called him a scholar. His professors said he was promising. In the lodging house, people called him "Mr. Ono, Mr. Ono." Ono moved on without thinking. As he progressed, he was awarded a silver watch by the emperor. The waterweed that has surfaced bears white flowers on the face of the water. It forgets that it has no roots Ono'spresent was a rose. It was a rosebud. Ono did not have to create the future. His future would be the rosebud infull bloom. When he gazed at the knothole of the future through the pipe of self-complacency, the rose was already in bloom. When he reached out, it looked within reach. "Catch itfast, " a voice whispered in his ear. Ono was determined to write his doctoral dissertation. ... Every time he peered through the pipe at the future, the word doctor was burning in gold. Next to the word a gold watch was dangling from the sky. At the bottom of the watch, a red garnet turned into a flaming heart and began to sway. Next to it, Fujio with her dark eyes stretched out a slender arm and waved to him....

(sz, 3:64-67)24

In his gold-rimmed glasses, starched white shirt, and gleaming gold and cloisonné cufflinks, Ono threatens the world in a way that shabby and sickly Takayanagi cannot and thus faces more hostility from his social betters. Munechika, who treats Ono as a social inferior but feels threatened by his competition for Fujio's attention, seizes every opportunity to taunt him. In a chance encounter in chapter 14,

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

31

Munechika teases Ono cruelly for his style and deportment ("How strange that you're dressed like a smart young gent yet lugging a huge wastepaper basket") and for his relationships with both Fujio and Sayoko (sz, 3:252). Although f u m i n g inwardly, Ono responds to Munechika's informal language formally and politely. He cannot easily acquire Munechika's casual snobbery and callousness. Ono's unease is conveyed through his clothing and body language. For instance, he dresses so carefully that his clothes hang on him stiffly, in sharp contrast to the w a y Munechika lounges in his furlined vest (slightly, and tastefully, worn-out), and Kono relaxes in his camel-hair lap robe. Ono is always standing or sitting properly, as though the space around him were borrowed, while Munechika struts around confidently, and Kono stretches out comfortably, both with the air of those w h o possess the space in which they move. Soseki captures the painful difference between those w h o are born into wealth and those w h o struggle to emulate the rich. Ono concentrates on climbing higher and recoils at the prospect of tumbling back into his humble past. 25 He rationalizes his desire b y convincing himself that, in choosing Fujio, he will have the means to repay his debt to Kodo. His attempt to attach himself to Fujio is in fact the struggle of a poor artist to find a patron. He believes that "the poetry of modern civilization came out of diamonds. It came out of the color purple. It came out of the fragrance of roses, wine, and jasper g o b l e t s . . . . The poet of modern civilization had to rely on other people's financial support to compose poetry and could not do without the aesthetic lifestyle sponsored by other people's r i c h e s . . . . Ono thought it was natural for him to desire to rely on Fujio, w h o understood his talents" (sz, 3:202). Finally, chastised by Munechika, w h o has become a self-appointed emissary of righteousness, Ono admits his faults and agrees to marry Sayoko. His final regrets border on the maudlin, and his cooperation with Munechika in staging a public announcement of his prior engagement to Sayoko turns him into a near puppet. Thus, a character w h o began as a

32

Chapter i

potentially dynamic social threat is once again, like Takayanagi, tamed and put in his place. Clearly, if Soseki cannot in the end allow the poetic, contemplative, and moral Takayanagi to thrive, Ono has no chance at all of slipping effortlessly and comfortably into the upper reaches of society. While Takayanagi is disruptive and given to passionate outbursts of bitterness and poetry, Ono is a schemer and therefore a certain casualty of Soseki's strict conservative ethical standards. And there is little question that Soseki is conservative. He may be drawn to romantics and understand the plight of characters like Ono, but he fears them because they threaten to destabilize traditional moral values and the traditional social order without providing the vision of a new order. The persistent emphasis on order and restraint, responsibility and education, in both Nowaki and Gubijinso shows that Soseki is not willing to trade a set of still workable values—dogi (obligation), majimesa (seriousness)—for the unknown, which could spell malignancy or chaos. Above all, Soseki guards with care and fondness characters rooted in the flavor of the old Edo, such as genial Munechika senior (who is always teasing his son about his ever unsuccessful attempts to pass the foreign service exam), who are to him reference points of stability and familiarity. Soseki continues to create characters like Takayanagi and Ono (e.g., Hiraoka in Sorekara and Kobayashi in Meian), and their struggles awaken genuine sympathy. (As Soseki writes in Gubijinso, "Just as the writer feels sorry for Sayoko, he feels sorry also for Ono" [sz, 3:144].) Their presence draws attention to the threat that such an undercurrent of discontent poses to an insecure society desperately clinging to the remnants of order and civility, a threat that must be contained, if only temporarily. In the end, of course, Ono lacks the dimensions of a tragic hero, one whose defeat would provoke a disturbing sense that a social injustice had been committed. Nonetheless, his struggle enables the reader to question the moral superiority of Ono's persecutors (Munechika and Kodo are after all not free from

Strong Closures In the Early Novels

33

self-interest), and Ono's defeat betrays Soseki's reluctance to face the problem of the deprived. He does not see a ready solution for it, nor does he want to participate in the hypocrisy of pretending to find a solution. Although his social malcontents do not thrive, they have been allowed to give voice to their passion and desperation, and part of the reason we experience a sense of betrayal at the final treatment of Takayanagi and Ono is that they have been depicted largely sympathetically. So, despite his conservatism and his wariness of society's malcontents, Soseki is compelled to write about these captivating characters who survive at the margins of society, and the act of depiction itself becomes forceful social criticism. Soseki's didactic impulse is even more evident in his treatment of Fujio. Draped in purple and adorned with garnets and gold, Fujio's gilded beauty and theatricality border on the exotic. The language that shapes her being is a sickly sweet amalgamation derived from Soseki's mastery of Chinese poetry and English literature. Fujio is neither sensuous nor seductive but simply an allegory of pride dressed in language so rich and dramatic that she becomes a beautiful construct with no trace of the human. Fujio is like an architecturally perfect fivestory pagoda or a multilayered carved ivory ball of excellent craftsmanship. She is essentially the fiend of Soseki's linguistic virtuosity: In the midst of crimson wrapped in the ripening midday of the third month, a drop of deep purple, excelling all other colors in spring, dripping freshness in the quiet slumber of heaven and earth—such was the woman. The slender golden feet of the hairpin of glistening mother-of-pearl carved in the shape of a violet were wedged securely in the side locks that piled up in disarray —black hair that held one's attention more than a dream in a world of dreams. In the midday silence, just as the faraway world was about to snatch away one's mind, if those dark eyes fluttered, whoever saw them would return to his senses in an instant. Those were eyes that, in the huge expanse of half a droplet, could steal

34

Chapter 1 an instant and endow it with the strength of the wind; deep dark eyes that vanquished spring in spring. Tracing deep into the pupil and reaching the end of the realm of magic, one would turn into white bones on the lost horizon and never again be able to return to the human realm.26 It was not just a dream. Set in the broad stretch of the blurry dream was a radiant, ominous star that said, "Gaze upon me until you die." It was purple and drawing ever nearer to one's eyes. The woman was wearing a purple kimono, (sz, 3:23)

Only the last sentence of this passage is written in modern Japanese with a clear subject (onna wa murasaki iro no kimono 0 kite iru). In the rest of the composition, Soseki glories in his love of the baroque, with layer on layer of color-laden and heavily textured descriptions and no clear subject. Soseki uses this sinicized, classical, and elegant style of writing (gabuntai) frequently in Gubijinso, especially when beginning a chapter or describing nature. This results in the overt literariness of the text, and any vernacular dialogues or depictions serve to open a breathing space in the oppressive beauty and seduction of the words. As a linguistic creation, Fujio combines several literary traditions. With her cloud-like black hair and jeweled hairpin, she is the Palace Lady in Chinese palace-style poetry (gongti shi), whose hyperbolic beauty is derived from the effect of piling up a series of chokingly glamorous objects.27 The passage quoted above is immediately followed by her reading of Plutarch, the scene in which Cleopatra laments before the tomb of Anthony, who has committed suicide. The dazzling Cleopatra and her aura of tragedy are another set of literary tropes from which Fujio is sculpted. Fujio descends from a line of heroines found in Soseki's early romantic works based on Arthurian legends and set in a foreign land (e.g., Kairokd and Maboroshi no tate).2S Her propensity for histrionics, for instance, calls to mind the fear and rage of the Lady of Shalott when she sees her own death in the cracked mirror, while Fujio's divine

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

35

perfection as she lies in her coffin duplicates the distilled beauty of the dead Elaine floating down the water in a barge in Kairokd. The language that shapes her is not the lyrical and eremitic poetry of Wang Wei and Tao Qian,29 which constitutes an integral part of Soseki's literary and spiritual life, but the linguistically clever yet often hollow palace-style poetry. 30 As a result, Soseki can enjoy sculpting Fujio while maintaining a substantial emotional distance. Channeling his mastery of the moods of European literature and Chinese poetry into the creation of Fujio, Soseki makes of Fujio a brilliant experiment that reveals his submission to an extravagant linguistic game. Soseki very soon grew impatient with this game. In a letter to Takahama Kyoshi dated 16 July 1907, a month and a half before he completed Gubijinso, he wrote, "I am tired of Gubijinsd. I simply want to kill off the woman quickly and finish it off. It is hot and noisy, and I feel inane" (sz, 14:603). Why should Soseki desire so much to dispose of Fujio in particular? 31 After all, she is not alone in her moral weakness; other characters have their fair share of selfishness and meddle in the proposed matrimonial arrangements. Fujio is, I suspect, a literary exercise that Soseki finds increasingly difficult to sustain. A hollow shell of language mired in the premodern and the exotic, she burns with such intensity that she outshines all the other characters, including the virtuous Itoko and the long-suffering Sayoko. Despite her lack of virtue and her strong association with the vices of pride and vanity, the language that engenders her takes on a life of its own and makes her captivating, and it is at this point that Soseki recoils at his own game of words. 32 Fujio becomes the casualty of Soseki's didactic impulse. In a much-quoted letter to Komiya Toyotaka of 19 July 1907, Soseki says, I have been writing Gubijinso every day. You should not be so sympathetic to Fujio. She is an odious woman. Though she might be poetic, she is untamed. She lacks a sense of morality. To kill her in the end is the main idea of this work. If I cannot kill her skillfully, then I will save her. But, even if I save her, someone

36

Chapter 1 like Fujio is essentially useless as a human being. At the end, I am going to add some philosophy. This philosophy will consist of a theory. It is for the sake of explaining this theory that I have been writing this entire work. So you must not think that she is any good, (sz, 14:605)

In one fell swoop, Soseki wipes out the morally infirm Fujio and declares his didactic message. "The self-centered woman drank the poison of vanity and fell dead," he writes, and in her coffin "she was as beautiful as an angel" {sz, 3:424). Given that Fujio is such an extraordinary linguistic feat, her fall must surely tell us something about Soseki's attitude toward writing. Indeed, her abrupt death shows that Soseki was increasingly disturbed by his engagement in a game of words, by his own absorption in constructing a character through his superb command of language and impressive knowledge of literary traditions while maintaining an emotional and spiritual distance. It is an act that is potentially irresponsible and immoral; by condemning such a character, Soseki is also condemning his own emotional disengagement. Having built something beautiful and empty, he can only raze it if he is to prevent it from drawing more attention. Fujio has to be destroyed because that is the only way Soseki can make a clear moral statement about her destructive vanity and thus justify his creation of her. Although the dramatic action of Gubijinso ends with the death of Fujio, the novel closes with an excerpt from Kono's journal that he sends to Munechika in England. Questions are plentiful: is it millet or rice, this is a comedy. Is it artisan or merchant, this too is a comedy. Is it this woman or that woman, this too is a comedy. Is it silk or satin, this too is a comedy. Is it English or German, this too is a comedy.

Everything

is a comedy. In the end there is one question left—is it life or death? This is a

tragedy....

People who do not give a thought to morality sacrifice moral-

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

37

ity and pride themselves on acting out all sorts of comedy. Romp about. Make noises. Cheat. Tease. Fool around. Step on one another. Kick....

While they see no end to the improvement

of the comedy, morality sinks lower by the day. When morality reaches its weakest point and it becomes difficult to maintain society satisfactorily for all those who desire life, tragedy will strike all of a

sudden....

In answer to Kono, Munechika writes from London, "All we have here is comedy" (sz, 3:429-431). This pithy and authoritative closure reveals the extent to which Soseki as a writer is at ease as preacher and moralist. Yet a certain ambiguity inherent in Kono's personality—the designated philosopher and witness of the narrative—problematizes the strong closure. Beneath Kono's controlled stiffness and fondness for philosophy, an undercurrent of sensuality corrodes the spirituality and detachment for which he stands.33 At once cerebral and sensuous, Kono possesses the kind of languid beauty that is the sole complement available in the entire novel to his half sister's fierce charm. Always judgmental and restrained, the very picture of dispassionate Horatio, he appears surprisingly sensuous in a descriptive passage in chapter 12, about two-thirds of the way into the narrative and directly following a dramatic depiction of Fujio's violent reaction to the presence of another woman in Ono's life: "The wind that slashed by the ears of Satan, who was falling headlong into the deep darkness after bidding farewell to heaven, screamed, 'Pride! Pride!' Fujio bent forward and bit her lower lip." Shortly afterward, the unidentified shadow of a handsome man glides in, easily mistaken for Ono since it was he with whom Fujio was preoccupied in the preceding paragraph, but it turns out to be her own half brother, Kono. On the quiet veranda footsteps sounded. A tall shadow suddenly appeared. His lined kimono with splashed pattern was open in front, and the gray woolen shirt worn against his skin revealed

38

Chapter 1 a long inverted triangle on his chest. Above the triangle were a slender neck and a slender face. The color of his face was pale. His hair flowed in whirls and looked as though it had not been cut for two or three months. It seemed, also, that he had not combed it for four or five days. Particularly beautiful were his thick brows and beard. His beard was extremely dark and quite exquisite. Not having been trimmed, it had a naturalness about it and looked elegant. A soiled white silk crepe wound twice around his waist and was tied with the longer end hanging loosely and lazily below the right sleeve. The hems, of course, did not meet. A pair of dark-colored tabi showed underneath the garment that hung on him loosely like a monk's robe. Only the tabi were new. Had they exuded a smell, it would have been the scent of deep blue. With his antiquated head and new feet, Kingo34

reversed

the order of the world and appeared noiselessly on the veranda. As the highly polished, elegant, straight grain floorboards reflected the shadow of the thick cotton tabi and echoed the light footsteps, the black hair that piled heavily on Fujio's back softly stirred. Just then the deep blue tabi that fell on the veranda entered the woman's eyes. Without looking, she knew who the owner of those tabi was. The deep blue tabi approached quietly. "Fujio." The voice came from behind. It seems that Kingo had stopped behind the hemlock pillar that divided the rail of the rain shutters. Fujio remained silent. "Dreaming again?" Standing still, Kingo looked down at her soft, smooth, freshly washed hair. "What is it?" said the woman; She looked up, like a little ringed grass snake raising its head.35 Her black hair shattered the sunshine. The man did not so much as move his eyes. His pale face looked down. He was looking straight down at the woman's forehead that had risen up toward him. (sz, 3:215-216,)

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

39

The laconic sexual tension between the siblings, here called by the generic appellations "the man" and "the woman," is more potent than any feelings, if such exist, in the various scenes of verbose courtship between Ono and Fujio. Furthermore, compared to Ono's starched white cuffs and gold-rimmed spectacles, Kono's soiled white crepe and unkempt appearance convey a sense of relaxed self-assurance and confident sensuality that is clearly the only match in the novel for Fujio's luxuriant beauty. His casual griminess reveals a strange tastefulness that Ono can never hope to acquire, and this becomes Soseki's most unambivalent comment on the class distinction between Ono and Kono. Soseki's conservatism at its cruelest manages to keep taste, beauty, and elegance within the same social class, the same family, between siblings who possess exclusively the same physical attractiveness, and outsiders who do not share the same blood cannot hope to intrude. This intimate and suggestive bond between brother and sister forms a metaphor for a close, conservative society that struggles to guard what is left of culture, antiquity, tradition, and good taste against the yet unformed and unknown new order. The strange and sometimes disturbing intimacy between brother and sister in Soseki's works is not meant as a sensational gimmick; in fact, Soseki criticizes the kinds of works that depict incest of any kind in order to attract readers.36 Yet there is no doubt that a faint suggestion of sexual tension and shared secrecy between siblings does creep into a few of his works. In Meian (1916), for instance, Tsuda's good looks are matched only by his sister Ohide's beauty, and the two of them possess "a tacit understanding that only siblings can see and no outsiders can easily share" (sz, 7:299). The fact that they quarrel does not diminish the strength of their bond. Ohide's mistrust of Tsuda's wife, Onobu, reveals Ohide's possessiveness and desire to keep Tsuda the way he was before his marriage. A sense of impenetrable closeness marks the relationships between other sets of brothers and sisters in Soseki's works. In Gubijinso, Munechika sheds all pretensions of righteousness only when he is

40

Chapter 1

alone with his sister Itoko and confesses that, to be a successful diplomat, he has to marry someone glamorous like Fujio (sz, 3:171). In Sanshird, Nonomiya and his sister Yoshiko share the same bourgeois lifestyle and common friends. We are told that they once traveled together to Venice, both painting the scenes they saw along the way. In Kdjin, Oshige, the younger sister of Ichiro and Jiro, blames Nao, her sister-in-law, for Ichiro's unhappiness. Oshige also resents Nao for attracting Jiro's attention and gaining his sympathy. Although not a memorable character, Oshige represents the jealous and possessive sister who wants to keep her brothers to herself. On the basis of their shared middle-class background, lifestyle, and secrets, these brother-sister pairs fortify their position in society against the changes taking place around them. They may quarrel and disagree, but they ultimately share the same blood, a common past, and a common interest in the perpetuation of their way of life against the new and unknown. In Gubijinso, a forbidden shade of sexual tension colors the language that depicts Kono and Fujio and lends a mythical aura to their bond. It is a bond that shuts out those who are not like them. Initially, by depicting the plight of Ono sympathetically, Soseki in some ways criticizes the almost tyrannical rigidity of society that bars the likes of Ono from bettering his position. Yet at the same time, in being seduced by the language that portrays the intimacy between siblings and allowing Kono and Munechika to have the last word, Soseki is heavily implicated in the conservatism of maintaining a last semblance of order, at all costs, in a disrupted world. 37 In a letter to Shirahito Saburo of 12 July 1907, Soseki wrote, "I have not tidied up Gubijinso yet. I don't see when I can accomplish that" (sz, 14:600). The desire to "tidy up" the novel indicates the realization that Gubijinso seems to have acquired a life of its own. Soseki's longest work to date, Gubijinso is a grand experimentation in characterization and language, combining sinicized Japanese, vernacular and Chinese poetry, and medieval English style and motif. He reopens the subject of the social malcontent, toys with the metaphor of incest, and nearly

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

41

loses control at times in a virtuosic dance with language. Nevertheless, Soseki refuses to let go of his keen sense of responsibility to teach morality through literature. In the end, he is forced to conclude rather awkwardly on a moralistic and pedantic note. While two years later Soseki was to write that it is not efficacious "to bend a story in order to teach a lesson," that the lesson must instead surface naturally in the story,38 the entire plot of Gubijinso

is

planned around the moral lesson intended. Masamune Hakucho comments that "the Soseki who wrote Gubijinso

is a writer who main-

tains a stubborn, unwavering sense of morality, and, in that, he is just like the Kyokutei Bakin who gave us Hakkenden."39

But one must not

forget that the Soseki who experiences a desire to bring a firm closure to Gubijinso

is also a writer torn between the old-fashioned belief in

giving his reader a clear moral message and the realization that it is increasingly difficult to conclude a story with absolute certainty when too many insoluble questions have been raised.

CHAPTER

2

A Parody of Forms: Adventures in Narrative in Kofu and Sorekara

q A. t is not uncommon for prominent writers—and by 1908 Soseki knew that he possessed the intellect and imagination to make him a major voice of his time—to produce treatises on the art of writing as well as experimental works that illuminate their theoretical viewpoints.1 Consciously or unconsciously, they assume the task of providing a direction for a gestating art form and, in so doing, become mentors for other writers.2 Assuming the role of mentor, Soseki formulates theories of the novel and experiments with them in his own writing. Much of his experimentation has to do with the reexamination of inherited forms. As Frank Kermode puts it, "The history of the novel is the history of forms rejected or modified, by parody, manifesto, neglect, as absurd."3 Soseki takes comfort in forms but challenges their boundaries. He sees the beauty of a classic form—a tragic fall, a felicitous reunion—but also its distance from modern reality. Instead of abandoning the form, he pushes it into unknown territory, thus giving it a new dimension. In this chapter, I examine Kofu (The miner; 1908) and Sorekara (And then; 1909), showing

42

inns

43

Soseki's innovative manipulation of existing paradigms to express the complexities of modern life. Soon after he serialized Gubijinso, Soseki surprised the literary establishment as well as his readers with a different and in many ways unconventional work, Kofu, which is largely an experimental novel, dealing with ideas about writing that he explored in his own theoretical expositions written around the same time, such a s " K o f u no sakui to shizenha denkiha no kosho" (The creative impulse in Kofu and its connections with naturalism and biographical writings), "Shaseibun" (Literary sketch), and "Keito j o " (Preface to Cockscomb).4 In many ways, like Futabatei Shimei's Heibon (Mediocrity), Kofu is a study of the art of the novel, a discourse on the elements that constitute a work of fiction, including character, plot, narrative voice, and distance. The marks of theoretical discourse are obvious in Kofu— the self-referential voice of the narrator, the often-quoted passage on "characterlessness," the self-conscious remarks on the gap between the narrative present and the past, the stretching of narrative time. Contemporary critics were befuddled by these innovations, and recent critics, perhaps most forcefully Jay Rubin, 5 argue for the avant-garde nature of the work. I discuss Rubin's arguments below, pointing out here only that Kofu's unconventionality is essentially a parody of conventions. The novel is structured as a parody of the mythical descent to hell: the use of traditional poetic language in the description of the journey to the mine parodies the kikobun (poetic travel sketch); and the lengthy, exhaustive dissection of the characters' words and actions, as in the opening pages, parodies naturalistic writing. The originality of the novel lies not so much in Soseki's break with tradition as in his ability to manipulate it to produce a work that appears unfamiliar to the general reader. In its seriocomic guise, Kofu pierced the humdrum practice of "depicting reality" and sent ripples through the literary establishment.

44

Chapter 2 This section explores the questions of the pedagogical value of

Kofu as an experimental novel in its parodic treatment of existing literary conventions and of how Soseki makes use of the security and structural simplicity of the descent motif to allow his romantic imagination to take flight without fear of tumbling into narrative disorder and emotional chaos. The first question pertains to Soseki's role as writer-mentor, the second to the creative impulse of Soseki the writer-artist. The two, of course, are intertwined, like the dual aspects of Soseki's personality. The plot of Kofu is minimalist, and the narrative structure is initially a meandering one. A nineteen-year-old pampered city boy, troubled by his relationships with two young women, runs away from home and is recruited as a miner by an agent for a copper mine. He travels with the agent and two other young recruits to the mine, where he endures harsh living conditions and encounters miners with "the faces of savages." At this point, the narrative evinces a strong downward, then upward, movement as the young man enters the mine shaft, encounters an unusually civil and educated miner who advises him to go back to Tokyo, and emerges from the darkness of the mine to work for five months as a clerk for the manager of the mine before returning to Tokyo. The journey to the mine, the trials and hardships, and especially the descent and final reemergence are dramatic actions in an almost classical mode, reminiscent of the trepidations of the mythical and legendary heroes, from Isanagi to Orpheus and Dante, who descend to hell and return. Despite its descriptive unconventionality, which I discuss later, Kofu is governed by a stable, recognizable form. It is not a form that expresses degeneration and salvation but an age-old form that involves nothing more than the act of descending deep into the bowels of the earth and then returning. The simplicity of the act ensures its sanctity; the reader expects the central character to go and

A Parody of Forms

45

return, and this expectation is honored and not undermined by whatever phantasmagoria the protagonist encounters on his journey. It is here, in the very classicism of the structure, that Soseki indulges his romantic urge, in much the same way Joseph Conrad gives rein to his flair for the exotic in the description of Marlow's journey to central Congo in Heart of Darkness. The most captivating descriptive passages in Kofu, essentially those about the miners, are posted along the tidy route of descent and return: Their faces—well, I admit it, they scared me to death. By which I mean these were not ordinary faces. These were not ordinary human faces. They were pure, unadulterated miners'faces. There's no other way to describe them. If you insist on more of an explanation, I'll give it a try. Their cheekbones soared up and up, their chins thrust out, their jaws spread sideways, their eye sockets collapsed inward like caverns, sucking their eyeballs still deeper into their heads, and the wings of their noses dropped down. I suppose I could just say that every trace of flesh had gone into full retreat while every piece of bone had charged outward with victorious shouts. They were 50 craggy I didn't know if I was looking at the bones offaces or faces of bone. One interpretation might be that they had aged prematurely as the result of harsh working conditions, but the sheer natural phenomenon of "aging" could never do that. Search all I might, I couldn'tfind a hint of warmth or softness anywhere in these faces. In a word, they were savage6 faces. (Rubin, 81-82; sz, 3:550-551) In Soseki's exuberant descriptions, the miners gobble down rice that tastes like mud, grunt like animals, and force dying fellow miners to watch the danse macabre of a coffin-hauling procession. These disorderly sounds and images are organized neatly around the narrator's journey, like marks along a carefully plotted graph. The Soseki who

46

Chapter 2

has a passion for drama bursts forth with zeal; the Sôseki who loves order conducts with restraint. Yet, despite the dynamic descriptive passages, the naïveté and inanity of the protagonist—in his battle with the bedbugs, his priggishness in judging people in terms of their level of education, his inconstant death wish—remove any potential for tragedy from his descent. Here lies the heart of the parody—the undermining of the tragic form. Sôseki leads the reader down into the darkness of the mine shaft but removes any trace of horror or gloom from it. Jay Rubin suggests that this descent is perhaps "a symbolic journey through the frightening chaos of the psyche," but it is important to remember that the expected psychological terror of such an experience is significantly pared down. 7 By thus subverting the form, Sôseki manages to distance himself from it and construct a well-crafted but disturbingly hollow novel. This does not mean that Sôseki is incapable of tragedy—the darkness and anguish in his later novels clearly show that he is capable of it—but at this point of his career, when he has just resigned his university post and begun writing for the newspaper, Sôseki is so concerned with maintaining a clear, loud voice of criticism and opening up new possibilities for the novel that he is not yet willing to knock at the door of tragedy and enter in fear and trembling. He senses that, in giving himself over to depicting the darkness of life, he might lose control of what little remains of the brightness and tranquillity with which he fights his underlying anxiety. In a dream episode written the same year he serialized Kôfu, the seventh-night episode of Yumejuya

(Ten nights of dreams; 1908),

Sôseki captures the fear of a man alone among strangers on board a ship adrift in the night. Karatani Kôjin comments that, in this story, "Sôseki the critic of enlightenment does not exist; all that exists is a trembling man suspended in midair." 8 Recognizing this in himself, in his early fiction Sôseki seeks to avoid confronting his inner fear,

inns

47

concentrating instead on the more didactic and intellectual aspect of his personality. But by nature and upbringing he is preternaturally aware of the tragedy inherent in life, and, with the writing of Sorekara, the hesitant comedian becomes the reluctant tragedian. From that point on there is no turning back.9 Interspersed in the description of the journey to the mine are, in the tradition of the kikobun,

poetic passages that, while incongruous,

nonetheless provide relief from the seemingly unending and monotonous dissection of the characters' words and actions in the rest of the text. One such passage captures the loneliness of the mountain in the tumultuous sound of the water: "As we fell silent, the mountain path became still. Since it was dark, it was especially desolate. The night had barely begun, the sun having just set, and I could still make out the path. Was it my imagination, or did the water rushing down to the left really glitter now and then? It was certainly not a bright glow, but there seemed to be a slight radiance in the dark flow. The water crashing against the rocks stood out white by comparison. The incessant sound of the rushing water flowed on. It was noisy. And it was desolate" (Rubin, 50-51 [modified]; sz, 3:507-508).10 Another particularly poetic passage about walking in the clouds is embedded, almost as an independent poetic unit, in a journey that is long and physically tiring for the traveling party and mentally exhausting for the reader: Oh, but the clouds were a complete joy. I will never forget how the four of us walked in the clouds, drawing apart, coming separated,

wrapped

pear in the clouds. moment,

together.

close,

The boy would appear and disap-

The blanket from Ibaraki would be red one

and white the next. The color ofChdzd's

dotera,11 no

more than thirty feet away, would deepen and fade away.

None

of us spoke a word. And we hurried. I'll never forget the sight of the four of us walking earnestly

in the clouds; four shadows,

cut

48

Chapter 2 off from the rest of the world, falling behind, forging ahead, never increasing never decreasing, just the four of us, pulling apart, drawing together, bouncing away, and again gathering back as four, as if it had to be four and could be no other way. (Rubin, 66-67 [modified]; sz, 3:53c))12

The aesthetic nature of such a passage stands out sharply against a journey that is essentially one of survival, marked by the protagonist's hunger, discomfort, and weariness, even though much of it is rendered comic by the manner of his complaints. In spite of the fact that the sudden poetic awareness is out of step with the general descriptive mode of the narrative, it is in keeping with Soseki's aesthetics as expounded in "Keito jo," in which he talks about "the poetics of lingering" (teikai shumi) found in literature with a margin for ease and grace (yoyu no aru), as opposed to literature about life and death {sz, 11:550-560). 13 The poetics of lingering refers to the poet's inclination to wander back and forth spiritually among things or events, tasting them with slow, measured care, making mental associations, and finding it hard to leave. The "walk in the clouds" passage reminds us that, in writing Kofu, Soseki has not, as some critics like to claim, abandoned all notions of literary conventions and his strong belief in aesthetics. Much as the poetry of the kikobun appears misplaced in the comedy of Kofu, its presence draws attention to the tradition to which it belongs. But, with what is perhaps a sudden sense of mischief, Soseki deftly turns convention on its head by giving us the most incongruous traveling companions and a most unpoetic destination for a poetic journey. The journey to the mine is, in many ways, a parody of the kikobun. As seen in the "walk in the clouds" passage and its relation to the rest of the text, the innovation of Kofu lies in the effectiveness with which Soseki recaptures the inherent beauty of the kikobun tradition to illustrate his own aesthetic theory and the subtlety

A Parody of Forms

49

with which he converts a poetic convention for use in a modern novel. The originality of Kofu, then, lies in returning to the past and treating it as the Other. In so doing, Soseki is not compelled to reject the old in favor of the new but rather grapples with the existing convention, subverts it, and in the end reinvents it. The protagonist in Kofu is known as jibun, the narrative " I " that identifies many protagonists in confessional novels. While in most such works the writer identifies closely with the thoughts and actions of the jibun, Soseki is twice removed from the jibun in Kofu. There is an enormous emotional and intellectual distance between Soseki and the narrator. There is also considerable temporal distance between the narrator and his youthful self.14 Holding the two at arm's length, Soseki allows himself and the reader to examine and question their utterances. In what follows, I attempt to show how Soseki uses such distancing techniques to critique and parody the rhetoric of confession. It is clear from the start that Soseki wants to keep a respectable distance from his subject. In "Kofu no sakui to shizenha denkiha no kosho," Soseki talks about his encounter with the young man who provided him with the raw material for the novel (sz, 16:578-583). The young man offered his story about becoming a miner in exchange for help with some travel expenses. Occupied with Ueda Bin, who was visiting him, Soseki gave the young man money and told him to come back again that evening. He did, staying to talk for about three hours, mainly about what led to his becoming a miner. Soseki said that he "[did] not want to write about a personal affair" (sz, 16:578) and asked the young man to write his own story.15 (The young man declined.) In the end, Asahi Shimbun needed Soseki to fill in a gap before Shimazaki Toson published Haru (Spring), so Soseki began to serialize Kofu. Judging from the twelve pages of notes that he took while talking to his young informant, Soseki must have omitted a large part of the

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"personal affair" that was related, concentrating on life in the mine instead, because there is hardly any mention there of events leading up to the young man's escape from home. In the novel itself, the reason for leaving home is mentioned on several occasions, although never fully elaborated. The potent reticence concerning a "personal affair" is thus established as a standard for Soseki's own writing based on another person's life. It is a standard that calls for the elimination of any biographical details that would make the story sensational. In many ways, this reveals Soseki's obsessive tidiness and restraint in dealing with personal matters, but it also shows a capacity for philosophical rumination and intellectual assessment that distinguishes him from a confessionalist like Toson. In a much later work, Garasudo no naka (Within the glass door; 1915), Sóseki adheres to the same standard in writing about the private lives of his friends and acquaintances. Thus, a woman visitor's contemplation of suicide is fully explored, but the story behind her death wish is never revealed (see chaps. 6-8, sz, 8:425-432). Ironically, assiduous editors furnish the reader with every single bit of biographical detail that Sóseki himself withheld. There is very little distance between the narrator and thejibun despite the fact that, as Sóseki acknowledges in "Kófu no sakui," the narrator assumes a seemingly knowing and critical voice in speaking of his younger self: Since it is essentially a narrative about the past, it does not feel as immediate or inviting as one written at the same time as the events occur. In some ways, its literary value decreases. However, without wanting to be defensive, it is true that, looking back on past events, you can write fairly and critically. You can look at good and bad with a fair mind as you write about them. On the one hand, some of the fervency has been lost, but on the other hand—how shall I put it?—a sense of distance has been gained.

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The subject is far away. You can smooth out the sensational edges. But I can imagine some people may not like it. (sz, 16:579) It does not take long to realize that the distance between the narrator and his younger self is only a matter of age, not values and wisdom. The narrator is simply an older version of the pampered nineteenyear-old protagonist, and this accounts for his inability to judge the actions and insipid theories of his younger self. Take, for instance, the way he refrains from judging the maudlin theories espoused by his younger self toward the end of the novel. After emerging from the shaft, the young man begins to theorize that there is no difference between ugliness and beauty, between himself and the miners. Unable to withstand the bedbugs, the jibun indulges in the rhetoric of "emptiness" as he sits by the fireside until daybreak and thinks about himself: "No tears, no passion, no color, no scent. No fear, no terror, no ties, no regrets" (Rubin, 160; sz, 3:672). His voyage of selfexploration thus draws to an end with his supposed discovery of sameness and emptiness. Yet the final paragraph reveals that the young man's self-discovery is nothing but empty rhetoric: The next day, I took my place in the corner of the kitchen and started keeping the books in the time-honored fashion.

Suddenly

the miners began treating me differently. Now, instead of despising me, they went out of their way to butter me up. And I wasted no time in practicing to be a degenerate. I ate the mine's rice and was eaten by the bedbugs. Every day, procurers would show up from the towns with new pigeons. And every day they'd bring more kids. I used part of my monthly four yen to buy the kids sweets. Later, though, after I had decided to go back to Tokyo, I stopped doing that. I performed my duties as bookkeeper for five months. Then I went back to Tokyo....

(Rubin, 161; sz, 3:674)

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The young man is just as self-absorbed as when he began his journey, and his sense of superiority toward the miners has not changed. He considers it a degeneration that, like the miners, he has become accustomed to the squalid conditions. His status remains differentfrom the miners' by virtue of the fact that he is assigned a desk job, a position that supposedly transforms the miners' attitude toward him. He maintains the city-boy attitude of calling country people "pigeons" (mukudori), and he reminds us that for a while, at least, he keeps up his bourgeois largesse by buying sweets for the youngsters at the mining town from his meager income. His generosity again marks the difference in status and circumstance between him and the miners; we are told that he stays in the mining town for only five months before returning to Tokyo, like a tourist who has had enough of the exotic and decides to go home. The narrator looks on his youthful adventure with avuncular leniency and does not criticize his own immaturity because he has neither learned nor changed much in the interim. The most frequent remark throughout the narrative is, "You see, I was only nineteen," a refrain that the narrator uses whenever he wants to show that he is more mature than his naive, impulsive, easily impressed younger self. Yet, in the end, the narrator still holds the same values and worldview as thtjibun (a love of his bourgeois status, contempt for the uneducated, a keen sense of class difference) and thus fails to treat his younger self with the full irony that the implied author affords us. Instead of criticizing the jibun's self-absorption, the narrator simply tells us at the very end that his account of his experience has not turned into a novel because "every bit of it is true." In so doing, the narrator assumes the posture of a "confessionalist"—unabashed about adhering to facts, unembarrassed about sacrificing art to supposed truth—and evades moral judgment. For Soseki, however, moral judgment is imperative in order for a novel to have meaning. We recall that, in Nowaki and Gubijinso, the

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two works immediately preceding Kofu, Soseki depicts the fate of the upwardly aspiring Takayanagi and Ono, two underprivileged but educated young men who envy their bourgeois friends their lifestyles and their freedom to utilize their talents and education in creative work. Their attempts to better themselves reveal the painful gap between the dispossessed and the privileged in Meiji society. Not only does the young man in Kofu come from the social class that Takayanagi and Ono seek to enter, but he also possesses everything that the other two lack—concerned parents, a warm, luxurious home, women, and the freedom and means to write. Furthermore, he has the luxury of being able to renounce his comfortable life on the merest of whims, journey to the underworld, and return to Tokyo when the game has been played out. Compared to Takayanagi's and Ono's ill-fated attempts to move upward, which Soseki the social critic depicts astutely and sympathetically, the young man's journey downward in Kofu and his maudlin self-discovery can be read only ironically. Since the narrator neither treats his younger self ironically nor judges him any more harshly than a forgiving uncle might, it falls to the implied author to remind us that the bathetic utterances of the young man must be read comically or ironically in order for us to do justice to characters like Takayanagi and Ono, whose journeys away from home are genuine struggles to leave the darkness into which they were born. The narrator, too, receives the same ironic treatment. The implied author questions not only his value judgments but also his attitude toward confessional writing. A considerable distance necessarily exists between the implied author and the narrator in order for the former to bring superior knowledge and emotional detachment to bear on the narrative. This is very different from the confessional stance taken in, for instance, Shimazaki Toson's Haru, where the gap between implied author and narrator is narrow and the two are closely identified as events unfold. 16 As a result, Toson laughs and cries with his narrator,

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whereas Soseki pokes fun at his when the latter vents his emotions and expresses his occasional insights on writing. It is clear that, unlike the narrator, who adheres to the confessional mode of writing, Soseki mistrusts the function of literature as simply a means of personal expression. He stands back and describes, with all the composure of a chess player, the follies and immaturity of his characters. His attitude of superior detachment is outlined in the critical essay "Shaseibun," written in the same year as Kofu, in which he says the writer of shaseibun treats life the way an adult looks at a child: Children are known for crying a lot. It would be crazy for a parent to cry every time a child cries. The standpoints of the parent and the child are different. If they were on the same plane and dominated by the same emotional intensity, then the parent would have to cry whenever the child cried. Ordinary writers are like that. They see their neighbors as the same as themselves, squeeze and scrape themselves into the society around them, and, in the end, write as members of that very society. As a result, when they write about the weeping of the girl next door, they themselves cry. There is a great difference between writing about someone else's crying while crying yourself and observing the crying person without shedding tears yourself. The subject matter is the same, but the spirit of the description is different. The shaseibun writer narrates someone else's crying without breaking into tears, (sz, 11:24-25) 17 Karatani Kojin argues convincingly that Kdjin is a form of shaseibun that, in the character of the protagonist, captures the pathological dissociation of consciousness in which one loses touch with the reality of one's own existence and surroundings. Although the novel takes the first-person point of view, Kojin is not a reminiscence, and a large part of the narrative utilizes the imperfect tense, with no attempt to

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supply a retrospective or an authoritative point of view to events that have occurred in the past, as though they are simply unfolding before one's eyes. In Kofu, the writer instead reports a pathological case from the outside, and the situation therefore retains its comic nature and incongruity. To do otherwise would have been painful and disturbing, as is Akutagawa Ryonosuke's Haguruma (Gears; 1927), a narrative about the author's own mental breakdown. 18 It is with the detachment of a shaseibun writer that Soseki handles the narrator in Kofu. In Gubijinso, he could not as freely question the narrator because the distance between the writer and the narrator is much less. But Soseki creates a considerable distance between himself and the narrator in Kofu, allowing himself room for irony, humor, and at times outrageously comic depictions, skills that he no doubt admired in English authors such as Swift and Thackeray. Partly in response to Karatani's discussion of Kofu, the writer and critic Shimada Masahiko further elaborates on the idea of the shaseibun and the function of the narrator in Kofu, writing that, unlike the omniscient narrator who hides behind the text, the narrator of the shaseibun will participate in the novel and voice the opinions of the author, protagonist, and other characters. 19 In other words, the narrator is a persona who is in a position to observe and comment on the foibles, guilt, and madness of the characters. Shimada uses the Japanese term yoyu (a margin) to describe the narrator's composure and goes so far as to comment that Kofu gives birth to the kind of narrator seen in a Joyce or Proust novel. Although Shimada is correct in tracing the development of the shaseibun and the special role of the narrator in that form of narrative, his praise for Kdfu's narrator is hyperbolic, and he overlooks the fact that there is a distance between the older narrator and the protagonist jibun in the novel. Moreover, he neglects to point out that the narrator is meant to be the subject of irony and comedy, which is what gives birth to the mirth in an otherwise rather plotless novel of juvenile self-pity. The narrator in Kofu clearly illustrates Soseki's love for the comic.

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The tirelessly self-referential narrator ("as I write this way," "as I dissect the psychological state," "as I write about my own affairs as though I was writing about someone else's") never ceases to remind the reader that he is "no writer" but often makes large theoretical statements about writing. His boldest claim is the much-quoted "theory of the nonexistence of character": These days, I don't believe any more in the existence of "character." Novelists congratulate themselves on their creation of this kind of character or that kind of character, and readers pretend to talk knowingly about character, but all it amounts to is that the writers are enjoying themselves writing lies and the readers are enjoying themselves reading lies. In fact, there is no such thing as character, something fixed and final. The real thing is something that novelists don't know how to write about. Or, if they tried, the end result would never be a novel. Real people are strangely difficult to make sense out of. Even a god would have his hands full trying. (Rubin, 8; sz, 3:441) Jay Rubin seizes on this argument to place Kofu at "the forefront of the avant-garde" and compares Soseki to the French writer and theorist Alain Robbe-Grillet, who, in 1957, wrote about the "obsolete notion" of character.20 It is important, however, to ask, Did Soseki expound this theory, or was it the narrator's view? It is clear that, since the narrator made the utterance, the theory itself cannot be taken at face value. 21 As a writer who abhors shapelessness and formlessness, Soseki believes in the notion of character. Throughout his career, he has given us many colorful and complex characters who stir our emotions and invite our judgment. He is also fond of and familiar with the comic tradition of Edo, and many of his characters are reminiscent of those in Edo literature. It takes him just a few carefully chosen

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words, for example, to bring to life the opening scene of Kdfu. Characters such as Chozó, with his "huge tobacco-stained grin" and an outfit that is "halfway between a hanten and a dotera,"22 and the tea stand woman with the twisted mouth, who serves stale, fly-covered manjü and urinates against the base of a black pine tree, immediately evoke the Edo comic tradition and promptly challenge the pretensions of the narrator. Such characters abound in Sóseki's novels and are among those whom Sóseki describes fondly and with obvious enjoyment—Munechika's father, "the big jolly priest," in Gubijinso; the young men in Nihyakutóka (The two hundred and tenth day); Sósuke's cheerful and easygoing neighbor with his household of boisterous children in Mon (The gate); and Keitaro in Higan sugi made (Until after the equinox), most remarkably in the bath scene in which he flaps around happily in the water. The young miner in Kdfu undoubtedly shares the comicality, although not the Edo flavor. But, if he were simply a bundle of impressions with no character, we would not be able to identify him. Sóseki's concern in Kdfu is not so much to tear down the notion of character as to question the notion of consistency in character. "It is better for character to be lively than to be consistent," he wrote in 1910. "There is character that is dead and consistent. There is also character that is lively and full of contradictions."23 It is ironic that the narrator who expounds the notion of the nonexistence of character, that is, that there are inherent complexities, inconsistencies, and contradictions in the thoughts and actions of a human agent, exhibits some of the most predictable and consistent character traits among the myriad memorable Sóseki characters, giving the lie to his own theory. The self-denying, theory-loving narrator is the character of a novice writer, and the easily impressed and self-important young protagonist that is the narrator's younger self is an extremely constant character whose schoolboy mentality causes him to be hurt when Chozó does not, and touched when Hara-san

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and Yasu do, notice that he is educated and different from the rest of the miners. His vacillations, his botchan view of the world (i.e., that of a pampered young master), and his love of righteousness are oddly impervious to change. In fact, he embodies Robbe-Grillet's "obsolete notion" of character in the sense that "his character dictates his actions, makes him react to each event in a determined fashion." 24 Thus, his refusal to leave the mine with the help of Hara's or Yasu's money is a predictable mark of his youthful obstinacy and his unreserved respect for Yasu a sign of his constant need for a mentor. It is not that Soseki is incapable of shaping more complex and dynamic characters. The social malcontents Takayanagi in Nowaki and Ono in Gubijinso, both of whom precede the young protagonist of Kofu, are embodiments of inner conflict and contradictions. Both have a larger capacity for sensing their inner wants and fears and a better understanding of their moral needs than the young recruit for the mine. Although Soseki does not explore the psychological twists and turns of Ono and Takayanagi's psyches, and although the language that shapes them is more stylized than that of Kofu, their characters nonetheless exhibit a much higher degree of complexity and unpredictability than the recruit's. In Kofu, Soseki is experimenting with the detailed documentation of the narrator's sensory perceptions. The result is an account of the intricate fluctuations of the simple and straightforward mind of a witless and insipid individual: I was moving past [the tea stand] and peeking from the corner of my eye and wondering whether I should stop and rest or forget it when this fellow somewhere halfway between a hanten and a dotera spun around in my direction. He had these teeth black with tobacco stains and fat lips and he was smiling. I started feeling weird but then he turned serious. I saw that he had been having fun talking to the lady in the tea stand and for no good reason swung around to the road where that smile of his landed

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smack on me. So he turned serious and I relaxed. I relaxed and then Ifelt weird again. His face was serious and he kept it sitting there in a serious position, but damned if the whites of his eyes didn't start creeping up my face—mouth

to nose, nose to fore-

head, over the visor and up to the crown of my cap. Then they started creeping down again. This time they went past the face to the chest, to the navel, and came to a stop. Wallet in there. Thirty-two sen inside. Eyes locked onto it right through my blueand-white kimono. Still focused on the wallet, they crossed my cotton sash and arrived at my crotch. Below that, only bare legs, and no amount of looking was going to find anything to see on them. They were just feeling a little heavier than usual. After a long, careful look at the heaviness, the eyes finally arrived at the black marks my big toes had rubbed onto the platforms of my geta. When I write it out like this, it sounds as if I was standing there in the one spot for a long time practically inviting him to look me over, but that wasn't it at all. In fact, the second the whites of his eyes started moving, I knew I wanted to get out of there. But knowing what I wanted to do wasn't enough, I suppose. By the time I had my toes scrunched up and was ready to turn my geta, the whites of his eyes had stopped moving. I hate to say it, but he was fast. If you think it took a long time for his eyes to creep all over me like that, you're wrong. Sure, they were creeping, and they were calm as could be. But they were fast, too. Damned fast. Here I was, trying to walk past this place, and all I could think of was how strangely a pair of eyes can move. If only I could have managed to turn away before he had finished looking me over! I was like somebody who announces that he's leaving a place after he's been ordered to get out. You feel like a fool. The other fellow's got the upper hand. (Rubin, 3-4; sz, 3:436-437)

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Chapter 2 Despite the descriptive penetration, detailed psychological depic-

tion does not necessarily give rise to a complex character, nor does a collection of sensory or physical data necessarily give shape to a modern psyche. Stylistically, the description of the young man in Kôfu may create the impression of a modern and complex character since the writer often records the details of his mental state and perceptions, but the psychological landscape of the young recruit is blander by far than that of Takayanagi, who, despite his not physically descending into the bowels of the earth, has a deeper understanding of darkness, loneliness, and suffering. Sôseki, I suspect, is testing a new form of narrative technique in Kôfu. What happens if a writer simply piles up detailed documentation of precise sensory data in the ari no mama ni (reality as it is) style so prized by the naturalists? In "Sôsakka no taido," he had criticized the naturalists' heavy emphasis on reality (shin) at the expense of the qualities of beauty, virtue, and austerity, but, in "Kôfu no sakui," he also writes that he "does not dislike naturalism" and that, although his own writing might be different from naturalistic writings, "that school of writing is interesting" (sz, 16:581). Sôseki's own writing does not fall within the narrow confines of a single school, and he believes that the form of the novel is constantly changing and evolving. Classicism, Romanticism, naturalism, he writes, are all gradations in the spectrum of writing, and in Kôfu, I suggest, he is exploring the naturalistic end of the spectrum in his parody of the ari no mama ni, rokotsu-naru style.25 Owing to Sôseki's versatility, some of the brilliant descriptive passages, such as the one quoted above, appear unconventional even to the late twentieth-century reader attuned to the works of such writers as Beckett and Robbe-Grillet, whose Waiting for Godot and Jalousie are known for their repetition and dissection of disjointed details. Readers and critics of Sôseki's time found Kôfu puzzling and annoying. 26 Jay Rubin claims that "Sôseki's later career moved backward, from

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the very forefront of the avant-garde in 1908 to a tired, old white elephant in 1916." 27 While I agree that the descriptive technique of Kofu is unorthodox, it seems to me that, as outlined above, the work as a whole is no more than a humorous play on literary conventions. Is it, in fact, a sufficiently clear and responsible critical judgment to term an unconventional hero an antihero and an unconventional novel an antinovel simply on the basis of their difference from the norm? 28 By the same token, does the term avant-garde serve to explain the innovations and inadequacies of a work like Kofu that is different from other novels of its time, or is it just a convenient label for its stylistic audacity?29 I have attempted here, not so much to place Kofu above Soseki's other novels (for most of them are more profoundly interesting), but to point out that Kofu is a brilliant parody of forms, written by a man who still possesses the lightheartedness to dally with the comic mode in his exploration of the possibilities of the novel. Like Ogai in Vita sexualis and Futabatei Shimei in Heibon, Soseki parodies the confessional novel in Kofu and gently pokes fun at his contemporaries. It is with the composure of a shaseibun writer that he steps back to observe his fellow writers and discover the humorous aspect of the current literary trend. Despite its flaws, Kofu displays the wittiness of a writer who is not yet mired in the tragic aura of existence and who has a keen sense of the ridiculous. A year later, in June 1909, Soseki serialized Sorekara (And then), a work whose title implies its lack of a definitive beginning and ending.30 Gone is the old certainty of a firm and didactic closure that marks some of Soseki's early works; gone also is the clear and constant distance with which the implied author separates himself from the narrated subject. This is not to say that Daisuke, the protagonist of Sorekara, is Soseki himself, as some contemporary critics suggested; but Daisuke's tragic sense of incertitude and skepticism about the

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modernization of Japan is Soseki's own.31 The diminishing distance between writer and character indicates a new relation between Soseki and his fiction. Before, he would stand aside to direct, observe, and conclude with a sometimes unbearable sense of certainty and moral superiority; now, every arbitration involves a partial judgment of himself, and he hesitates to destroy or redeem Daisuke completely. With Daisuke, Soseki wades into the tormenting territory of moral incertitude in which traditional beliefs and values must be suspended or redefined. He moves from the known into the unknown. In the unceasing movement toward the unknown, Soseki relies heavily on paradigmatic forms to provide a governable narrative structure. The narrative follows the tempo ofjo-ha-kyu (preparationdevelopment-fast finale), "a sequential rhythmic principle begun with gagaku (ritual music) and subsequently developed metaphorically for 'pace' in renga (linked verse), which bequeathed the principle to no, haikai, and other kinds of literature."32 The jo tends to be an unhurried, gentle introductory passage, and in Sorekara it is marked by Daisuke's slow and stylized awakening, the careful, narcissistic grooming he lavishes on himself, the lazy bantering between him and the houseboy Kadono, the suggestive scenes of flirtation with his sister-in-law Umeko, and the avuncular tenderness and affection he shows toward his nephew. It creates an informative picture of Daisuke, an affable, handsome bachelor of thirty who does not work for fear of soiling his spirit and maintains a separate household with the support of his father. The ha (lit. "breaking") begins with the return of his college friend Hiraoka, who has suffered a severe setback in his career and who has taken to drinking and philandering, and includes several confrontations between Daisuke and Hiraoka as well as between Daisuke and his father concerning Daisuke's unwillingness either to work or to get married. This development section is more agitated, marked by the awakening of Daisuke's love for Michiyo, now married to Hiraoka, as well as an omiai (marriage interview) at the kabuki theater and

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numerous streetcar rides during which Daisuke suffers from attacks of ennui and experiences the nausea of existence (at one point he feels that he has turned into a five-foot stomach). The ha culminates in Daisuke's brief but climactic declaration of love to Michiyo, who responds with a combination of joy and pain and a resolve to embrace death. The quickened pace of the kyu in the last three chapters of the novel includes the fall and defeat of Daisuke, his banishment from the family, his separation from Michiyo, his frantic search for a job, and the final physical and mental conflagration that alludes to the archetypal fall of Satan. Perhaps no other novel among Soseki's works adheres so closely to the principle of jo-ha-kyu. Apart from adopting a tempo in the classic mode, much of Sorekara is founded on images and plots derived from the history plays (jidaimono) and love-suicide plays (shinjiimono) of the puppet theater (joruri) and kabuki. The samurai-related stories from Daisuke's father's generation echo the history plays, and Daisuke's forbidden love for his friend's wife recaptures the sense of doom in the lovesuicide plays. Andrew Gerstle speaks of the "cyclical imagination" of these plays, in which "each section leads one further along the journey through the crisis of the play until reaching the end." Gerstle adds that a "distinctive characteristic of this journey is that the end is actually a return—after a roundabout route—to the original point of departure."33 Soseki recreates these circles of travail in Sorekara and populates them with highly dramatic characters who bring to mind the retainers in Chushingura (A treasure house of loyalty) and the desperate lovers in Shinju ten no Amijima (Love-suicides at Amijima), but the circles are conspicuously broken and incomplete, and the comfort of closure is therefore brutally removed. Sorekara thrives on the tension between the adaptation of these crystalline forms and the depiction of an undefined system of belief that Daisuke seeks to formulate. In revolting against the old, Daisuke seeks to create a new set of laws, and

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between the rejection and the invention lies the tumult that is the grueling reality of Sorekara. This section examines the broken circles of virtue and love and the descent into tragedy of the character enmeshed in these interlocking circles. In an essay titled "Sorekara ni tsuite" (On Sorekara), Mushanokoji Saneatsu likens Sorekara to a canal: "What was written in Sorekara is not impossible. The people who appear in it are all real human beings. However, somewhere it feels man-made, and I would like to use the image of a canal as an analogy. A canal also follows the laws of nature. But it is nevertheless artificial; its origin and direction of flow are created by human thinking. There is no doubt that, in writing Sorekara, the author is completely conscious of the fact that what he is doing is writing." 34 Soseki himself thinks that the canal is an apt analogy,35 and, indeed, much of Sorekara is deliberately staged. The world of the samurai, for instance, looms in the background of the novel. Daisuke's father came from the warrior class in pre-Restoration Japan and prides himself on his sincerity, courage, sound judgment, and sense of morality worthy of his upbringing in the samurai code as well as Confucian ethics. His motto is "Sincerity is the way of heaven," and he boasts of his "heroic past," which involves the killing of a fellow clansman, a narrow escape from hara-kiri, exile and survival, and success in business in his later years. The family apparently has its share of dramatic personalities; Daisuke's grandfather and uncle are portrayed as having been brave samurai who were unafraid of sword fights or death. These characters belong to a well-defined sphere of an old order, much like the sekai of a samurai-related play in kabuki. A sekai (lit. "world") is a well-known situation with an established set of characters, be they samurai and warriors in the history plays, commoners in the daily-life plays (sewamono), or townsmen and geisha in the doublesuicide plays. James Brandon writes, "[A world is] rarely invented by a playwright. Precisely because a world was already significant in

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legend or history, or in the case of sewamono through public scandal, it was considered appropriate for the stage. Many historical worlds encompass the great events and figures of Japanese history from the time of the Heian emperors in the ninth century down to the years immediately preceding kabuki's founding." 36 These dramatic worlds, with their well-developed plots and characters, remain familiar and securely ensconced in the minds of the viewer, their actions and logic accepted and preapproved. Sorekara consigns the world of the samurai to the past, and no dramatic action in the novel is motivated by its values. Nevertheless, it still has the power to disturb and even tyrannize those like Daisuke who cannot maintain a critical distance and instead make its heroic standards the measure of their lives: "Daisuke's immediate response to such stories [about his father's heroic past] was not admiration but terror. Before he could get around to appreciating the bravery, he was overcome by the raw smell of blood penetrating his nostrils." 37 He retreats from his father's world and sinks into inaction.38 But, toward the end, through his declaration of love for Michiyo, an act so outrageous that it immediately banishes both him and Michiyo to the world of desperate lovers and adulterers, he creates his own circle of drama in opposition to the samurai order. Soseki's own reaction to the old order is more levelheaded than Daisuke's romantic impetuosity. If Daisuke is the romantic that Soseki sometimes wishes he could be, then Soseki himself is the pragmatist, for much of his romantic inclination is checked by the rationality and responsibility of which he clearly boasts. In the lecture "Bungei to dotoku" (Literature and morality; 1911), Soseki distinguishes the old, idealistic system of morality from a newer, essentially post-Restoration system of morality based on a more realistic understanding of human nature and a respect for individual freedom. He regards the transition from the old "romantic morality" to the new "naturalistic morality" as natural and inevitable:

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Chapter 2 When we carefully ponder the morality of the past—loyalty, filial piety, chastity—we realize that it is no more than the burden of obligation that caters to the convenience of those in absolute power under the social system at that time. When parents are very powerful, then somehow or anotherfilial piety is coerced. Coercion means that too great a demand is made on the fundamental affection that can reasonably be expected from ordinary people. This concept is not just limited to filial piety; it applies also to loyalty and chastity. It is in fact demanding the impossible to try to capture the rare moment when the spark of morality and duty bursts into flame, sustain that fervent and passionate spirit, and order it to burn incessantly. Therefore, as we develop levelheaded scientific observation and notice the hypocrisy of romantic morality, then it is inevitable that romantic morality will no longer exist as an authoritative system of morality. Besides, as the structure of society gradually evolves, individualism unavoidably develops, and it is clear that this inflicts further damage on romantic morality, (sz, 11:384-385) Like Sóseki, Daisuke recognizes that social and moral standards

change, but while Sóseki himself deals with such change calmly and analytically, Daisuke first sinks into ennui, then flutters desperately in acts of self-destruction. Most of the other characters in Sorekara weather the change better than Daisuke, although they may not be as keenly moral or stubbornly idealistic. Umeko, Daisuke's sister-in-law, is a graceful combination of Tempo mannerism and Meiji modernism. Daisuke's older brother, Seigo, inherits his father's resolution and shrewdness of character and is, moreover, completely comfortable in his time and environment. He does not question the formulaic values of the past but comes and goes smoothly in the Western milieu of his social circle; this is symbolized by the ease with which he entertains the idea of going to an unagiya (traditional eel restaurant) in a

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silk hat, while Daisuke feels self-conscious and awkward about doing so.39 Equally adaptable is Daisuke's father, who, having lived his socalled heroic past, is content with his respectable household, his success in business, and his young mistress. Not once does he feel the compunction to pause and reflect on the hypocrisy and contradictions in his life. Daisuke, however, finds existence more problematic: Daisuke envied the men of old: though they were actually motivated by self-interest, the muddiness of their reasoning enabled them to weep, to feel, to agitate, all the while convinced that it was for the sake of others, and in the end, to effect what they had originally desired. If only his head were as muddy.... especially his father—said

People—

that Daisuke was a man without

ardor. But according to his own analysis, the truth was as follows: human beings were not so consistently lofty, sincere, and pure of motive and deed as to be worthy of ardor. Indeed, they were far more lowly creatures. To meet their lowly motives and deeds with ardor was the behavior of one who possessed an undiscriminating, infantile mind, or a charlatan who feigned ardor in order to elevate his own position. (Field, 186; sz, 4:536-537) Daisuke's disillusionment is that of a child who sees the shadiness of the human soul and suffers from a lingering sense of loss. Despite its facade of formulaic morality and respectability, his father's world is but a punctured bubble with lame heroes who no longer inspire. Broken heroes are like toppled gods. Daisuke's anxiety typifies that of a modern individual who, having realized that God is dead, suffers from having nothing to believe in and nothing to live for. By nature a romantic quester, Daisuke cannot accept the practical compromises that Umeko and Seigo instinctively make in order to negotiate life.

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He is driven by a frenzied sense of religiosity to look for beauty and perfection, and, when he finds it in Michiyo, the "infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing,"40 he creates a new "circle of fantasy" (in the language of Gerstle) to counteract the old, broken circle that marks his father's generation.41 Thus begins the circle of dramatic actions modeled on the doublesuicide play of thejoruri or kabuki. Unlike the history plays, which are usually about warriors and samurai, a typical shinjumono involves only commoners, and very often the man is a townsman (e.g., a paper seller like Jubei in Ten no Amijima) and the woman a prostitute. Not infrequently there is a transgression—an indulgence in forbidden love, an extramarital relationship—complicated by financial difficulties, forcing the couple to live as outcasts. Only by dying together can the desperate pair consummate their love; the certainty of death becomes their only relief from suffering. The lovers in Sonezaki shinju (Love-suicides at Sonezaki), for instance, see death as a beautiful release from their problematic earthly existence and envision the blissful union that awaits them after death. Not all lovers in the love-suicide plays experience such innocent joy at the moment of death. Some lovers have been separated and must die alone (Shinju nimai ezdshi). Some suffer greatly on the journey to death (Amijima). Yet the promise that death holds for them is that their hearts and spirits will be united.42 Despite the fact that these plays are in the tragic mode, death often serves as a fulfillment of desire and thus in many ways removes the core of tragedy in much the same way as the deaths of Romeo and Juliet leave the audience with a sense of contentment rather than despair or anxiety. Had Daisuke and Michiyo ended their lives as do true shinjumono lovers, the lingering sense of tragedy that clings to Sorekara would have been largely diminished. Not only is the certainty of death removed at the end of Sorekara, but the fate of the pair also remains unclear. This apparent lack of closure, which I discuss below, accents

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the tragic nature of the narrative, but one must first understand Daisuke as a modern tragic figure in order to fathom the depth of the tragedy of Sorekara. Daisuke's tragic aura belongs to that of a believer whose faith is rent by doubts and incertitude. He doubts the formulaic morality of his father's world, sees through the facade of Japan's status as a world power after the Anglo-Japanese alliance and the Russo-Japanese War, and is skeptical of the rapid modernization of Japan: Japan can't get along without borrowing from the West. But it poses as a world power. And it's straining to join the ranks of the world powers. That's why, in every direction, it puts up the facade of a world power and cheats on what's behind. It's like the frog and the cow—look, Japan's belly is bursting. And see, the consequences are reflected in each of us as individuals. People so oppressed by the West have no mental leisure; they can't do anything worthwhile. They get an education that's stripped to the bone, and they're driven with their noses to the grindstone until they're dizzy—that's why they all end up having nervous breakdowns. Try talking to them—they're usually stupid. They haven't thought about a thing beyond themselves, beyond that day, beyond that very instant. They're too exhausted to think about anything else; it's not their fault. Unfortunately, exhaustion of the spirit and deterioration of the body go hand-in-hand. And that's not all. The decline of morality has set in too. Look where you will in this country, you won'tfind one square inch of brightness. It's all pitch black. (Field, 72-73 [modified]; sz, 4:402-403) These are genuine and well-founded doubts, but, when Daisuke uses them to justify his not working, they begin to sound like the excuses of a spoiled child. Perhaps Michiyo puts it most succinctly: "It seems

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like you're cheating a little" (Field, 73 [modified]; sz, 4:404). In fact, Soseki himself shares Daisuke's doubts and pessimism concerning the modernization of Japan. In the lecture "Gendai Nihon no kaika" (The enlightenment of modern Japan), he talks about the physical and mental harm that Japan incurs in her frantic attempt to keep pace with the modernization of the West, and he points out that enlightenment that does not come from within but is imposed from without is bound to have disastrous results. Yet Soseki treats Daisuke's self-righteousness about idling away his days—a lifestyle that is at once narcissistic and debilitating—with a fair amount of irony and contempt. Daisuke's doubts about the old world order and the modernization of Japan should in fact be a source of strength rather than a weakness. His sensitivity to the hypocrisy and squalor beneath the gilded surface of his environment lends his character lucidity and prophesy, ennobling qualities that make him a fine critic of modern Japan. His observations on Hiraoka's house, for instance, bear the mark of an astute social critic: Hiraoka's house was a good illustration of the tightening squeeze imposed on the middle class by a decade of inflation. It was an exceedingly crude, unsightly construction. And Daisuke was especially sensitive to its aesthetic shortcomings. There were only about two yards between the gate and the entrance and the same distance between the gate and the kitchen door. Next to this house, in every direction stood similarly cramped houses. They were the work of the smallest of financiers, who, taking advantage of Tokyo's pitiful swelling, schemed to multiply their own meager funds two and three times by putting up these shabby structures, mementos of the struggle for survival. In today's Tokyo, particularly on the outskirts, such houses

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were to be found everywhere. Moreover, like flies in summer, they continued to multiply every day at an extraordinary rate. Daisuke had once termed it the advance of defeat. He regarded these structures as the most accurate symbols of modern Japan. Some of them were covered with the bottoms of kerosene cans patched together, like square fish scales. Not one of their inhabitants was spared the sound of pillars cracking in the middle of the night. Their doors always had knotholes. Their sliding doors were sure to become warped. Those who stored their capital in their heads and tried to live off the monthly interest earned by their mental endeavor invariably made their burrow in such places. Hiraoka was one of them. (Field, 66-67; sz> 4393 "394) One cannot help but wonder what would have happened had Daisuke channeled his energy into more positive actions instead of retreating into self-righteous nonparticipation. He is a more mature social critic than any of his earlier fictional social peers, such as Nakano in Nowaki, the artist in Kusamakura, Munechika and Kono in Gubijinso, and the young recruit in Kofu. But he yearns to believe in some absolute and finds neither value nor strength in doubt, failing to recognize that such a position is perhaps better suited to the modern individual.43 Nevertheless, Daisuke loves the lofty language of the old system and uses it constantly, referring, for example, to "the exhaustion of the spirit" (seishin no konbai), "the decline of morality" (dotoku no haitai), "the crumbling of moral will" (tokugiyoku no hokai), and "the degeneration [daraku] of twentieth-century Japan" (sz, 4:403, 439). He also tells himself that it was out of "a sense of chivalry" (gigydshin) that he arranged for Michiyo to marry his best friend. But the irreconcilable conflict between his longing for the absolute (translated into his narcissistic obsession with beautifying his own body) and the reality of his life—his own cowardice, hypocrisy, and mortality—continues to disturb and disgust him, rendering him inert and

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spiritually impotent. He ruminates on death unceasingly, measuring his heartbeat religiously like a hypochondriac, but knowing that even death requires more effort than he can muster: "Daisuke's current theory was that if it were possible for him to die at all, death would have to come at that instant marking the height of a paroxysmic seizure. But he was hardly the convulsive type. His hand trembled. His feet trembled. It was nothing out of the ordinary for his voice to tremble or his heart to skip a beat. But in recent years he never became agitated" (Field, 39; sz, 4:360-361). His spiritual impotence is suggested in the scene in which he prunes a potted clivia, whose Japanese name literally means "gentleman orchid," an apt symbol of Daisuke, the arbiter elegantiarum:44 The large potted clivia that Daisuke had bought finally shed its petals on the verandah. In their place, the green leaves, almost as wide as a broad sword, were pushing through the stems and growing long. The old, now blackened leaves lingered to glisten in the sun. One of them had by chance been folded in two and drooped sharply about six inches from where it left the stem. It was unsightly to Daisuke. He went out to the verandah with the scissors, cut the leaf just before the fold, and threw it away. The thick edge seemed to ooze, and as Daisuke watched, a drop sounded on the verandah floor. A thick, heavy green fluid had gathered at the cut edge. Wanting to smell it, Daisuke poked his nose into the tangled leaves. He left the drip on the verandah just as it was. (Field, 99; sz, 4:434) Clearly a phallic symbol, the blackened leaf suggests Daisuke's fascination with his self-inflicted castration. His impotence—his unwill- ' ingness or, rather, inability to adjust to the mundane existence of daily life, his warped treatment of his deep feelings for Michiyo by yielding her to his best friend—stems from a childlike disillusion-

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ment with a world of broken values. His need to believe in something pure, unadulterated, and absolutely beautiful is a deeply religious feeling that constitutes both his strength, as when it allows him to discern the imperfection and pretention that surround him, and his tragic flaw, as when it paralyzes him or leads him into self-destructive or cruel acts. Daisuke's suffering is that of a believer shorn of his god. The same religious feeling also compels him to find a god to whom he can pledge his life and faith—and in Michiyo he finds that god. When Daisuke confesses his love to Michiyo, his language is plain and unadorned: "You are necessary to my existence. Absolutely necessary." The preparation for confession is essentially a process of purification—he perfumes the room and fills it with water lilies as an act of ablution (Michiyo is always associated with the lily, to the extent that she drinks from the vase that contains the flowers). After the confession, he escorts Michiyo home, then pronounces to himself, "It's all over [banji owaru}" (Field, 212; sz, 4:569), as though he has accomplished his life's work. Finally, Daisuke returns to his moonlit garden, strewing water lilies all around himself and reverting to the fetal position in their midst, indicative of the womb-like security and contentment that he derives from female symbols. Had the story ended there, Daisuke would have successfully drawn a complete and fulfilling "circle of fantasy" sustained by a deeply religious feeling as well as the love and beauty of desperate lovers. But Soseki questions the viability of a world of such pristine form and sensation as that embraced by Daisuke. It appears that the author is losing patience with his protagonist's self-delusion. The classical sekai of the shinjumono is deflated by Soseki's unyielding morality, and once again, the circle fails to achieve closure. The closing chapters of the novel relate the immediate consequences, and grapple with the morality, of Daisuke's action. For the first time, he has roused himself from his inertia and made a decision. His confession of love is sanctified—as is the expression

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of all genuine feelings, even the transgressive—but the consequences are disastrous. The betrayal pushes Hiraoka to the brink of ruin. And the sight of Hiraoka standing guard by Michiyo's sickbed raises the question of whether one can sanction true love when its expression comes at the expense of another's life and honor, especially one's best friend's—regardless of the fact that that individual had a hand in his own downfall. That in the end we are left with not even the comfort of death as consummation or resolution reveals Soseki's ambivalence about the single courageous act that Daisuke undertakes in the entire novel. Thus, neither of the two interlocking worlds in

Sorekara—those

of heroic actions and of desperate love—is wholly duplicated without being undermined. Only in isolation from reality can these paradigmatic worlds of pure and intense actions and emotions survive, and, despite its air of fabrication, Sorekara contains too many realistic, believable characters who remind the reader of the world beyond the romantic-tragic struts and frets of Daisuke. The houseboy Kadono, for example, stands out as a vivid portrayal of a spineless servant who lacks the will to pursue an education or a career, offering a comic turn on Daisuke's tragic inertia.45 Hiraoka also provides a striking contrast to Daisuke. A college friend of Daisuke's who later became an ambitious bank employee, Hiraoka was made a scapegoat, dismissed, and forced to scrape together a living by working as a journalist for a minor publication, a frustrating position for someone of his education to be in. Hiraoka cries out to be noticed; not only is he always well groomed and dressed (Kadono is constantly amazed at how chic [haikara] he is despite his straitened circumstances), but he is also extremely masculine, especially compared to the emasculated Daisuke. Like a humiliated, wounded animal, Hiraoka is bitter, distrustful, fierce, and intimidating. He belongs in the company of Soseki's other social malcontents, but he is more threatening than his predecessors because he is capable of a fierce and last-ditch defense when cornered.46

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Hiraoka's plight does make Daisuke's theory of sacred toil—of working not for the sake of subsistence but for some higher reason— seem irresponsible: People like me who tackle a part of reality and struggle with it don't have time to think up things like that. Japan might be poor, it might be weak—but Iforget about that when I'm working. Society might be degenerating, but I don't notice it; I keep busy in the middle of it. Oh, I suppose that the poverty ofJapan or the degeneracy ofpeople like me might disturb a man of leisure like you; but that's the kind of thing that only a man who's got nothing to do with the rest of society, a spectator, can say. In other words, it's because you have the time to look at your own face in the mirror that you come up with things like that. People forget their faces when they're busy. (Field, 74; sz, 4:404-405) His argument seriously questions Daisuke's fundamentally bourgeois sense of ennui and anxiety. This is not to say that Daisuke's predicament is not true and sincere, but its overwhelming importance is undermined when it is measured against other equally pressing realities. The minor character Terao is yet another stimulating contrast to Daisuke. College educated and now earning his living as a writer, Terao shares Hiraoka's straitened financial circumstances, but he is more resilient and adaptable, a survivor who does not suffer as much as Hiraoka from the loss of pride. Unsentimental but sympathetic, the short, reportorial depiction of Terao's survival instincts and the harshness and impersonality of society represents Soseki's social observation and criticism at its best and most discerning: Whether it was translation or adaptation, Terao was determined to struggle through as long as he was alive, and in this respect he was more a faithful child of society than Daisuke was. If he were

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Chapter 2 to stumble and find himself in Terao's position, what kind of work would he be able to withstand? When he thought about this, Daisukefelt sorry for himself Resigned as he was to the not-so-distant, almost certain prospect of falling even harder than Terao, Daisuke could not look upon him with contempt. Terao had managed to finish the translation by the end of the month; but the publisher had begun talking about unfavorable circumstances and said he would have to postpone publication until the fall. Unable to convert his labors directly into cash, Terao had turned to Daisuke as a last resort. Had he agreed to the work without a written contract? That did not seem to be quite the case either. But he would not say that the bookseller had disregarded an agreement between them. In other words, Terao was vague. The only sure thing seemed to be that he was in difficulty. But Terao, accustomed as he was to such slips, did not seem to be reproaching anyone for breach of faith. Outrageous, unpardonable, he might say, but that was only with his lips, and his real concerns seemed to be centered on rice and meat. Daisuke felt sorry for him and gave him something to help with his immediate finances. Terao thanked him and went home. Before he left, he confessed that he had actually received a small advance from the publisher, but he had used it up long ago. After Terao left, Daisuke thought that this man too showed a certain strength of character. It was not something one could achieve just by living comfortably from day to day, as he himself did. Maybe the literary circles of the day were languishing under such deplorable conditions that they had seen a need for such a type and given birth to him naturally, Daisuke thought, as he stared into space. (Field, 219-220; sz, 4:576-577)

The final challenge to Daisuke's reality comes from the dignified presence of Seigo. Seigo negotiates the old and the new, the East

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and the West, with cool, amphibian adaptability, and the fact that he never lectures Daisuke on his philandering, his lifestyle, or his maladjustment is a sign of his ability to accommodate himself to a way of thinking entirely different from his own. However, whenever he states his disapproval, it is final. His refusal to lend Hiraoka money is simply stated and irreversible, and his last words to Daisuke in severing their relationship are chillingly powerful and respectable: "You're a fool," his brother said loudly. Daisuke did not raise his head. "You're a dunce," his brother said again. "You're never at a loss for words, but now, when it counts, you act as if you're dumb. And you pull tricks behind your father's back that will ruin his good name. What were you getting educated for all this time?" His brother took the letter from the table and began rolling it himself. The stationery rustled in the quiet room. Seigo put it back in the envelope and put it away in his kimono. "I'm going," he said, this time in his normal tone. Daisuke bowed politely. His brother said briefly, "I won't see you any more either," and went to the entrance. (Field, 256; sz, 4:620-621) The existence of these separate and fully convincing realities—the lives of Kadono, Hiraoka, Terao, and Seigo—prevents the world of Daisuke from being the sole reality in the novel. In a double-suicide play, no matter how many external elements and characters are involved, the reality of the desperate lovers almost always looms larger than life, taking precedence over all other realities, and in the end becomes truth itself. In Sorekara, Daisuke's individual reality is squeezed, punctured, and made pervious, rendering the consoling possibility of dying for love as remote as the classical paradigm from which such ideas are drawn. The circle of fantasy that Daisuke

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attempts to orchestrate, perhaps to counteract the broken circle of the old system, fails to sustain itself in the larger reality made up of the different lives depicted in Sorekara. Daisuke's aura of tragedy lies in the fact that this circle of fantasy remains incomplete. A modern soul replete with incertitude and in search of irretrievable ideals, Daisuke tries in vain to re-create a classical sekai of pure beauty and morality. But he falls through the broken circle into a mental and physical inferno that marks the ambivalent closure of Sorekara. In the final scene, after being disowned by his brother, Daisuke runs out into the heat of the blazing sun, saying to Kadono that he is going to look for a job. He boards a streetcar, and everything begins to swirl around him, until finally the whole world is engulfed in burning redness, an extension of the blood metaphor flowing through the text—the fall of the red camellia in the opening scene, the imaginary hammer that hits Daisuke in the heart, the blood that throbs in his veins. The apocalyptic imagery of flames notwithstanding, the closure remains ambiguous. Beongcheon Yu argues that Daisuke is a determined fighter who invokes the will of heaven in defiance of the law of humankind and that he could not possibly turn into Sosuke in Mon, who allows himself to atrophy and be forced out of society.47 But there remains the problem of how Daisuke is going to enter society in the first place, given the fact that he has no survival skills. In his reading of Daisuke's fate, Yu apparently embraces the whole myth of sokuten kyoshi (follow heaven, abandon self) woven around Soseki's final years. 48 It should be noted that much of what Daisuke experiences as affirmation of his belief in nature takes place in a dream-like trance shielded from the demands of mundane reality. While waiting for Michiyo to arrive so that he can reveal his love, he feels that he is returning to nature. His thoughts continue, "Why had he tried to resist nature at all? In the rain, in the lilies, in the now revived past, he saw a life of pure, unadulterated peace. There was no selfishness in this life.

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No gain or loss. No oppressive morality. Only the free-floating clouds and nature flowing like water. All was blissful. And all was beautiful" (Field, 202; sz, 4:556-557). This passage sums up Daisuke's vision of the ideal, but the sentence that immediately follows his vision — "presently he awakes from his dream"—renders it immaterial. The last three chapters of the novel trace Daisuke's rude awakening. Norma Field has directed our attention to the ominous signs scattered throughout the book that Daisuke will not in fact survive. 49 But, in the end, Soseki deliberately leaves the question of redemption or damnation unanswered. In doing so, he moves away from the certainty of moral superiority that dominates his earlier, more didactic works. Unlike Daisuke, who fails to see the value of his uncertainty, Soseki shows a better understanding and acceptance of the human doubts and frailties that make one commonplace and unheroic. By avoiding closure at the end of Sorekara, Soseki also continues the pattern of broken circles that constitutes the narrative. The fragmentation at once captures the conventional form and resituates it in modern reality, affording readers the pleasure of a recognizable tradition as well as the discomfort of an inconclusive ending. The form is the crutch that Soseki provides for himself and his readers as he sends us spiraling down into the darkness of moral uncertainty. Given Daisuke's dominating presence in the novel and Soseki's partial but clear identification with him rather than with any of the other characters, we begin to see things from Daisuke's perspective and are made uncomfortable by the thought that we, too, are on morally dangerous ground when we sympathize with him or when judgment does not come easily because we are not morally superior. Soseki's manipulation of form calls to mind the innovation in traditional theater. In an illuminating discussion of the dramatic structure of kabuki, Barbara Thornbury points out the principles of sekai and shuko as tradition and innovation in the plot of a kabuki play. A sekai, as I have explained earlier, is the framework provided by earlier plays in the tradition. A shuko, according to Thornbury, "transforms

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this traditional material into something new." There are three types of innovation: "The first encompasses those changes that were made within a traditional framework and employs the technique of kakikae, or the rewriting of p l a y s . . . . The second type of innovation is when a play that was previously unknown or unused in kabuki was added to a sekai....

The third type of innovation occurs when two or more

sekai are joined. This is commonly called naimaze (which literally means to twist—as in making a rope—and to m i x ) . . . . [T]he different sekai do not retain their separate natures as such but are brought together to form an entirely new work." 50 The collisions and minglings of the different worlds in Sorekara resemble the third type of innovation, and the novelistic world thus engendered attains a new level of originality. Replete with scenes that are deliberately staged, Sorekara combines some of the most astute social criticisms of post-Russo-Japanese War Japan with the flights of fantasy of a mind that inhabits a world replete with dreams, ennui, and memories. It also combines the comedy and tragedy of an individual who revolts against the impossible demands of a static order but ironically debilitates himself with rules that are just as rigid and anachronistic. Indeed, Sorekara is marked by the conflation of worlds, each of which is rendered incomplete by a fluid, complex, and inconclusive narrative. The parody of forms in both Kofu and Sorekara is not just Soseki's stylistic inclination but an indication of the idiosyncratic combination of an exuberant imagination bound by a tireless cautiousness of expression, the form providing a recognizable framework that prevents the narrative from descending into shapelessness and chaos, and the parody giving rise to possibilities of innovation within the form. Soseki's love of form, or the parody of it, stems from the experience of deep emotional turmoil and romantic impulses and a stubborn desire to keep those feelings under control. One has only to read his early romantic reconstruction of Arthurian legends (Kairoko,

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Maboroshi no tate) as well as the beautiful description of the ill-fated caged bird (which stands for the woman he loves) in Buncho to discern his vision of longing and the sense of loss he so often shapes with care into the poised, well-crafted, perfectly formed stories. Again, one has only to read Yumejuya, especially the seventh-night episode of the ship adrift in the dark sea and the tenth-night episode of a man's desperate attempt to ward off being licked to death by a herd of pigs, to fathom Soseki's affinity for the terrible and the grotesque. One sometimes almost wishes that he would give his fears and fantasies free rein, but by nature he adheres to the poetics of restraint, which in every step gives shape and order to passion and horror. The parody of forms takes his novels in different directions. In Kofu, he chooses the narrow, suffocating, claustrophobic passage down into darkness as the governing form—a powerful and primeval form that serves as a metaphor for birth, death, and moral degeneration—but injects into it an incongruous sense of the comic, dispelling its solemnity. In Sorekara, he re-creates the worlds of thejidaimono and shinjumono ofjoruri and kabuki in a modern context, denying, however, the reader the satisfaction that comes from experiencing the closure of those traditional forms. In so doing, Soseki intensifies their tragic nature, for there is perhaps nothing more profoundly disturbing than a tragic hero whose fate remains undecided.

CHAPTER

3

The Critic, the Teacher, and the Writer

ware of his responsibilities as a prominent member of the intelligentsia in an era of revolutionary changes in language, technology, and manners, Soseki undertook the multiple roles of writer, scholar, teacher, and critic. 1 His careers as a teacher and a professional writer were by no means long, and, despite an adult life ravaged by illness, he was phenomenally productive, producing numerous theoretical, critical, and literary works. 2 It was clear to him that his work would constitute an indelible part of an era that would never be forgotten. 3 His achievement as a writer and a critic is heightened by his mastery of the language of poetry, which synthesizes, and the language of reason, which analyzes. The former brings together and interprets the wonders of the changing world, while the latter takes apart and ponders the complexities of the dazzling process of transformation. That Soseki is remembered as a writer rather than a critic, and that he teaches more effectively through his literary works than his criticism, shows that his critical voice, the one of logic and reason, is constantly overshadowed or subverted by his poetic voice, the one of spontaneity and passion even in its darkest tone. In this chapter,

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I examine some of Soseki's major critical works, discussing, first, their significance as commentary on literature and civilization and, second, their failure to sustain analytic momentum, the critical language increasingly giving way to the lyricism of poetry. This is not to say that the language of criticism and that of poetry are mutually exclusive. One does, however, expect certain inherent differences in the modes of expression of criticism and poetry, such as the authority and control of the former and the mystery and seduction of the latter. When the critical voice and the poetic voice converge in Soseki's critical works, especially in some of his public lectures, one is therefore moved and surprised by his inability, or reluctance, to separate the two. In 1911 (the forty-fourth year of the Meiji era), sponsored by the Osaka Asahi shimbun, Soseki gave a series of four lectures: "Doraku to shokugyo" (Pleasure and occupation), "Gendai Nihon no kaika" (The enlightenment of modern Japan), "Nakami to keishiki" (Content and form), and "Bungei to dotoku" (Literature and morality). Together with two earlier critical works, "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso" (The philosophical foundation of literary art; 1907) and "Sosakka no taido" (The attitude of the writer; 1908), these essays were collected in 1913 in Shakai tojibun (Society and self). In the preface to the collection, Soseki writes, "If I were to abstract the main ideas of all the lectures and put them in a word, I would say that they are essentially studies of the relations of society and the s e l f " (sz, 11:600). These texts reveal the experience and insights of a keenly moral and artistic man living in a society buffeted by the whirlwinds of change. The two earlier lectures, both delivered soon after Soseki joined Asahi Shimbun as a full-time writer, set forth his arguments on the ideals of literary art. He thinks that, for a literary work to move the soul, it must embody the four ideals shin (truth/verisimilitude), zen (virtue), bi (beauty), and sogen (austerity) in equilibrium. In discussing these ideals, he criticizes the works of naturalist writers for overemphasizing shin at the expense of the other three, resulting

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in a moral neutrality that he found unacceptable. 4 1 therefore examine his views on naturalism (shizenshugi) at this stage, comparing them with his later views as expressed in his 1911 lectures. When Soseki stood at the podium at the Tokyo Academy of Art (Tokyo Bijutsu Gakko) on 20 April 1907 to address a young audience on the topic of the philosophical foundations of art, he assumed the air of an emissary of enlightenment in a society in which existing aesthetic and moral values were on trial. He spoke solemnly of human nature and the needs and role of literature in a changing society, lightening the austere subject matter with occasional jokes and anecdotes. Perhaps he saw himself as the Confucian scholar-sage whose role is to provide society with a clear set of ideals and thereby point the direction toward moral betterment.5 Among his audience, the young Shiga Naoya recorded in his journal, "In the afternoon, I heard Mr. Natsume's and Mr. Ueda's talks at the Academy of Art. Mr. Natsume's talk was characteristically stiff and somber, but I gained much from it." 6 There was ample reason for Soseki to embark on a critical review of naturalism in relation to the ideals of literary art. One of the most visible phenomena marking the literary scene in the half decade after the Russo-Japanese War (1904-1905), a period that also saw the beginning of Soseki's literary career, is the rise and development of naturalism. In 1905, Shimazaki Toson's Hakai (The broken commandment) set the stage for an outpouring of naturalist literature. In 1907, Tayama Katai published Futon (The Quilt), and, in 1908, Kunikida Doppo's Take no kido (The bamboo gate), Toson's Haru, and Tokuda Shusei's Arajotai (A new household) appeared. The immediate official reaction to naturalism was one of disapproval, possibly because the realistic depiction of human weaknesses, desires, and emotions was seen as subverting the values and decorum of society. Naturalist writers were chastised for corrupting the minds of unsophisticated and gullible young readers. The minister of education, Makino Shinken, was reported to have "issued directives upon taking office which criticize recent literature for three harmful

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influences: (1) The arousing of base emotions; (2) the spreading of individualistic, liberal ideas; and (3) the cultivation of a pessimistic world view." And Hasegawa Tenkei, chief literary critic of one of the most important journals of the day, Taiyd, wrote in October 1908 that "shizenshugi writers were bad, but the shizenshugi practitioners are worse. Combined, they brought about a period of moral degeneration and social retrogression in the history of Japan." 7 Soseki was not prepared to jump on the bandwagon of such rigid condemnation of naturalism; in fact, he was impressed by Toson's Hakai, praising it as a work worthy of being called a Meiji novel and recommending it to his student Morita Sohei.8 But, laden as it is with social criticism and heavy with moral choice, Hakai is after all a very different work from the subsequent confessional novels that most of the naturalists produced. From the standpoint of a writer and an educator who sees his own responsibility as instilling in readers sound values, Soseki was concerned about the overall lack of moral judgment in naturalist writings. His critical work during this period was strongly influenced by Confucian hermeneutics, which stresses the use of literature to move and educate. Emphasizing verisimilitude (shin) at the expense of beauty, virtue, and austerity (essential qualities that give art its poetry and grandeur) and evading, in the name of objectivity, making moral judgments or expressing personal likes and dislikes prevent, Soseki argues, this kind of writing from attaining literary value and conveying the taste (shumi) and moral vision of the writer, whose very character is meant to move and influence the reader. In "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso," Soseki ruefully points out that shin has become the predominating concern in the literature of his age and mourns the demise of other aesthetic ideals: There is not an age that is more severely lacking in heroism than our modern age, and there is not a literature that is more wanting in heroism9 than our modern literature. It is clear that, in our modern world, there is not a single tragedy that expresses austerity. The ideal of modem literature is neither beauty, virtue,

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Chapter 3 nor austerity, but is indisputably embodied in the single word shin.... The consequence of emphasizing shin is that, as long as you arrive at shin, it doesn't matter what you are writing about. It is fine i f , as a result of expressing shin, you disregard beauty, virtue, and austerity, but, to take it a step further, i f , for the sake of shin, you hurt beauty, wound virtue, and trample on austerity, then the shin faction may rejoice, but there is no reason for beauty, virtue, and austerity to suffer in silence, (sz, 11:66,68)

He goes on to say that the use of shin as the sole criterion of literary creation often results in distasteful clinical depiction with no regard for the finer sentiments. In "Sosakka no taido," he again argues indefatigably the deficiency of the kind of literature that emphasizes only shin, its only virtue, by default, being its impartiality: In language there are truth and untruth [shingi], but in the nonsubjective world, that is, in the facts of nature, there is no [distinction between] truth and untruth. Yesterday it rained, and today it shines. If we regard rain as truth and nice weather as untruth, it is unfair to nice weather. On the other hand, if we say, Well, then, it's the rain that's false, then I think the rain will object. Therefore, as far as realities in this world are concerned, when we consider theirfactuality, they are all true. There is no logic in adopting or rejecting a reality based on the fact that you like it because it is true or you dislike it because it is false. The occasion for selection based on reality and falsehood arises when we speak of a work that describes objective reality. To be more explicit, when the bystander compares the work to nature itself, or when we measure A's work and B's work against the yardstick of nature, then, for the first time, truth and untruth come into being, adoption and rejection are possible, and likes and dislikes are formed. Thus, in a work of art, we can expect some departure from reality. But, when we face objective reality, we have to

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regard everything as truth and rule out the existence of any untruth, or else it would be the same as denying the value of reality. Therefore, if we use reality as our orientation in our writing, there is no room to bring in our own likes and dislikes. It follows that, when we do not select, we will treat everything in a general way. Say there is an ugly-looking woman next door who makes you feel sick whenever you see her. It's up to you how you feel, but, no matter how ugly she is, it is an undeniable fact that she exists. If there comes a day when she is not recorded in the census register because of her poor looks, then the inspector of the ward office is really unreliable. The denial of her existence will be a rejection of what is real. If a student is excluded from the attendance register because he is disagreeable, then there is no place more untrustworthy than the school. Thus, there is nothing more fair than the kind of literature that depicts reality. It is something that is expected to act impartially with neither reservation nor mercy. ... In studying reality, one sets aside the notion of likes and dislikes. I don't believe that a doctor who examines urine is always indifferent to it. If he were always indifferent to it, then one should expect him to be able to eat calmly even if there is a chamber pot on his table. Even a biologist who studies the intercourse of insects will not have the courage to apply the same attitude to everything other than insects. We can explain this by saying that it is only when they are studying reality that they forget other things and devote themselves completely to reality. It is an irrefutable fact that writers who depict reality, in the same way as the doctor and the biologist, are still people who worry about goodness, care about beauty and ugliness, and notice heroism and meanness. Some ask what can be more wonderful than the natural form of things, as in green willows and red flowers. But in fact people are not so dry and emotionless. The desire to tie a boat to a willow tree or to hold a fan up under the blossoms belongs to the realm of human feelings.

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Chapter 3 ... Literature that depicts reality alone contents itself with delving into reality. It does not care if its emphasis on shin results in clashing with the other sentiments. The reader may object, but reality consists purely of facts that exist, independent of our selection. [Literature that depicts reality] is just narration. It is depiction that leaves behind the notion of likes and dislikes. It follows that, if it contains personal opinion ofpraise and censure, it will be self-contradictory, (sz, 11:158-162 [my emphasis])

Soseki sets shin apart from beauty, virtue, and austerity: "So-and-so abandoned his wife for money." "Oh, I see, that's a fact." "I heard that man became a burglar in order to redeem a geisha." "Oh, that's another fact." "It's terrible that so-and-so never keeps a promise." "Sure enough, that's another fact."—If there comes a day when, after hearing all these facts, we do not think that so-and-so is an awful fellow or an impressive man and simply watch the world as a bystander, then we will not be moved by virtues, nor will we avoid evil. We will neither wish for acts of heroism, nor will we be ashamed of baseness, and our [poetic] taste in flowering dawns and moonlit evenings will also be exhausted. We will be worthless in the relationships between husband and wife, friends, as well as parent and child, (sz, 11:165) Predicated on external reality, shin is a standard that is obvious and fixed. ("As far as realities in this world are concerned, when we consider their factuality, they are all true" [sz, 11:159].) Unlike the other three ideals, it exists independent of human judgment. As opposed to shin, beauty, virtue, and austerity are closely connected to personal taste and judgment. Thus, these ideals are based on the experience of the individual. In bringing out the major difference between the objectivity and stability of shin and the subjectivity and fluidity of the other three ideals, Soseki indirectly asks new and difficult questions:

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How do we establish a standard? Who is to establish that standard? Are some individuals better judges than others? In A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757), Edmund Burke writes, "The term Taste, like all other figurative terms, is not extremely accurate: the thing which we understand by it, is far from a simple and determinate idea in the minds of most men, and it is therefore liable to uncertainty and confusion. I have no great opinion of a definition, the celebrated remedy for the cure of this disorder."10 Soseki, too, is aware of the difficulty of setting a standard for taste, and he attempts to establish it in the character of the writer. When expounding on this point, Soseki's critical language becomes increasingly hyperbolic, elevating the role of the writer almost to the realm of the mythic. He evokes lofty images of the eternal glory of literature, of "the deeds of literature shining through the ages until the end of the world." He focuses on the noble character of the writer (sakka no idai naru jinkaku), which "seeps into the hearts of viewers or readers and becomes part of their flesh and blood, to be passed down to their descendants" ("Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso," sz, 11:78). Furthermore, "the more sophisticated and extensive the writer's taste and interests are, the more they come through in his work" ("Sosakka no taido," sz, 11:164). At this point in his career, the writer and the great teacher of humanity are fused in Soseki's mind. As a result, in attempting to establish a standard for judging a work of art, he fails to take into consideration the role that the reader or spectator might play, concentrating only on the influence of the artist. He sees the writer as teacher and the reader as student, and his eagerness to impart knowledge lends an air of didacticism to his prose. By falling back on a didactic language, Soseki allows his critical ideas to become stale. That is to say, instead of acknowledging the role that the reader's personal judgment plays in each act of reading, he accords sole responsibility for setting standards of taste and judgment to the writer. His early criticism is seldom close reading but usually moral

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criticism that at times verges on the dogmatic. 11 For instance, untouched by Othello's maddening jealousy, Soseki acknowledges the oppression engendered by Shakespeare's realistic character description but criticizes its lack of heroism and passion (sz, 11:72). He lists Ibsen's Hedda Gabler among works that focus on verisimilitude with no regard for other ideals and holds the self-centered and deceitful Hedda in great contempt. He allows that Maupassant's The Necklace manages to capture the reality of frivolous Parisian society, but, "had Maupassant any sense of moral compassion, he would not have depicted with such relish the suffering of the [protagonist]" (sz, 11:74), who spends years working as a maid to replace a diamond necklace that she borrowed from another woman and lost, only to find out in the end that the necklace had been but an inexpensive imitation. Most notably, he dismisses Zola as being long on vulgarity and short on idealism. 12 Ibsen, Maupassant, and Zola are writers whom the Japanese naturalists held in high regard, and Soseki's disapproval of them amounts to a scrapping of the naturalist movement's source of inspiration. He also caricatures the kind of writer who pursues facts with a detective's passion and considers such a person handicapped as a writer. He severely criticizes the inadequacies of realism when it is carried to the extreme, as in cases where the objective depiction of reality removes all traces of subjective value judgment. 13 On an early summer's day in 1908, Soseki sat down to read a few works by some naturalist writers published in leading literary journals, including Chud koron and Waseda bungaku, and, possibly to his delight, found them reasonably interesting. These works included Oguri Fuyo's Gutara onna (The slut), Tayama Katai's Sofubo (Grandparents), Tokuda Shusei's Niroba (Two old women), and Mayama Seika's Kamokai (Raising ducks). The stories struck him as melancholy, pessimistic, and oppressive. Yet not a single one moved him deeply. He criticizes the characters in these stories for being totally selfabsorbed and having no regard for family and society. In his opinion,

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these characters suffer, grovel in destitution, and die neither for the sake of others, nor out of obligation and feeling (giri ninjo), but because they are oppressed by society and frustrated in their selfactualization (jiga hatten). He disparagingly calls the writer's preoccupation with this kind of individual suffering the development of "the modern spirit" (gendai seishin) and regards it as pure indulgence in self-centeredness.14 There are indeed passages in his writings where Soseki was so absorbed in the didactic function of his writing and so conscious of his role as teacher that he sacrifices the content of his critical thinking to an inherited rhetoric of morality that directly appeals to the ethical consciousness of the reader. This rhetoric includes such words as giri ninjo as well as the concept of the five fundamental human relationships in Confucianism (lord and retainer, father and son, brothers, husband and wife, and friends). For example, after reading Doppo's Take no kido (The bamboo gate), Soseki refused to be touched by the horror and suffering in the life of the woman who curls up, cold and hungry, in a dirty old quilt next to a husband whose ability to communicate through speech has atrophied as much as his capacity to share any human warmth has. Why did Soseki, who understood only too well what it means to be lonely and abandoned, resist the power inherent in Doppo's description of the woman's isolation? What Soseki resists, perhaps, is the seduction and immediacy of naturalist language at its best, a language that, with Doppo's sophisticated manipulation, captures the human condition of decay and loneliness and turns it into a spreading sense of uneasiness that seeps into the reader's consciousness. What Soseki objects to is the lack of intellectual distance between writers like Doppo and Shusei and their descriptions of the desolation and putrefaction of human life. Such indulgence in the pleasure of sorrow and pain is something in which Soseki will never fully participate: even when he writes about his own sad childhood and unhappy marriage in Michikusa, he maintains, albeit at points barely, an intellectual and critical distance from his fictional persona, Kenzo.15 It is

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the kind of distance that he describes in his essays on shaseibun— his notion being that a writer should hold his literary creation at arm's length, just as mature parents must dispassionately regard their bawling child in order to remain in full emotional control and exercise appropriate moral and critical judgment—and he practices what he theorizes in a work like Kofu, in which the protagonist's dissociation of mind and body is depicted from a narrative distance with clinical coolness and exactitude, thus lending the work its comic nature. 16 At this point in his career, Soseki has a tendency to describe fear, loneliness, sadness, and the sense of loss in well-crafted and fantastic works of fiction, such as the Arthurian legends of Kairoko (The dirge of Shalott; 1905) and Maboroshi no tate (The phantom shield; 1905) as well as Yumejuya (Ten nights of dreams; 1908) and Buncho (The Java sparrow; 1908). These works are all considerably removed from the realities of daily life in terms of time and space, and their language is lyrical, ornate, almost antiquarian. But a strange kind of reality is created within the crystallized form of these texts, each a gem capturing a distilled sense of beauty or intense emotion. The first-night episode of Yumejuya, for instance, contains in its brief and concise description the essence of waiting; what seems to be an infinite process is condensed into two short paragraphs in which the simple repetition of the rising and setting sun serves as the central image. 17 Again, in his exquisite description of the beautiful pet bird that in the end dies of neglect in Buncho, Soseki is able to show us beauty and convey the regret and the loss in a few sentences. 18 Thus, without resorting to the language of daily life, and without any laborious depiction of the lives of common folks, he is able to create a reality of intense emotions that resonate with the reader's most profound feelings and experiences. More effectively, in many ways, than his critical treatises, Soseki's romantic fiction offers a reality that directly challenges that of the daily struggles of, say, the tofii maker or the degenerate scribbler in naturalist fiction, and the reader is given the freedom to decide which reality is the more immediate. While Soseki's poetic universe conveys so convincingly the reality

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of truth and beauty for which he argues in his criticism, his critical works often resort to a heavy moral rhetoric that muffles the essence of his true message. His early critical works are so often wrapped in layer after layer of didactic rhetoric that it is easy to lose sight of their inherent insights and values. He was soon to grow tired of the certainty of this inherited moral rhetoric, and his writing career bears witness to the change: the man who began by using language to teach ended up teaching by letting language choreograph the dance of his thoughts. The 1911 lectures explored the role of the writer, the ethical foundations and the art of the novel, the freedom and responsibilities of the modern individual, and the paradoxical personal liberation and predicament brought about by the enlightenment of Japan. Despite the fact that the scope of concern is broad, the focus is still on the individual, and the emphasis is ultimately on a very personalized sense of morality that threads through all his other works. As Ooka Shohei points out, Soseki emphasizes individual over collective, or national, morality. 19 The ideas presented in these lectures no doubt speak eloquently of Soseki the scholar and teacher, while their presentation testifies to the wit, charm, and ease of his public persona as well as his confidence in commanding respect from and testing the stamina of his listeners. Here we see a relatively extroverted Soseki, a refreshing contrast to the neurotic and somber Soseki who suffered a forlorn childhood, a series of concealed and frustrated yearnings for love, and an unhappy marriage. However, the undercurrent of darkness still can be discerned, and the overall content of the lectures conveys a sense of gloom rather than hope, despite the cheerful manner in which they are presented. Roughly a year before his 1911 lectures, in the summer of 1910, Soseki suffered a severe stomach hemorrhage, vomited blood, and fell into a coma. On recovering, he serialized Omoidasukoto

nado

(Remembrances) in the Asahi from the end of October 1910 through February 1911. Omoidasukoto nado consists of essays on things, events,

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and people he recalls from the period of his illness and recuperation, and they crystallize to form a work of still, pensive beauty. But the appearance of this collection meant that Soseki had been too ill to sustain the work necessary to produce fiction since finishing Moti in June 1910. Evidently, he felt obligated to the Asahi to undertake the 1911 lectures in the grueling heat of midsummer: as he wrote Komiya Toyotaka on 1 August 1911, "I am leaving for Osaka on the ninth to give lectures in Wakayama, Akashi, and Sakai. I wonder how much it will benefit the Osaka Asahi for me to undertake something so uncertain in such heat." 20 Soseki may in private have expressed reluctance about undertaking the summer 1911 lectures, but the sense of humor that pervades them and the ease with which he handles his arguments certainly give no indication that that was the case. In fact, there is every sign that he enjoys addressing his audience, perhaps in much the same way he willingly invested time in teaching the disciples who regularly gathered at the "Mokuyokai" (Thursday Club) meetings held in his home. 21 Here we see the earnestness of the teacher who urged Akutagawa and Kume Masao to push on with their writing without complaint and steadily as an ox. 22 In a later essay, he also notes with some gratification that students came to ask questions at the end of public lecture he gave in 1914, after he complained that no one seemed to care about anything serious. 23 It is clear that, despite his stern, scholarly demeanor, Soseki asked for and welcomed the audience's affection. 24 This perhaps gave him the incentive to undertake the lecture tour despite his physical condition, for the spirit of the mentor in his character made him yearn for the kind of ready receptiveness found only in a live audience. Soseki's style of lecturing is marked by its extensive apologies, its bantering tone, and its meandering delivery (oshaberigatari

kataJ,25

betraying the influence of William James, whom he admired and in whose memory he wrote an essay. 26 Both these men know exactly where to stretch the limits of their charm and where to return to the

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real substance of the talk so that the interest of the audience does not wear thin. The skill of captivating the audience's attention was particularly important for Soseki since, that summer at least, he faced a packed, sweltering auditorium. For instance, after speaking for over twenty minutes on the definition of enlightenment, he said, "You are probably astonished to realize that I have finally moved from the hallway to the vicinity of the alcove in my talk. But it won't take so long from now on; the move to the interior is very short. Even for the speaker, a lengthy move is also tiring, and I will try my best to follow the law of conservation and execute it as swiftly as possible, so please bear with me a little longer" ("Gendai Nihon no kaika," sz, n:333). 27 "Bungei to dotoku" is the last of the four lectures in the 1911 series. The lecture, the third of five organized by the Osaka Asahi shimbun, took place at six past five on a rainy Friday in the Nakanojima Kokaido, a large wooden building that served more or less as a city hall in Osaka. Right after the lecture, Soseki was again hospitalized for another serious stomach hemorrhage. He wrote in his journal, I carried my manuscript with me as notes. My stomach has been troubling me since yesterday, but since this is the last of the lectures, I took some medication and tried to hold out. My lecture was followed by Honda Setsudd's "The Fundamental Problems in Finance and Economics" and Ishibashi Hakuyd's "The Revision of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance." The series ended at twenty past eleven. (There were four thousand seven hundred or eight hundred people in the audience, including fifty women. Since it was so packed, admission was restricted three times, and after seven o'clock no one else was allowed in the hall.) Staying in the Shiunrd, despite not having eaten anything, I vomited blood.28 "Bungei to dotoku" is about the reorientation of the ethical needs of the modern individual. In it, Soseki first distinguishes old morality (mukashi no dotoku) from contemporary morality (ima no dotoku)

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and explains their respective implications. Old, or pre-Restoration, morality is essentially a system of ethics that compels people to imitate models of perfection, such as the loyal retainer, the filial son, or the chaste woman. It works in a society that focuses on the interdependence of individuals, that is, one organized along the lines of the five central human relationships (outlined above). A stable society is achieved when each person fulfills the expectations and responsibilities of his or her role. Contemporary morality, on the other hand, which Soseki considers to be the morality of the Meiji era, acknowledges and accommodates human imperfection. Its development coincides with—is, in fact, a direct result o f — a gradual breakdown of the rigid social structure and a recognition of the uniqueness of the individual, who in the past had been seen as little more than a tiny cog on the larger wheel that was the family, the government, the nation. Soseki proceeds to argue that morality and literature are inseparable: "Logically speaking, the purpose of literature certainly does not lie in instilling a sense of morality, but, when we weave an event that invites moral judgement into a work as its warp and woof, and as that event stimulates our moral sense of good and bad, right and wrong, how are we supposed to dissociate literature from morality?" Then, appropriating terms usually applied to literary works, he describes the old morality as "romantic morality" (romanteki

dotoku)

contemporary morality as "naturalistic morality"

(shizenshugiteki

dotoku).

and

The former is called "romantic morality" because, "in

romantic literature, the actions and intentions of the characters, compared to ours, are more noble, more just, or more passionate." He calls the latter "naturalistic morality" because naturalist literature exposes human frailty, not treating its characters "as though they were the descendants of the legendary heroes" (sz, 11:376-377,379).29 According to Soseki, with the development of individualism and the spirit of scientific observation and criticism, it was inevitable that people would begin to doubt the absolutism and feasibility of romantic morality, turning instead to naturalistic morality. It was also unavoidable that romantic literature would be overcome by the

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new tide of naturalism since the latter better expressed the morality of the individual in a living society. Soseki's argument for the development of a more self-oriented system of morality based on the needs of the individual and the rise of a more realistic form of literature based on the depiction of the practical struggle of the self is amply clear, but his use of the terms romantic and naturalistic makes his argument seem convoluted. His point, however, is that the classical focus on the ideal has been replaced by a new and modern vision that centers on the autonomous individual and that, to fulfill the new vision of morality, idealistic literature has gradually been replaced by more realistic literature. In spite of the fact that Soseki recognized the inevitability and rationality of the development of a system of ethics that gave serious consideration to the practical needs of the ordinary individual, he also saw the danger inherent in the loss of ideals that came with the rise of naturalism, which fully tolerated and to some extent indulged in the depiction of human weakness, and he insisted that no society could exist without ideals. The best course for the Japanese of his time was to "embrace certain realizable ideals, seek future reconciliation with our neighbors and brethren, hold on to the compassion that accommodates weaknesses, and keep up the attitude that contributes to harmony between individuals" (sz, 11:386). For Soseki to undertake a discussion of the relation between literature and morality shows that he was all too ready to commit himself to ethical criticism, within whose framework any discussion of literature inevitably involves moral judgment and the statement of one's values. 30 It would be unbearable if ethical criticism were to end up being a form of rigid didacticism, such as John Gardner's wellintentioned but pedantic On Moral Fiction, but a serious treatment of art and morality indeed reminds one of the relevance of literature to life. Soseki of course did not have to contend with theoretical neutrality or abstract formalism in his practice of ethical criticism, but he had to grapple with the simplistically gratifying and thus deeply entrenched critical tradition of judging a literary work in terms of

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the morally black-and-white concepts of right and wrong, good and bad. What he undertook to explain in "Bungei to dotoku" was that such heavy-handed and authoritative moralizing was passe and that it was time to formulate a new critical language for discussing the ethical content of literature. According to Confucian ethics, the novel (shosetsu, lit. "small talk") is at the lowest end of the spectrum of the written word, considered to be an idle product of tangential importance to human lives, as opposed to historical, philosophical, or scriptural writings. It follows that, under the influence of such a system of thought, the yardstick used to measure the quality of the novel as it became more popular and widespread was the concept of kanzen choaku (encouraging virtue and castigating vice), a critical standard that Tsubouchi Shoyo (1859-1935) deplored in his groundbreaking literary treatise Shosetsu shinzui (The essence of the novel; 1885-1886). Soseki is eager to steer clear of the crude standard of moral judgment as he embarks on his discussion of ethical criticism: "The characteristic of romanticism is its ability to stimulate the reader toward moral improvement and the attainment of virtue. This effect is related to the idea of kanzen choaku popular in the past, but it is by no means the same. Romanticism has a much nobler meaning [than didactic literature], so please do not make any mistake about it" (sz, 11:377). Shoyo delineates the intimate relation between literary art and morality and argues that the novel of the future will have a more elevated moral standard: "The novel of the future will not be like that of the past. It will set out to attract men of discrimination rather than to entertain women and children. This means, of course, that even humorous novels will have to avoid plots unworthy of an artist's standards. Just as an indecent painting unfit for the eyes of family groups cannot be classified as art, no matter how skilful its execution, so too a book which cannot be read aloud to parents and children is not a real novel." 31 He also makes the distinction between a novelist, who portrays human nature and social conditions to inspire the reader,

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and the writer of love stories, who dwells on the details of the bedroom. 32 Thus, according to Shoyo, one aspect of the essence of the novel lies in its moral adroitness: "No novel which fails to uplift its reader ranks as art, nor does its author deserve the proud title of novelist" (Twine, 80; GNBT, 1:223). Writing fifteen years later on the same subject, Soseki sounds more ambivalent about the nobility of the novelist and the novel. He shares Shoyo's view that ethical concerns are integral to any consideration of the art of the novel, but he hesitates to proclaim, as Shoyo did, that the novel must "uplift its reader." After all, the theory that Shoyo espoused in Shosetsu shinzui had no application until Futabatei Shimei's Ukigumo (Floating clouds; 1889), which was hailed as the first modern novel. And, when Soseki set out to delineate the relation between literature and morality in 1911, he had the advantage of having witnessed the ongoing, complex development of the Japanese novel: from Ukigumo to such confessional works as Tayama Katai's Futon (The quilt; 1905) and Shimazaki Toson's Ie (The family; 1910). Moreover, beginning in August 1911, the same month in which Soseki delivered "Bungei to dotoku," the Tokyo Asahi serialized Tokuda Shusei's Kabi (Mildew), a moving account of his decaying domestic life. Soseki himself had been experimenting with the form of the novel and had produced varied works ranging from Gubijinsd, with its morally edifying closure, to the unconventional and parodic Kofu. All in all, by 1911, the Japanese novel had reached a degree of complexity that departs radically not only from the old-fashioned romances of the past but also from Shoyo's prescription that the novel be spiritually uplifting, and Soseki had taken it on himself to examine once again this living and changing form. The development of the narrative form from didactic and fantastic romances, with their allegorical characters who are often the embodiment of virtues, to a more realistic depiction of characters and actions closer to ordinary life was not unique to Japan. In The Rise of the Novel, Ian Watt outlines a comparable development in the West.

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Writing about the difference between the works of Richardson and Fielding and the romances of the past, Watt says, "[The historians of the novel] have seen 'realism' as the defining characteristic which differentiates the work of the early eighteenth-century novelists from previous fiction."33 Soseki makes a similar observation concerning the part that "realism" (or "verisimilitude") plays in setting apart naturalist writings from pre-Restoration romances: 34 As we compare the characteristics of romanticism and naturalism, we realize that, despite the fact that romantic literature is rich in elements that evoke our feelings, we cannot help but regret that it is somehow removed from reality. Perhaps [romantic writers] have a tendency to adorn their works randomly with happenings from an ideal world. Even if those ideals can be realized, we must wait for them to happen, and, while it is perfectly fine for romantic writers to write about those ideals for their own moral satisfaction and pleasure, it is difficult for us to feel those ideals keenly. On the other hand, no matter how much the naturalists write about moral weaknesses, very often those are weaknesses shared by the writer and the reader, so they are not perceived as removed from our lives. We understand what sordidness

means

because it is within our experience, (sz, 11:381) In a significant way, the transition from a literature that celebrates romantic ideals to one that emphasizes the realistic portrayal of individual life in Japan coincides with the development of the confessional mode of literature, which is very much part of a trend that swept through Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. "[The nineteenth century] was a time," writes Peter Gay, "when confessional autobiographies, informal self-portraits, self-referential novels, intimate diaries and secret journals grew from a trickle to a stream, and when their display of subjectivity, their purposeful inwardness, markedly intensified." 35 Although Soseki sees this as an irreversible

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movement, he has reservations about the extent to which selfexposure alone can constitute meaningful reading if it is not tempered with clear introspection, discernment, and self-awareness. Despite its lyricism, Toson's Haru (Spring; 1908), for example, is replete with self-laceration and moral blindness, and Soseki is not prepared to affirm that completely. What finally marks the value of the modern preoccupation with the self, in Soseki's view, is the courage and honesty that accompany self-examination: Since a certain segment of people began advocating

naturalism

several years ago, most people have grown to detest it, and in the end naturalism has come to stand for degeneration and lewdness. However, it is not necessary at all to fear and detest naturalism, so we must look at the healthy side of its effect. To begin with, given that faults like ours are depicted in literary works and that characters like ourselves appear in them, our sympathy should naturally flow to those who have these weaknesses. At the same time, our sympathy will come with a sense of loneliness at feeling that we are not guaranteed freedom from the same mistakes. To tear away the face of self-conceit and to humble the upright back is really the effect of this kind of literature. If a work of naturalism cannot attain this kind of healthy purpose, then we have to say the work itself is not good, (sz, 11:382) Soseki's critical stance is what finally distinguishes the thoughtful, lucid, and responsible practitioner of ethical criticism from the pedantic moralist of the past and the hounding censors of his time. Compared to his criticism of naturalism in 1907-1908, his position in 1911 is more appreciative of the virtues of the confessional mode, but, true to his calling, his insistence on the educational value of literature remains unchanged. "Doraku to shokugyo" (Pleasure and occupation) is the first lecture in the series, and its title was most unconventional for the occa-

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sion of its delivery—doraku often carries the connotation of dissipation in relation to gambling, drinking, and sex—especially as it was preceded by such stolid topics as "The Question of French Vietnam" and "The Problem of Manchuria." After a long and lighthearted preamble about occupations of the past and present, Soseki speaks of the increasing specialization and compartmentalization of occupations, to the extent that people become totally ignorant except in their own field or trade and therefore as human beings become more and more handicapped: "As our individual occupations become narrower and deeper and the surface area of our knowledge and interests becomes more restricted, we look as though we are sharing our lives in society on the surface, but in fact we are intensely isolated, like dwellers in the deep mountains. We might settle next to each other, but our hearts live worlds apart. As a result, we lack the knowledge and compassion to understand one another, and, despite the fact that we huddle together, our inner lives are utterly unconnected" (sz, 11:310). He suggests that reading literature is one way to bring people together: Granted that the ills of our isolation arise from our lack of mutual knowledge and the thinness of our compassion, we must put aside the fact that the pressure of our family businesses and trades leaves us with hardly any time and consider ways to find time out of our scanty leisure in order to understand others and generate some warmth among people so as to become compassionate. . . . Works of literature are not specialized writings. They are works that attempt to criticize or narrate what people have in common. Irrespective of your occupations and your social classes, literature binds people together in all their nakedness and tears down other barriers, so it seems that it is the most commendable and least flawed means of binding people together, (sz, 11:311) This affirmation of the use of literature for creating a common bond leads to a discussion of the "self-oriented occupation" of the

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artist, which is in fact what doraku means in the context of the lecture. Soseki points out that most occupations are other oriented, in the sense that one works for the benefit of others in order to earn a living for oneself: If my monthly salary is fifteen yen, I will take those fifteen yen and put in fifteen yen worth of work for others. In other words, those fifteen yen have become an indicator of the amount of work I have to do. To spend fifteen yen worth of effort in earning fifteen yen is no more than saying that those fifteen yen are money for your own benefit. In the same vein, if you can put in a thousand yen worth of work for others, you will have a thousand yen to spend for yourself, and that would really be wonderful.

That

means the more you exert yourself to work for others, the more you are able to create your own elbowroomfor

luxury, so it

seems that it's just a good idea for you to decide to work as much as possible for the sake of others, (sz, 11:304) 36 As for self-oriented occupations: There are a handful of occupations that simply cannot be otheroriented. They are the work of scientists, philosophers, and we have to regard them as a special class of people. phers and scientists study things that are remotely

or artists, Philoso-

connected

to the actual life of the immediate world, so, even if they try to please the world, they cannot, and doubtless the world will hardly ever decide to purchase or not to purchase their research on the basis of their

attitudes....

. . . Can the work of the scientist, philosopher, or artist manage to exist as an occupation? It seems that the only thing that is certain is that they will not succeed without being egoistic. That is because, when you work for the sake of others, you yourself disappear. In particular, an artist without the spirit of self is like a

Chapter 3 hollow cicada shell, which is virtually worthless. In a task that does not allow you to create works that you like but forces you to devote yourself to pleasing others, the spirit that is yourself will not dwell in you. Nothing will be your own, and there will be no room to house the soul. I am not an artist, but, since I write literary works, I may still belong to that category. In any case, I write to earn a living. In short, literature is my occupation. However, in choosing literature as my occupation, rather than treating it as an occupation that yields the result of pleasing the world through discarding the self in the interest of others, I see it as an occupation in which the consequences of my working in my own interest, that is, the natural manifestation of my artistic disposition, by chance serve other people, and the reward of being acceptable to others affects my materialistic well-being. If it were an occupation that serves the interest of others exclusively, and if I had to distort myself fundamentally

in order to survive, then I might

have to quit literature altogether. Fortunately, although it's done according to my own self-centered interest and judgment,

some

people happen to like my work and read it, and from them I receive some monetary reward or acknowledgement that had enabled me to make it to this day. No matter how I look at it, the result is a chance occurrence. How would I orient myself if this chance occurrence should break down? I insist that I could not bear to look at my own work if it were not self-oriented. It's not just I, but any artist would think the same way. It follows that, under such circumstances, the world does not tell me to be an artist; I choose to be an artist. If it were not my own stubborn choice, that would be another story. Artists and scholars are selfcentered, but, in being self-centered, they succeed in their vocations. In other words, pleasure is their profession. If it were not the right time, or if it were not something that pleased them, they would neither write nor create. It is unavoidable that they are outright dissipators because their occupations are by nature

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pleasure oriented. If you force them to give up their own selves in order to make ends meet or distort their nature with no regard for their likes and dislikes, you might as well be killing

them....

That is because the nature of their work does not permit any compromise, (sz, 11:314,315-317) At this point, it is useful to compare Soseki's critical view of the artist with those of Futabatei Shimei and Nagai Kafu, both of whom were prominent critics of the civilization of their time.37 Soseki's hyperbolic affirmation of the artist as an autonomous and responsible modern self contrasts sharply with Futabatei Shimei's skepticism of the value of fiction: "In the end, the thought that continues to bother me is that novels are basically about nothing but falsehood, so, in the final analysis, I cannot take them seriously.... Since I cannot go on writing seriously with a thought like that, I cannot imagine anyone else being able to be serious about them."38 According to Futabatei, the decisive factor that prevents him from putting his faith in the value of fiction is what he terms "the influence of Confucianism." At the center of his moral world is shojiki (honesty), and, much as he respects art, his initial experience in publishing forced him to confront the conflict between art and honesty. He recounts the anguish he underwent in using the name of his mentor, Tsubouchi Shoyo, going on to say, "When I write fiction, 'honesty' falls apart; and then everything else begins to fall a p a r t . . . . In July 1904, with the beginning of the Russo-Japanese War, I came back to Japan and joined Asahi Shimbun. As part of my duty I wrote Sono omokage and Heibon and became fairly involved with the literary establishment. But, even so, I don't feel like I want to end up being a writer. After all, I still have the ambition to begin a big project, a big struggle—even now."39 In contrast to Futabatei's uneasiness about the role of the artist, Kafu depicts approvingly the decadence of the dilettante's life in a portrait of his artist /writer friend in the essay "Shotaku" (House for

io6

Chapter 3

a mistress), written a year after Soseki's lecture series in Kansai. The writer in the essay is a middle-aged man of letters who, having withdrawn from the competition of the world, spends most of his time daydreaming in his mistress' house by the canal. He passes the time going to garden parties, listening to the recitation of naniwa-bushi, watching Shakespearean plays, listening to nagauta mixed with Western music, and writing novels when requested.40 He is perfectly happy, even if the manuscript paper is rough or his works, when printed, are full of errors, and he does not mind listening to obtuse journalistic criticism. "In order not to be beaten by the competition for survival in modern life," Kafu writes, "Sensei strives to understand that there is no distinction between good and evil in the things that people in the modern world do." 41 The mistress' house is old, dark, and small—only four rooms. It is rented, its furnishings come from a defunct geisha house, and the sitting room is so dim that one cannot make out the faces of people coming in from outside. The path from the toilet to the little front yard is always damp and smelly from lack of sun. But Sensei likes the fact that it feels like a retreat for one who has failed in the world. The mistress is a geisha who grew up in the Yoshiwara and has led an unstable life with different men. Dark skinned and sickly, she once lost all her hair during an illness and vomited blood because of her heavy drinking. She is illiterate and has nothing to do with the new education for women in the Meiji. But her eyes, with their heavy lids, are uncomplaining and not totally devoid of dreams and luster, like a faintly lit spring evening under a slightly overcast sky. Kafu explains that Sensei is fond of this woman because he likes to separate morality and art. Sensei publishes a story called "Mihatenu yume" (Unfinished dream), in which he says that, although the world of the demimonde was clearly one made for hypocrisy from the start, it is delightful to see that in such a world one can find things that are honest.42 He realizes that he can cut a way through the hypocrisy of proper society with the contentment he finds in this dark, degenerate

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world. Sensei likes his mistress because he gets a sense of satisfaction from embracing immorality and impropriety as a reaction against the formulated and sterile morality of the past. In any case, he understands that this sort of pessimistic, paradoxical way of thinking is an act of sickness that springs from a kind of destructive romanticism. In his decadent life with an uneducated woman of disreputable occupation, he can faintly hear the whisper of the overripe civilization of the past. It amuses Sensei to no end, Kafu adds, to think that, when the essay about the mistress' house is published, people will definitely say that "literary art spells immorality." At mealtimes, there are salted entrails of sea cucumber in a small, dirty bucket next to the table, along with other pickled and preserved foods. Sensei removes the lid of the soiled bucket quietly and, with his chopsticks, picks up a few strands of salted entrails the color of diarrhea. The long strands trail at the tip of the chopsticks, and those that do not separate easily fall back into the bucket. He picks them up over and over again as they fall, and, after a while, when they finally reach a certain length, he puts them aside on a little dish and closes the lid of the bucket. After that, he waits a long time before he puts them in his mouth, as though lost in the smell of the rocks in the rough sea. Kafu s depiction is in many ways hyperbole in praise of the artist's decadence and autonomy. His is essentially an aesthetics of excess justifying a way of life that sets the artist apart from the rest of the world. Kafu and Futabatei therefore represent two contrasting visions of the artist. While Kafu affirms the artist's right to retreat from society and to live by his own aesthetic and moral standards, Futabatei remains skeptical about the use of fiction and the role of the artist in the betterment of society and civilization. Unlike Futabatei, Soseki has few misgivings about the artist's self-oriented way of life and the efficacy of the language of fiction; unlike Kafu, he is not blinded by theoretical and practical interests in the aesthetics of excess. Soseki sees the artist as potential leader and transgressor or, in Carlyle's words,

io8

Chapter 3

"the guidance or misguidance." 43 The artist intuitively understands and expresses the spirit of the age, but, since he thinks and speaks in a language that upsets pure rationalism, he has the potential to break rules or create havoc. In his fiction, Soseki grapples with the Janus-faced potential of the artist. For instance, Daisuke in Sorekara begins as a poetic and individualistic character who chooses a life of pleasure (doraku) over occupation (shokugyd) and ends up as a transgressor who falls in love with the wife of his best friend and incurs the wrath of his family. His transgression is a powerful act that both signals the abandonment and embodies the nobility of irrationality, but, like the other transgressors in Soseki's fiction, including Michiyo in Sorekara and Sosuke and Oyone in Mon, Daisuke is ultimately punished for allowing spiritual fulfillment to become mere self-indulgence. At the end of the narrative, he is left to look for a job, an option previously unacceptable to him as a free, artistic spirit. In many ways, Soseki's fiction problematizes ideas that appear more clear-cut in his critical work. When one juxtaposes his novels and his lectures, one detects a faint shadow of discomfort even behind his neatest theory. Often, he establishes a theory in his critical writing merely to question it in his fiction, such as his affirmation of the selfpreoccupation of the artist in "Doraku to shokugyo" and his doubts regarding the ability of the artist to distinguish self-indulgence from self-fulfillment in Sorekara. But it is precisely in the uncertainty of this interplay between his criticism and his fiction that one senses Soseki's humanity. On the one hand, he teaches us about the true responsibilities of the teacher and the artist in his conscientious attempts to clarify a given notion through the language of reason in his criticism, and, on the other hand, he problematizes that same notion through the language of poetry in his literary works. "Gendai Nihon no kaika" is the most elaborately orchestrated piece among the four Kansai lectures. Soseki sustains the audience's atten-

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tion with jokes and asides while developing a thorough definition of the word enlightenment. Despite his success at imitating the glibness of an accomplished rakugo speaker (save the fact that he was not equipped with the usual stage props of fan and tenugui), his lecture gradually brings on a suffocating gloom, a sense of oppression that perhaps only the heat of the crowded lecture hall could match. The opening of this long lecture reveals Soseki's usual flair as a public speaker cum entertainer: In this unabated heat, it must be tryingfor so many of you to gather here to listen to a lecture

Yet it's not so easy, either,

for the one who lectures, especially after Maki's introduction, which harked back to the clever twists and turns in my lectures. After such advertisement-like compliments, Ifeel as though I have come on stage to do as he said and to show you the utmost cleverness of my verbal acrobatics and, if I should fail to do so, I will not be able to come down. Thus, Ifeel caught in an even more difficult task than before. In fact, before I came out here, I had a little discussion with Maki. That was between the two of us, but I have decided to make it public. It wasn't any big secret; it's just that Ifelt I didn't have enough material to do a long lecture for you, so I asked Maki if he could stretch his slightly. Maki gave me the reassuring answer that he could stretch his as much as he liked, so I felt I could count on him and asked him to do so for me. As a result, his brief commentary on my lecture in his introduction or preface was originally my request, and no doubt I should be thankful for that, but it is an indisputable fact that it also made it all the more difficultfor me to talk. In the first place, since I ventured to make such a miserable request, my lecture is not meant to meander but is supposed to go straight to the point and come to an end. I don't have a scrap of the ingredients I need to orchestrate the piece in its rise and fall, pauses, and meanderings. Having said that, it doesn't mean that I have come to the

no

Chapter 3 podium totally at a loss; I have of course made some preparation for coming here. It was not in my original plan to come to Wakayama, but since I was hoping to come to the Kinki area, the company assigned me to Wakayama. Thanks to that I have the chance to visit localities and famous sights that I had never seen before. Since I expected to see Tamazujima and Kimiidera while I was here to give a lecture, I could not bring myself to come to these ancient sights and famous localities empty-handed.

Thus,

I already had the topic of the talk in mind while I was still in Tokyo, (sz, 11:319-320,) But the offhanded ease displayed at the beginning of the lecture is quickly replaced by a sense of doom when Soseki begins his bleak interpretation of the rapid modernization and Westernization of Meiji Japan. He posits the theory that enlightenment is propelled by the tendency to spend less energy on work and more energy on pleasure. The former can be called "the conservation of vitality" (katsuryoku setsuyaku) and the latter "the expenditure of vitality" (katsuryoku shomo). Thus, we invent trains, automobiles, and airplanes to reduce the amount of time we spend commuting, and we devise avenues of entertainment to use the energy and time saved. Yet, despite such developments, there is no net gain in happiness owing to the constant need to catch up with supposedly newer and better things; consequently, the pain of existence for the modern individual remains acute: Since we have gradually arrived at today's position after all the effort and time of thousands of years, we should be able to live more easily now than before as a result of the long-term struggle of these two forms of vitality from the ancient past to the present. But do we, in fact? In perfect honesty, life is still very difficult. We are conscious of the fact that we live in a kind of pain that is no less than that which our predecessors went through. Indeed, the

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more enlightened we are, the more competition we face, and life has become increasingly difficult. Of course, there is no doubt that, through the intense struggle of the two forms of vitality, we have achieved enlightenment. Yet this enlightenment only raises our standard of living and does not soften the pain of existence. Clearly, the hardship of the competition for knowledge varies in degree between elementary school pupils and college students, but in terms of proportion it is the same. Similarly, if you were to ask to what extent the degree of happiness varies between people of the past and people of the present or to what extent the degree of unhappiness varies, I would say that, in terms of the expenditure and conservation of vitality, there may be a great difference but that, in terms of the anxiety and struggle engendered by the competition to survive, the present is by no means easier than the past. No. In fact, the present may have become even harsher than the past. Then it was a matter of struggling between life and death. If you didn't put in the effort, you would not be able to live. There was no other choice, so you had to do it. Besides, given that the avenues to pleasure were yet to be opened, the notion of pleasure was relatively downplayed, so it seems that, as long as you could stretch your legs and take a break from work, you would be content. Now we have come a long way from the question of life and death. Since there has been such a transformation, the struggle turns into a question of living. The question of living may sound ridiculous, but it refers to the fact that we are anxious about how we live.... In terms of the conservation of vitality, let us consider the ricksha and the automobile. ... Since the automobile is invented, the ricksha has to give way. A5 it gives way, we have to catch up. As soon as something superior in terms of the conservation of vitality appears on the horizon, a phenomenon akin to a low-pressure system will occur in the midst of enlightenment, and it will stir ceaselessly until everything attains its proportion and returns to balance. This is

112

Chapters the nature of human beings. In terms of the expenditure of vitality, this fluctuation is the same. As a quick example, although people have been putting up with smoking Shikishima and the like, when someone begins to smoke Egyptian tobacco next door, they also want to smoke that. When they try it, there is no doubt that the imported brand is more flavorful. In the end, people begin to feel that those who smoke Shikishima are not fit to be human, and the struggle to switch to Egyptian tobacco begins....

When

the increasingly intense struggle in both the consumption and the conservation of vitality forms the trend of enlightenment,...

our

sufferings, in terms of the psychological pain that life inflicts on our spirit, will remain more or less unchanged compared to fifty or a hundred years ago. Precisely because of that, even in today's world, where the machinery for reducing labor is fully in place, and where all the avenues for entertainment that enable the free use of one's vitality are open, the pain of existence is extremely acute—one can even call it extraordinary. We don't feel the blessings of being born in an age where much hard labor can be avoided, and, although the variety and amount of entertainment have expanded, we don't see its virtue. So long as that is the case, we may truly describe our sufferings as extraordinary. This is what I consider a profound paradox produced by enlightenment, (sz, 11:330-333^ Around the time Soseki was speaking pessimistically about modern Japan, a few other critics of civilization were intoning brighter and more hopeful notes, expressing their belief in the growing importance of Japan's role in the world. In the same year as the Kansai lectures, Tokutomi Roka called for the removal of barriers between countries, races, classes, genders, and religions as well as a realization of the idea of "brotherhood across the four seas." He also spoke positively about the virtue of self-sacrifice for the sake of unity. A year before that, in 1910, Ishikawa Takuboku wrote, "We must carefully, courageously,

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and freely study 'today' in order to discover our own needs for tomorrow. Our needs most accurately describe our ideals." 44 In contrast to their optimistic outlook, Soseki speaks of nervous prostration and despair, not because of any inherent pessimism, but because he understands only too well that Japan has to pay a high price for its rapid modernization and Westernization. He points out that the enlightenment of Japan is not a gradual process that occurs from within (naihatsu), like a bud coming into bloom, but a process imposed from without (gaihatsu), given that the Japanese were trying to "condense a hundred years of development that went into the enlightenment of the West into a span of ten years" (sz, 11:340). While other critics may remain insensitive to the phenomenon, Soseki discerns the insecurity in the collective consciousness of the nation as a result of such externally imposed development. Such insecurity manifests itself in the loss of manners and decency in society. The following description of the emptiness and pretension of a society trying desperately to imitate the West is similar to an earlier depiction of a garden party in Nowaki (1907,) in which the so-called elite of society make smug comments about the price of tobacco and snide remarks about someone in a frock coat inappropriate for the occasion: The tide that dominates the modem enlightenment of Japan is a Western current, and, since Japanese who experience that wave are not Westerners, whenever a current washes in, we feel ill at ease as hangers-on in its midst. At any rate, whenever the new wave arrives, we have to give up whatever characteristics and reality of the old wave without a moment's thought. As an analogy, instead of truly tasting the dishes as we sit down to dine, we have the dishes snatched away from us even before they register clearly in our eyes, and new dishes are put before us. Japanese who are under the influence of this kind of enlightenment must somehow feel empty. They must also feel dissatisfied and anxious. It's no good to look pleased, as though this enlightenment

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Chapter 3 is occurringfrom within. It's no good to look so smug. There is a certain degree of hypocrisy and insincerity. It's the impertinence of a child who is still too young to appreciate the flavor of tobacco and yet pretends to enjoy the taste ofsmoking. Japanese who are forced to act like that to keep up with the West are truly sad people. Perhaps we cannot call it enlightenment, but you will notice something if you observe socialization between Westerners and Japanese. As long as you socialize with Westerners, you cannot go by Japanese standards. I have nothing to say if you don't have to socialize, but, unfortunately, the present situation is that Japanese have to socialize. But when you socialize with a stronger power, you have to abandon Self and follow the customs of the Other. The fact that we gratify ourselves with our criticism of someone else's ignorance in handling forks and knives only goes to show that Westerners have power over us. If we were more powerful, it would be easy to make them imitate us and reverse the host and guest situation. Since it doesn't work that way, we imitate them. However, there is no reason why traditions that have developed naturally should change all of a sudden, just to follow mechanically the rituals of the West. Since they are not rituals fermented and brewed naturally from within, it is unsightly when we adopt them. This is not enlightenment; it is only a series of minute incidents that do not even touch the periphery of enlightenment, but, even down to these minute incidents, what we do occurs not from within but from without. It boils down to the fact that the enlightenment of modern Japan is a surface enlightenment. Of course, I cannot say this about every single point. I have to be careful with this drastic language in dealing with a complex problem, but I must say that part of our enlightenment, or a large part of our enlightenment, is simply on the surface, no matter how much we lie to ourselves. Yet we cannot tell it to stop because it is bad. The unavoidable reality is that we have to glide along on the surface, swallowing our tears, (sz, 11:339-340)

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This desperate pretension and constant need to catch up finally lead Japan to nervous prostration. The language becomes darker and more personal when Soseki begins to speak of the tottering mental health of the nation as a collective entity: In the course offorty or fifty years, say, of education since the Meiji Restoration, we have arrived at the pinnacle of specialization that the West managed to achieve after a hundred years of natural development from within. If we have gone through and completed in just half the amount of time what took the physically and mentally more vigorous Westerners a hundred years to achieve, we should be aware of the fact that we have fallen into the kind of nervous prostration that prevents us from rising again once we fall, and it is inevitable that we will consequently lie moaning on the roadside, waiting to die. When we think about it calmly, isn't it true that, if we exert ourselves for ten years as university professors, most of us will succumb to nervous prostration? I can't say that those who come through unscathed are imposters, but it seems that, no matter how you look at it, those who succumb to nervous prostration seem more normal. I have used the example of the scholar here for the sake of clarity; the logic in fact applies to every aspect of enlightenment. Thus, no matter how much we advance in the process of enlightenment, the peace of mind that should come as the gift of enlightenment is surprisingly inaccessible, and, as we take into account the unavoidable anxiety that comes with competition and other things, our happiness has not changed very much since the dark ages. I have already spoken of this. Owing to the peculiar condition of modern Japan, our enlightenment has to glide along on the surface because we are forced to change mechanically, and, when we no longer want to glide along, we succumb to nervous prostration in an attempt to stand firm. Whether we call ourselves wretched or sad, we have really fallen into a sorry state that there are no words to express and from

n6

Chapter 3 which there is no way out. My conclusion is nothing more than that. It's not a matter of having to do this or that. It's an extremely pessimistic conclusion that stems from complete helplessness, and we can do nothing but sigh. Perhaps it's better not to reach such a conclusion. The thing about truth is, before you find out about it, you want to know it, but, when you know it, you would rather have remained ignorant, (sz, 11:341-342) The sense of foreboding in Soseki's lecture seems to bespeak the

imminent crisis in his health and personal loss in his family. Even before he returned to Tokyo from the lecture tour, he was to fall ill again, and, in November of that year, he was to suffer the loss of his youngest and favorite daughter, Hinako. Illness and death find their way into his lecture as the central metaphors and in a strange way eliminate the distance between his public persona and his private self.45 It is precisely at this juncture that the lectures appeal to our feelings as well as our intellect. Conscious of his place in history, Soseki is driven by the urge to teach and to sound the clear voice of reason to guide his fellow countrymen in difficult times. Among the outgrowths of that urge are the lecture tours, the overly moralistic novels, the relation between mentor and student that figures so prominently in those novels, the criticism of naturalist writers, and the characters who speak so eloquently of the pain and the insecurity of the transition to modernism. In Soseki's eagerness to provide guidance for a changing society we see the influence of Thomas Carlyle and Matthew Arnold, both of whom espoused protecting elite culture for the common good.46 To a great extent, the way Soseki conducted his life as a critic, teacher, and writer betrayed his belief in the "spiritual light" that the Carlylean man of letters provides his time through literary creation and the preservation and renewal of culture. By profession, Soseki uses literature to channel his views on morality and society, but, unlike Arnold, who

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approaches poetry as an educator,47 Soseki approaches poetry as an artist. Soseki was impressed by Arnold's Literature

and Dogma,4*

but he

himself had gone beyond Arnold's limitation of being, as T. S. Eliot put it, "so conscious of what, for him, poetry was for, that he could not altogether see it for what it is."49 Fortunately, although Soseki is sometimes so fueled by a burning desire to teach that he sacrifices his characters and makes censorious remarks about works lacking in moral clarity, he possesses an artist's sensibility for the color, rhythm, and imagery of poetry as well as for the insights that combine to produce genuine works of art. His own style of fiction continued to change and evolve, and his works, by virtue of their diversity and scope, defy labeling.50 His best works combine the lucid and dissecting voice of the critic and the intimate and lamenting voice of the poet. There are instances in his 1911 lectures when his language approaches the fine balance between criticism and poetry, but it is not until the end of his life, in Michikusa

and Meian,

that the critical and the poetic voice

converge and reason and passion also commingle to form works of great intensity and beauty. Despite the appearance of ease and control, in the end Soseki's ambivalence toward his criticism cannot be disguised—he used to dread his class lectures when he was teaching at the university, and he resorts to quasi-scientific formulas to dissect English literature in Bungakuron.

It is almost as if he were skeptical of criticism's efficacy,

the way Futabatei doubts the worth of fiction.51 After the lectures and the applause, when he shuts the door of his study and contemplates in solitude the problems closest to his heart, it is solitary figures who never manage to resolve the complexities of life that flow from the tip of his tormented and passionate pen, their voices an echo of the deepest quest of a lonely man.

Space and Movement in Köjitt

iter his summer 1911 lecture tour in the Kinki area, Soseki's health took a drastic turn for the worse, and his diary entries for the rest of the year are filled with gruesome records of hospitalization, medical treatment, and demoralizing physical pain and discomfort. In an effort to find release from his health problems and gain some measure of control over his life, he focused even more powerfully than before on his writing. The result was Kdjin (The wayfarer; 1913), a rumination on marriage, existence, and redemption, begun in the stillness of the winter of 1912 and completed in the fall of the following year, with a hiatus of three months from April to July owing to the writer's poor health. It is a work made possible by the experience of someone who has lost the opportunity of conveying affection, who has seen the specter of death, and who understands all too well how frightening it is to be lonely. Kdjin was preceded by another novel, Higan sugi made (Until after the equinox; 1912). Higan sugi made is unabashedly episodic, and at first glance the apparently fragmentary Kdjin seems to follow in its footsteps. Yet, unlike Higan sugi made, the various parts of Kdjin resonate with one another to contribute to the central theme of loneliness. This is not to say that Higan sugi made is a lesser work. In the 118

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antics of its more colorful characters it retains some of the kabukistyle drama and humor that Kdjin lacks, and, overall, it is a more entertaining and lively novel despite its looming darkness. In it, one can still see the Soseki who loves the apparent haphazardness and lightheartedness of the theater as well as the Soseki who has a flair for capturing the humor and vulgarity of the Edo—in short, the Soseki who is urbane and fun loving. In Kdjin, however, little of this frivolity remains. In Kdjin, one sees a peripatetic loner and philosopher wandering through the sultry landscape of Kinki, going up the mountain and down by the roaring waves in an attempt to understand the root of his existential loneliness. Kdjin is more unified in theme than Higan sugi made, and the different episodes work together to address the chaos in the lives of the characters. Despite its clear partitioning into four major sections—"Friends" (tomodachi), "Brother" (ani), "After Returning Home" (kaette kara), and "Anguish" (jinro)—Kdjin was not conceived as short, separate pieces (tanpen), as Kokoro might have been.1 Kojin was conceived as a full-length novel whose female characters are shadows of one another2 and whose male characters—Ichiro, Jiro, and Misawa 3 — form the triangle of remorse, hesitation, and inaction that permeates the tragedy of existence in Kojin. Kojin is unified by Soseki's bold depiction of space and movement. Space, here, can be taken both in the literal sense of the setting for a dramatic action or the distance between two people and in the abstract sense of a place in one's consciousness or the landscape of one's mind. The characters' movement through these spaces is directly tied to the theme of wayfaring. The reader follows the characters as they travel, coming to rest occasionally in a mesmerizing space, a cosmos where the reader remains transfixed, be it a pitch-dark room in a stormenveloped seaside inn or a tent swathed in mosquito netting on a sleepless night. Ultimately, space and movement are symbolic of the plight of all travelers on the face of the earth.4 Space and movement are never haphazard in Soseki's works. Characters never come to be in a certain place by accident; every

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location and movement is always well planned, carefully thought out, and loaded with significance. Place lends meaning and complexity to the characters, and movement from one place to another or from one imaginary textual space to another as a rule plays a vital role in plot or character development. (Similarly, the final michiyuki scene in any double-suicide play in jôruri or kabuki is never dependent on mere chance or convenience: every bridge the lovers cross, every temple they pass, all are imbued with symbolic meaning and accentuate the tragedy of the characters.) Space and movement are the means by which Sôseki controls his text, keeping the plot from meandering and the depiction of such strong and uncontrollable emotions as fear and loneliness from spiraling down into chaos. The careful choice of setting in Sôseki's novels endows the characters with greater complexity and gives the narrative a richer texture. To take Sanshirô as an example, on his arrival in Tokyo from Kyushu, Sanshirô is thrust violently into the unfamiliar and meaning-laden space of the Yamanote, and his initiation can be understood largely in terms of his exploration of that district and of his encounters with those groups of intellectuals and sophisticates so entrenched there.5 Sanshirô's naïveté is most effectively conveyed through Sôseki's meticulous description of the Western-style buildings, the intricate layout of Hirota's house, and the electric doorbell at Mineko's house, all seen through Sanshirô's eyes. To take another example, one can fathom Daisuke's fall from grace in Sorekara only when one understands that his father's home is in exclusive Aoyama, that he himself lives on a secluded dead-end street in centrally located Kagurazaka, that he shops in fashionable Ginza, that he feels perfectly at ease at the garden party in Azabu, and that he frequents concert halls with his sister-in-law—in short, that he was born to a life of ease and that he is the personification of the "upper-class loafer" (kôtôyùmin). Such a lifestyle renders his expressed social consciousness and his criticism of capitalism ironic and problematic, regardless of the fact that he is neither pretentious nor insincere.6 In this section dealing with space and movement I focus on Kôjin.

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The title itself is cryptic, and Soseki never offered an explanation of it. Komiya Toyotaka points out the possible allusion to a passage in a classical Chinese text, Lie zi, that speaks of the living as wanderers: "Yen Zi said, 'Lo, in ancient times there was such a concept of death. Humane people rest in peace. Inhumane people lie in prostration. Thus, death is the final word of virtue. The ancients said that the dead are those who have returned home. If that is so, then the living are the wanderers. They traverse the land not knowing how to get home. They have lost their abode.'"7 If this assumption is correct, the title would then suggest that traveling, or movement through space and time, plays a vital role in the narrative. Rendered in the singular—The Wayfarer—as Beongcheon Yu has translated it, the title suggests a single traveler and seems to be an obvious reference to the principle character, Ichiro, although the narrative in fact abounds with sojourners whose paths cross and recross. At the center of Kdjin is a marriage on the verge of collapse— that of Ichiro and Nao—and vignettes of different marriages or malefemale relationships are reported by the narrator, Ichiro's brother, Jiro, as he travels from Kansai back to Tokyo. In the first section, "Tomodachi" (Friend), Jiro visits the Okadas in Osaka and his friend Misawa, who is in the hospital; Misawa in turn journeys through his memory to recount the story of the young, crazed, divorced woman in his old home and his encounter with a geisha who became gravely ill after drinking with him. The second section, "Ani" (Brother), takes Jiro to the mountaintop, where Ichiro orders him to test the fidelity of Nao, and back down to the sea, where on a stormy night he confronts Nao's passion and his own confusion in a dark room in the inn. The third section, "Kaette kara" (After coming home), takes them all back to Tokyo, where the tensions of their lives and relationships are played out in the arrangement of space in Ichiro and Jiro's parents' house. The last section, "Jinro" (Anguish), disengages itself from the first three in the sense that the narrative space is largely occupied by a long letter that introduces a change in narrative voice and an altogether separate cycle of traveling that gives form to an indepen-

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dent cosmos. Here, we meet a wise sojourner, H, who, like the other wayfarers in the novel, travels with no definite destination in mind; he differs from the others, however, in that he is at ease in his surroundings, whatever they be, and generously attends to the needs of his fellow traveler, Ichiro. Despite this new direction that the narrative takes, however, section 4 continues to address the issues and problems central to the first three sections. This chapter examines the journeys of the principle wayfarers in the novel—Jiro, Misawa, Ichiro, Nao, and H. In so doing, I attempt to contrast the chaos in the lives of these characters with the possibility of order held out at the end of the narrative. Why does Soseki begin the narrative at Osaka? Soseki's 1911 lecture tour provided fresh impressions of Akashi, Wakayama, Sakai, and Osaka that he would utilize in Kdjin. Of Osaka and its neighboring city, Sakai, he said, Since I occupy myself with writing novels and criticism, I tend to talk considerably about literature. I don't know if it's permissible to talk about art in Osaka. I think it would have been most suitable for me to give a talk on making money, but the title "Literature and Morality" alone tells you that you will not make any money. ("Bungei to dotoku," sz, 11:366J I came to Sakai some years back. That was quite some time ago, when I was still a student. It must have been in the Meiji 20s [i.e., the third decade of the Meiji era, 1888-1898]; in any case I remember it as somethingfrom the distant past. In fact, Takahara, who was on stage a while ago, was a student of mine when I was teaching high school. Since my own student is already so accomplished, I must be getting on in years. It was when I was still young that I visited Sakai, so I may call it once upon a time. Now that I think about it, I hardly remember anything about the Sakai I saw at that time, but I recall visiting a temple called Myd-

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kokuji and looking for a sago palm. And then, I also remember that there was a store next to the temple that sold little knives and cleavers, and I recall buying some nice cutlery as a souvenir. On top of that, I remember there was a big restaurant as I traveled to the seaside. That restaurant was called something like "Ichiriki." As I recall everything in a blur, it feels like a dream. By chance I am back here today in dreamlike Sakai, and as I passed through the old town again, rocked back and forth in the car, my senses were very open and receptive. It was a long way from the station to this auditorium. I must sound very rude for saying this, but I remember this only as a very dingy place in the past. Thus, I was impressed and astonished in the car, as I look around, that at some street corners there are posters or billboards about the lecture and that the name Natsume Soseki was written in black ink and pasted all over the walls. ("Nakami to keishiki," sz, 11:345-346) Soseki continues to express his pleasure at the overwhelming attendance at his lecture and praises Sakai as a place "whose interest in lectures is well developed." The fact that Soseki could stand on stage and make such comments—surprisingly blunt and condescending when taken out of context—shows the general acceptance of the view of Osaka as a decidedly mercantile center light years distant in spirit from the intellectual atmosphere of the Yamanote region of Tokyo. His talk would have to have had quite a different opening in refined, ancient Kyoto, a haunt more appropriate to the old-fashioned, moralistic Kodo sensei and the sad, frail Sayoko of Gubijinsd. Osaka is more suited to the agile and well-adjusted Okada. This is not to say that Okada is an uncomplicated character and Osaka an unsophisticated city. Osaka was in fact a thriving center of commerce, whose spirit Tanizaki Jun'ichiro was later to capture so beautifully in Sasameyuki (The Makioka sisters). In Osaka, Okada and his wife, Okane, exist on a totally different plane from that of both the well-intentioned, sometimes arrogant, and often repressed Jiro and

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the philosophically inclined and depression-prone Ichiro. Being a distant relative of the Naganos', Okada had once lived with them as a shosei and had grown up with Ichiro and Jiro, later setting up his own household and starting work in Osaka.8 The narrative begins with Jiro's visit to the Okadas, at his mother's request, in order to meet Sano, a friend of Okada's from the office, to see whether Sano is an eligible candidate for an arranged marriage with Osada, the female helper in the Nagano household. Jiro stays with the Okadas during his visit. A brief scene in chapter 5 that describes the arrangement of space in the Okada household effectively conveys the status of the relational dynamics among the various characters as well as Jiro's psychological state. Jiro stays in the six-mat room on the second floor, which overlooks the Okada's little backyard and is most likely the best room in the house. The Okadas stay in the room downstairs. It is summer and unbearably hot, and Jiro finds it suffocating lying in the mosquito netting with the shutters closed. He is to feel that way again and again throughout the novel—trapped and pinned down—as he is repeatedly confined, either physically or mentally, in an enclosed space with his sister-inlaw, his mother, and the series of women about whom he fantasizes. To combat the feeling of suffocation, Jiro opens the shutters as quietly as possible and, resting his pillow against the windowsill and gazing at the stars in the clear summer night sky, considers, not without envy, the quiet happiness and harmony of the Okadas' married life. The Okadas are, indeed, the only happily married couple in a novel replete with marriages, mostly broken and bitter. Despite not having been able to have a child in their five or six years of marriage, Okada and his wife exude an unaffected joy and affection comparable perhaps only to that found in the scenes of domestic tranquillity in Mon when Sosuke and Oyone sit together on the veranda and share quiet moments: When I woke up the next morning, I heard Okada's voice in the small patch of garden under the window.

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"Hey, Okane. That dappled one is finally opening up. Come and take a look at it." Lying still, I looked at my watch and held a match to a Shikishima while quietly waiting for Okane to reply. But there was no trace of a response. Okada shouted again a couple of times, "Hey, Okane!" Finally, she said, "What a fuss you are! Don't you see I have no time for morning glories? I'm so busy in the kitchen." Her voice sounded very close by. Apparently she had come out of the kitchen and was standing on the living-room

veranda.

"Pretty, aren't they, when opened up? How about the goldfish?" "Well, they are swimming all right, but this one, I'm not sure..." I smoked my cigarette, anticipating some sentimental

words

from her about the fate of the dying goldfish. I waited and waited, but she said nothing. I could not hear Okada's voice either. I stubbed out the cigarette, arose, and descended the fairly steep stairs, treading noisily on each step. (1.5) 9 The setting speaks eloquently of the relationship between the young married couple: a small, cultivated garden with things blooming and dying in due course, a mixture of domesticity (the kitchen) and nature controlled and protected. Thoroughly natural and unaffected, their warm and loving relationship is beyond Jiro's experience. Okane remains silent not only in the face of an imminent death so natural and insignificant but also when Jiro brings up the subject of their childlessness. It is true that the Okadas do not exhibit as great a spiritual and intellectual need as Ichiro and some of Soseki's more complex and tormented characters do, but their interaction reveals a simple and mutual sharing lacking in other marital relationships. In portraying the Okadas in their little garden, Soseki is not providing a solution to difficult marriages but exploring one possibility for quiet happiness. Placed above the Okadas in the setting of the house, Jiro enjoys his

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superior status and displays a fair amount of arrogance and annoyance when Okada makes jokes and talks to him as an equal in front of Sano, instead of adhering to the more deferential form of speech he normally uses. On another occasion, Jiro notices that, while Okane addresses Jiro's mother as okusama (madam), Okada assumes what seems to be a closer relationship or an elevation in status by calling her obasan (aunt). Jiro's unhurried smoking and his stomping down the stairs are both indications of his young master (botchan) mentality in relation to the Okadas. From the vantage point of the second-floor guestroom, Jiro becomes a voyeur, a role that he continues to play throughout the novel. While staying with the Okadas, he constantly notices Okane's hands and skin, the way she wears her hair, her movements, her smile, her body fragrance, which wafts through the air as she fans him. He is to become obsessed in the same way with the form and movements of the nurse in the hospital where Misawa stays as well as with every physical detail concerning Nao, his sister-in-law. Jiro collects sensory data attentively, a trait that makes him a careful narrator, but he is not reflective by nature, and, consequently, the reader learns more from his experiences and observations than he himself does. By the end of his visit to the Okadas, the reader has already gathered several telling facts about him: that he is arrogant, priggish, and insatiably curious about the opposite sex. From the calm domesticity of the Okadas' home, the narrator moves to the scene in the hospital where Jiro's friend Misawa is being treated for hemorrhaging stomach ulcers aggravated by excessive drinking. Like the sanatoriums in some of the great Russian and German novels, such as Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, the hospital provides an isolated, suspended environment where people from different walks of life congregate, all of them of necessity cut off from their regular surroundings and activities and forced to concentrate on the physical realities of human existence. In this secluded setting, where physical details are recorded with

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obsessive care—down to the raw tofu, seaweed, and dried bonito soup on Misawa's lunch tray, the contents of his vomit, and the mixture of milk and egg administered as a nutrient enema—it is curious that at this point the narrative focuses on two female characters who never actually, or only fleetingly, appear in it. One is a geisha staying in the same hospital and receiving treatment for severe stomach bleeding after a drinking bout at Misawa's encouragement, and the other is a crazed young woman who, after having been abandoned by her husband, lived and ultimately died in Misawa's parents' home. The stories of these two nameless women, the former referred to as ano onna (the woman) and the latter as sono musumesan (the girl), dominate a significant portion of the narrative, but their physical presence is minimized, confined to a profile in a dim hallway or a vivid image sealed in the closed compartment of Misawa's mental space. Ano onna occupies a room on the same floor as Misawa's: Misawa's room was at the end of the hallway, looking over the street, whereas hers, at the corner of the same hallway, let in the light from the courtyard. A5 the weather was warm, the entrances of both rooms were left open and the sliding doors removed, so that from my seat I could see about a quarter of the entrance of the room Misawa indicated with his fan handle. But all I could see was a corner of the bedding on her sickbed, sticking out like a patterned triangle. (1.20) She is described directly only when Jiro catches a glimpse of her profile: Curled up in the dim corner of a bench in the hallway, the Woman showed only her profile....

The Woman was sitting

still, curled up, an image of endurance. There was scarcely any trace of anguish either in her complexion or in her expression, so that when I first saw her profile I could not believe it was that of a sick person. She was doubled up so terribly that her chest was

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Chapter 4 nearly touching her stomach. I felt a wave of revulsion sweep over me; and while mounting the stairs I envisioned the perseverance and suffering concealed behind this woman's beautiful face. (1.18) After that, ano onna is never directly seen again. She becomes

essentially invisible, and, despite its open door and the good-looking nurse who stands an inviting guard, the room is effectively off-limits to everyone else. Misawa and Jiro can hear faint gagging sounds coming from her room, but her physical presence continues to evade them. She lies in such a position that her face cannot be seen from the hallway, and Jiro does not dare look in even when he comes close to the door. She becomes one with the seemingly impenetrable and unapproachable territory that continues to pique Jiro's (shallow) curiosity and pricks Misawa's conscience. It is Misawa, after all, who encouraged ano onna to drink. They met at a drinking party where, after a few rounds, Misawa was beginning to feel sick. Ano onna, a geisha serving at the party, offered him a few pills and told him the name of the hospital. In his drunkenness and pain, he pressed drinks on her. When asked why he inflicted such torture on both himself and ano onna, Misawa says, "God only knows. She really knew nothing about my condition, and I knew nothing about hers. Those around us of course knew nothing about our bodies. But that isn't all. In fact neither of us really knew our own condition. Besides, I was furious with my own stomach, and I tried to coerce it with alcohol. Maybe she felt the same way." Misawa said that and became quiet with sadness. (1.21) Utter ignorance of ano onna's physical condition makes her body inaccessible, a closed compartment that assistance and sympathy cannot penetrate, and Misawa's forced interaction with such an unknown, sealed space becomes a violent collision resulting in mutual injury. When asked why he made her drink, Misawa cannot admit

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that his body must have sensed an affinity with hers, a suffering Other whose physical condition reflects his own, and that this affinity could be expressed only through violence. Having harmed her, he cannot now enter her room because that space has fused with her identity, has become ano onna, the terrible Other with whom he is so closely identified. Her suffering has become his suffering, and, in hurting her, he has hurt himself. He cannot face her because she reminds him of just how much he hates himself. Misawa follows the activities in her room closely—the visitors she receives, the sounds that come from her room, and, worse still, the ominous silence—but he hesitates to enter her territory. Her room is off-limits, an extension of her self that lodges uncomfortably in his consciousness and reminds him of that mental space of self-loathing into which he is also afraid to step. His is the kind of self-loathing that arises from the awareness of one's paralysis in the face of loneliness and sadness—from standing by when one could have shown compassion or affection or from allowing a person, or a gentle feeling, to languish and die. One begins to fathom the extent of Misawa's regret as he reveals the story of the crazed young woman, whose tragedy is fashioned after that of the classic abandoned, crazed woman of No drama. 10 He recounts how, five or six years earlier, his father had helped the daughter of one of his friends marry into another friend's family. Because of unresolved complications, she had to leave her husband's family after a year or so. Since she could not go back to her own family, Misawa's father felt obliged to take care of her. She was very quiet in the beginning, but soon she showed signs of madness. For example, whenever Misawa went out, she would follow him to the door and beg him to come back early: Once when she followed me to the door I was going to upbraid her harshly and glared back at her two or three times. But the moment our eyes met I just couldn't get mad; nor could I even say cruel things to such a pitiful creature. She was a pale-

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moistened with a rapt,

faraway

look, in which there was a faint hint of sorrow. As I looked back to scold her, there she was, on her knees there at the door, turning up those dark eyes toward me, as if to express an extreme loneliness. Each time this happened Ifelt that she was clinging to my sleeve and imploring, "Please help me out of my

unbearable

loneliness in this world." It's her eyes. Her large dark pupils so appealed to me." (1.33) Misawa adds that the face of ano onna bears a remarkable resemblance to that of sono musumesan, who dies in the end. These two women share the bond of absence—one is hidden in time, the other in space—but they are also united by their powerful presence in Misawa's consciousness. Before he leaves the hospital, he finally summons the courage to visit ano onna's sickroom—which, despite its seeming impenetrability, is in fact always wide open—entering this formidable territory the way a soul disappears into another realm with no certainty of return: He looked neither at me nor at the nurse; he rose in silence and vanished into the woman's room. From my seat I blankly watched his disappearing

back. Even after he was gone I kept

on staring at the empty space where he had been. The nurse remained aloof. With a somewhat derisive smile on her lips she glanced at me; then once more she leaned against the post and resumed her reading. The room, even after Misawa entered, was as quiet as before. Of course no voices could be heard. Occasionally the nurse suddenly raised her eyes and looked in. But without making me a sign she again dropped her eyes to the pages of her book. In the early evening hours I had enjoyed, from this third floor, the refreshing chirping of summer insects, but not once in the daytime had I heard the loud cries of cicadas. Though it was

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the middle of the day, the room where I was sitting was quieter than the depths of night. And this dead silence made me all the more anxious as I waited for Misawa to come out of her room. Finally, Misawa strode out of the room. Crossing the doorsill, he smiled and said to the nurse, "Pardon me. Working hard, aren 'tyou?" That was all I heard him say. He returned to his room, stamping his slippers somewhat determinedly, and said, "Now it's all done." "How did it go?" I asked. "Finally, it's all done. Now I can leave." (1.30) By deliberately refraining from giving any direct description of the room, its occupant, or Misawa's encounter with her there, Soseki preserves the mystery and sanctity of that special space. He thereby creates the impression that anyone entering such a place must emerge changed in some way—transformed, enlightened, purified, forgiven, damned—just as the characters of myth enter a mystic space—a cave, a mountain, the underworld—and return, if they do indeed return, having been granted a different vision. Time becomes at once compressed and elastic, as in a dream; what seems like an eternity to the waiting Jiro is in fact only minutes. But those few minutes allow Misawa to travel back to the past and confront his buried regrets. And, on returning from his brief sojourn into the unknown, he is able to talk about his previously unexpressed feelings for sono musumesan. By gently entering the untrodden space, Misawa takes a step toward facing the hollowness of his soul, which until now he has avoided. He does not violently force his presence on "the Woman" this time, as he did during their first encounter; rather, he slips quietly into her territory and as unobtrusively slips out. Their second encounter is engulfed in the silence and stillness of the room, and Misawa reports only that, when he told her he was leaving for Tokyo that night, she bade him good-bye. The real significance of their meeting lies in Misawa's respectful entrance into her space. Until now, in order to create a semblance of order in his life, Misawa has

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banished the sufferings of others to the back of his mind, as though by doing so they will not intrude on the space of his daily life. But the sorrows of ano onna and sono musumesan continue to prick Misawa's conscience and remain a source of chaos in his life. The chaos manifests itself in his abusive drinking and inability to settle down and marry. By entering the space that belongs to ano onna, Misawa leaves his safe, detached little world and acknowledges the universality of her sorrow and his own implication in her unfortunate fate. It is at this point that order, and with it peace, begins to return to Misawa's life. While Misawa is by no means purified and redeemed by the simple act of entry, having taken that one step he is much closer to understanding the nature of sadness than is Jiro, who can only remain outside and stare blankly at the hollow space that Misawa left outside the sick room. As events unfold, Jiro is to blandly admit his own "meanness and cowardice" (e.g., 1.27) without ever attaining any insight into his implication in the sorrow of the life of another, particularly Nao's. While Misawa ventures at least momentarily into that much-feared space and returns feeling that he is at last on the road to redemption, Jiro remains cautious and aloof until the end. Jiro is the more practical and, in many ways, the lesser man of the two. Part 1 of Kdjin begins with Jiro arriving at Osaka's Umeda Station and ends with him seeing Misawa off there as well. The action in between these two points develops horizontally through a series of understated scenes. This particular section of the novel is marked by a flattening out of planes and climaxes, and practically all major action occurs indoors, either in Okada's home or in the hospital. 11 However, this pattern of meandering in the sheltered lowlands of Osaka is to be broken in part 2 by climactic scenes that reach both dizzying heights and great depths. The lulling flatness of part 1, with its deliberate deflation of climaxes and its apparently casual assemblage of characters and events, contrasts sharply with the dramatic patterns of ascent and descent of part 2.

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At the beginning of part 2, Jiro's mother, brother, and sister-in-law join him in Osaka partly for pleasure and partly to meet Sano, Osada's prospective spouse. After the brief and uneventful meeting, the heat in Osaka is so unbearable that the party decides to move on to the less urban Wakanoura, which boasts of easy access to impressive sea- and landscapes. Traveling to Wakanoura is an attempt to break away from the close and confining cityscape of Osaka, and it is in the rougher topography of Wakanoura that Ichiro plays God and Nao seductress. Of Wakanoura, Soseki commented in 1911: Yesterday I went sightseeing in Wakanoura, and among people who have seen that place, someone has told me that the sea was very rough at Wakanoura. Just when I believed it was so, someone else said that it was very calm there. I didn't know who was right. As I asked further, Ifound out that one of them went there when the sea was very rough and that the other one went when it was calm, so their reports were totally opposite. Neither of them lied, but neither of them told the

truth....

Last night I stopped over at Wakanoura and went sight-seeing in the area. There are famous sites such as Sagarimatsu, Gongensama, Kimiidera, and the like, and among them I saw the elevator that says "The first in the East to go up to two hundred feet above sea level," a contraption that goes up and down from the lodging to the peak of the small mountain Ishiyama, which provides endless vistas for sight-seeing. In fact, I was among those put in a metal cage like a bear in a zoo and lifted to the top of the mountain. Well, that was a piece of machinery that was neither essential to life nor very important, and we might just call it a curiosity. It simply goes up and down....

("Gendai Nihon no

kaika,"sz, 11:324) Climbing the mountain and descending to the stormy sea immediately become metaphors for the human struggle in part 2 of Kdjin.

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The climber is Ichiro, one of the loneliest individuals in Soseki's works. Intellectually, Ichiro towers above ordinary human beings; emotionally, he is a dwarf, capable of being overwhelmed with jealousy and despair and thus rendered incapable of expressing the least degree of warmth and concern. "My brother was a scholar," the narrator says. "His words were the words of an extremely well-educated man. But his behavior was closer to that of an eighteen- or nineteenyear-old. I was sad to see him like that before me. At that moment he was practically like a loach squirming frantically in the sand" (2.21 [my translation]). Ichiro is also the typical fragmented individual much lamented in Soseki's discussion of the "modern man" who is the product of the so-called enlightenment of Japan. In the lecture "Doraku to shokugyo" (Pleasure and occupation; 1911), Soseki says, "The more enlightened we become, the more specialized the nature of occupation becomes, the more we turn out to be handicapped individuals. Modern civilization has taken complete individuals and proceeded to cripple them day by day" (sz, 11:307). 12 Ichiro's character embodies all the problems of modern life; frozen in his solitary compartment, he, like the modern individual, is cut off from nature and other human beings. Ichiro's intellectuality brings to mind such characters as Nietzsche's Zarathustra or Sartre's Antoine Roquentin, that is, characters who serve mainly as channels for the writer's philosophical reflections. Like his spiritual brothers, Ichiro gazes into the horror and isolation of his existence. But, instead of descending from the terrifying heights of his own solitude like Zarathustra, who comes down from the mountain to "once again be a man," Ichiro chooses to climb still higher. He takes Jiro with him and goes up the famous elevator in Wakanoura, which he compares to the prison of human existence. Realizing that there is no place to have a quiet talk at the top of the small, rocky mountain, they descend to the bottom of the Gongen Shrine, from which Ichiro immediately begins his almost compulsive climb up the long, steep steps leading to the shrine proper in the blazing heat of the midday sun. In the sound of the clogs biting into the sand one

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hears the desolation of each step, and the topography of the text comes to symbolize the arid landscape of the solitary soul. The act of climbing is at once a metaphor for Ichiro's soaring hubris and mounting intolerance of the ordinary and a premonition of the fall that awaits he who climbs too high: Finally, we reached the foot of the shrine. Peering up at the narrow, steep stone steps, I was simply appalled at their height and felt I hardly had the courage to climb them. My brother slipped on a pair of straw sandals arranged at the foot of the steps and climbed alone ten steps or so. Then, noticing that I wasn't following, he called sharply, "Hey, aren't you coming up?" Helpless, I paid the old woman a fee for a pair of the sandals and barely managed to climb the steps. From about halfway up I had to support my weight by resting both hands on my thighs. And as I glanced up I saw my brother impatiently standing at the corner of the highest shrine gate. "Look at the way you're floundering up those steps. Weaving just like a drunk." (2.17) Ichiro descends the steps to meet Jiro halfway, and it is in the shade by an ancient sanctuary that Ichiro discusses his failure to penetrate another person's heart and his inability to believe in anything. In horror, Ichiro faces up to the fact that he is married to a woman whose heart and soul he cannot grasp. "Can anyone read another's mind?" he asks Jiro. "I am asking if you have ever known what it's like to be ceaselessly driven to study the mind of another person, somebody right beside you, one who ought to be dearest to you" (2.20). Intellectually, Ichiro understands that he cannot become one with another person, but, emotionally, he is paralyzed by the knowledge that isolation and separation characterize the human condition. The unbridgeable gap between Ichiro and Nao is symbolized by the space between them as they walk along the canal: "My brother and sister-in-law, both dressed inyukata, my brother carrying a cane and my sister-in-law

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wearing a narrow hempen obi of golden pattern, walked nearly forty yards ahead of us, side by side, but about a yard apart" (2.13). In the face of the solitude that this space represents Ichiro feels helpless, for to break out of his isolation he must involve himself in the life of another. Ichiro's frantic attempt to restore order to the chaos that is his life aggravates the problem instead of solving it. He sets out systematically to decode Nao's mind, first by asking his brother whether Nao is in love with Jiro himself, then by demanding that Jiro test Nao's fidelity. Ichiro takes Jiro up the steep, stony steps of Miidera Temple on the hillside and, surveying the land from that great height, orders his brother to spend a night with Nao. The formidable height at which Ichiro speaks to his brother on both occasions—when he conducts his interrogation and when he makes his threatening demand—becomes a symbol of Ichiro's severance from the rest of humanity. It also accentuates his frantic desire to control and dominate the Other when he is increasingly consumed by his inward fear. His stubborn climb to the lofty height is a last attempt to deny the pathos of daily life. But, as the sun becomes hotter and the landscape more arid with the ascent, life on the lowland remains dense, resilient, and thriving, oblivious of the echoing emptiness of loneliness in which Ichiro is imprisoned. Nao is one of the most taciturn and untamed female characters in the entire line of Soseki heroines. She bears her sorrows quietly, a woman whose will is subordinated and whose freedom is curbed in an unhappy marriage, but she also retains a spark of defiance by maintaining a strong affection for Jiro and her daughter. She is the spiritual sister of Michiyo in Sorekara, who, unhappily married, accepts Daisuke's love with abandon and complete trust. She also inherits the fighting spirit of Oyone in Mon, who, although forever affected by her own act of betrayal, strives to live out every day in acceptance of the quiet seclusion and haunting consequences of her choice. 13 Unlike Michiyo and Oyone, however, Nao is less protected,

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less assisted, and less loved, which is perhaps why she comes across as more willful and self-reliant. Nao's strength is associated with the night. Its potency seeps into the deep, dark caverns that are the rooms in which she is alone with a man who is sexually and emotionally drawn to her elusive smile, her dark brows and eyes, and her delicate hands and feet. 14 Nao's power is also associated with water. Both times she is alone with Jiro—first in Wakanoura, then in his lodgings—it is storming outside, yet all remains still and calm within. Nao's naturally seductive nature is likened to a blue-green snake. 15 It holds Jiro firmly in its grasp wherever he goes, wherever he turns his thoughts, never loosening its hold for a moment. The night, the interior of a room, the rain, the snake— Nao is identified with the female principle of yin, in stark contrast to the male principle of yang, which is represented by the height, brightness, and ruggedness associated with Ichiro in his ascent to the mountaintop. The description of the space that envelopes Nao is the closest Soseki ever comes to depicting Eros or sensuality. In a typical Soseki novel, desire is always associated with the obliqueness and brevity of beauty—the faint shadow of Nami seen through the steam of the bathwater, the ginkgo-leaf hairdo of the young woman who appears in his personal correspondence and in the cemetery, the dark eyes and pale face of young Michiyo sitting quietly in the dimly lit inner room while her brother, Daisuke, and Hiraoka drink and chat in the living room—as though anything more than a passing glimpse would desecrate beauty and thus deflate desire. 16 The prolongation of desire is achieved only through the close proximity but unavailability of the woman, a state of affairs captured so well in the pitch-black room in Kojin: As the maid disappeared the lights all over the place suddenly went out. The room, already gloomy with its black posts and sooty ceiling, now was thrown into total blackness. I felt as if my sister-in-law was so close to me that I could smell her.

138

Chapter 4 "Areyou scared?" "Yes, I am," she answered from a part of the darkness where I imagined her to be. But there was nothing in her voice that suggested fear; nor was there anything of the feigning of a young coquette. We sat in the darkness. Without stirring, and without a word, we sat in silence. With everything gone black, the storm outside seemed to roar even more violently in our ears. While the rain, scattered by the wind, did not sound very menacing, the wind swept frantically over the roofs, walls, and utility poles in a sad shriek. Our room, much like a cellar above the ground, was surrounded on all sides by solid buildings and thick plastered walls, and even the little courtyard in front of the veranda seemed relatively safe. But a certain fierce, wailing sound all around us posed an unconquerable and inscrutable threat that was accompanied by the darkness. (2.35) In the seclusion of the "raised cellar," life takes on an unrestrained

force. Darkness hides the actual physical form of Nao and floods the space with her sexuality. Her feminine power conveys itself fully in the rustle of her sash: I had an impulse to grope for her in the darkness, but lacked the nerve. And soon I heard the rustling of a woman's obi from the direction where she was sitting. "Is something going on there?" I asked. (fir

Yes.

»

"What are you doing?" I asked again. "I am taking off my obi. I thought I might as well change to that yukata the maid brought in a while ago," she replied. (2.35) Desire is prolonged into the night when Nao, lying still in the mosquito netting, proceeds to talk about death, telling Jiro calmly how

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she is prepared to throw herself into the tumultuous waters off Wakanoura. One is reminded of the close connection between Eros and the death instinct, which can be thought of as desire and dangerous aggression turned inward. 17 Nao's struggle and Jiro's self-denial are very different from the struggle of an abstract, learned individual on an elevated plane of existence, symbolized by Ichiro's anguish on the mountaintop; theirs is a struggle on the horizontal level of human existence, where desire is mingled with prohibitions and regrets. While Ichiro faces loneliness at the heights, Nao brings it back down to the physical. Ichiro intellectualizes, Nao feels, and Jiro both thinks and feels, but does neither as sharply as either his brother or his sister-in-law. Nao emerges as the strongest of the three. Nao's space—or, rather, lack thereof—tells us much about her status in the family and her lot in life. Unlike Ichiro, who has his study, and Jiro, who has his room at home and later the one in the lodging house, Nao has no place to call her own, no (physical) place of refuge. (One is reminded of Oyone's refuge in Mon, the little workroom on the back of the house where she finds real peace—until she gives it up to her brother-in-law.) Her position in the family is marked by the way in which she is always presented to the reader—as a dim figure at the dinner table, outside Ichiro's study, or passing Ichiro's doorway on her way back from the bath, her daughter beside her. Nao understands her fate and her place in the world—"I am no better than a potted plant; once planted by my parents' hands, I can never move an inch unless someone comes along and helps me move. There can be no other way but to stand still—yes, no other way but to stand still until I wither" (4.4). But, when she assesses her own fate with such lucidity and without self-pity, one senses the feminine strength within her. "Men can always run away from what they hate," she says, referring to Jiro's move from home to the lodging house and his plan to go abroad, "but women cannot do that" (4.3). Despite her lack of mobility and personal space, the apparently small steps she makes within the restricted sphere allowed her prove each time to be

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an indication of her strong, unbending will, which dwarfs the larger motions that Ichiro and Jiro attempt. When she visits Jiro in private, for instance, in a ricksha that bears her own family crest, her powerful presence fills Jiro's room and makes him cower. Nao's power is felt in her full command of the space around her. The visit to Jiro takes place on a cold, drizzly evening. Nao and Jiro sit facing each other in his very cramped room, with a brazier between them. She holds her beautiful, porcelain-white hands over the brazier and invites Jiro to hold out his hands to warm himself. Jiro notices how exceptionally delicate her fingers are and remembers how he has always been drawn by her beautiful hands and feet. He cannot understand her sad, enigmatic expression, one that he compares to the smile of La Gioconda, nor can he understand the intent of her visit at such a late hour. She asks him the reason for not visiting home more often, and, when he uses his work as an excuse, she directly challenges him, "But that isn't the reason, is it?" Jiro is on the point of saying, "How daring you are!" but he cowers. Nao then confides in him that her relationship with Ichiro has worsened since Jiro left home, and, because her words are dark and shadowy, conveying few factual details, Jiro is left with the impression that Ichiro may have started beating her. When Nao leaves, Jiro remains under the spell of her sexuality: Throughout the night a quiet rain continued to fall. Amid the sound of the raindrops dripping as though tapping my pillow, I saw unceasingly the image of my sister-in-law. No sooner had her dark brows and dark eyes appeared in my vision than her pale forehead and cheeks rapidly encircled

them—automatically

like iron filings attracted to a magnet. Each time her image collapsed another cycle immediately began repeating its ordered pattern. At last I even saw with uncanny vividness the color of her lips, and the muscles at both corners of her mouth were quivering imperceptibly like the symbol of unvoiced words. And even her cheeks were constantly rippling in a minute, hardly visible

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whirl, hesitating whether to form into a dimple or to disappear. . . . .. .her reply [to a question of Ichiro's mental health], colder than usual, might possibly be taken as an echo of his whip on her tender flesh, an echo that contained the sound of revenge in her husband's future....

I was

frightened....

Looking at my face as I was warming myself over the brazier, she in fact asked, "Why are you so stiff?" When I replied, "But I'm not," she smiled, saying, "But you are drawing back your head." Her manner then was so familiar that she seemed almost about to reach across the brazier and poke at my cheek with a delicate finger. Again she called my name and said, "Surprised, aren't you?" as though it was a very exciting kind of mischief for her to surprise me by coming unexpected on a rainy, cold night....

(4.5)

Images of Nao recur in Jiro's mind, revealing the extent to which he is infatuated. It is at this point that Jiro is faced with a difficult choice. Is it more noble to follow one's desire, given that it is not simply lust, than to suppress it in the name of correct conduct? Should one not express love when it is timely, even though it may be unlawful, rather than wait until it is too late? 18 Ichiro, who has the capacity to understand the tragic and the romantic, clearly states that the nobler course is to listen to the heart rather than to follow human rules. 19 Nao possesses the audacity and abandon that tragic heroines are made of, but Jiro is a very ordinary man. While Ichiro commands the heights and Nao the depths, Jiro accompanies both of them to the space where they belong and is dwarfed by their near heroic statures. But at least Jiro has the self-knowledge to speak of his own selfishness, jealousy, and cowardice (see chap. 27 of pt. 1). It is not easy to judge him either for the choice he makes or for the choice he avoids making. One thinks of the tragic fate that embraces Daisuke and Michiyo in Sorekara as well as Sosuke and Oyone in Mon in their decision to follow their

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desires in defiance of man-made rules, and one wonders whether that is a choice that ordinary beings can handle. After all, very few are meant to be tragic heroes and heroines. Perhaps the hardest part of self-discovery is to be confronted with one's utter ordinariness in the pathos of choice. Many critics point out the disjunction between part 4 and the preceding sections of the novel.20 Not only was there a lapse of a few months between the composition of part 3 and that of part 4, owing to Soseki's illness, but the long letter that concludes the novel also shifts the narrative perspective from that of an uncertain younger man to that of a more mature and sagacious man, H, Ichiro's colleague and traveling companion in the last part of Kdjin. The beauty of the flawed novel lies in the fact that the obvious and inexcusable break does not diminish the novel's solemnity but introduces a nearly self-contained and highly poetic examination of the problem of human solitude through the journey of exploration, geographic and spiritual, that Ichiro and H undertake.21 Kdjin would have been a novel that depicts total alienation and expresses utter despair about the human condition had it not been for the introduction of H. All the major characters are captives of either fate or self-interest, and they remain rigid, frozen in their roles and circumstances in life. Brave and potentially warm though she may be, Nao leads a chilly existence in which any expression of kindness is restrained or thwarted. Confused by his own sexual curiosity (for the nurse, for the "invisible" woman in the hospital, and, above all, for Nao), Jiro struggles with conventionality and ethics, but fails to address the real issues of his feelings, and thus plays the part of an unconscious hypocrite.22 Misawa has a more mature understanding of the dynamics of the relations between the sexes and entertains the prospect of marrying someone he cares about in the end, but the void created by the death of the crazed girl haunts his life and remains unfilled. Ichiro's anguish casts a dark shadow on all those around him. Ultimately, the world of Kdjin is populated by confused,

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self-centered, and emotionally desiccated individuals, and the chaos in their lives cries out for order. H first appears briefly in chapter 14 of part 4, when Misawa and Jiro pay him a visit to ask him to persuade Ichiro to go on a trip with him: Mr. H, dressed in a silk kimono, belted with white crepe, sat cross-legged on a chair and greeted Misawa, saying, "Well, you've brought with you a rare visitor, it seems." With his round face and his close-cropped head, he was plump like a Chinese. He spoke slowly, as slowly as a Chinese would speak Japanese he isn't used to. And every time he opened his mouth his round cheeks moved, which made him appear to be constantly beaming. His disposition was as generous as his manners suggested. Perched with legs doubled under him on his rather shaky chair, he retained his usual calmness, despite a posture that might appear very uncomfortable to others. His looks and temper, which were almost diametrically opposite to those of my brother, help in a way to bind him and my brother together. With him, who was unresisting, my brother probably would notfeel like resisting. In fact, never once had I heard my brother speak ill of Mr. H. A character like H is very rare in Soseki's novels. Among the younger characters, Nakano in Nowaki shares H's guilelessness and generosity of spirit, but not his steadiness or his slowness of speech and manners. Among the more mature characters, Munechika's father in Gubijinso shares a certain physical resemblance and the easygoing air, but not H's depth of character and clearness of mind. Again, although Sosuke's landlord in Mon is just as bighearted as H, the latter is much quieter and more unassuming. H's only spiritual brother is a character featured in two of the short episodes in the collection of essays Garasudo no naka, a friend called 0 from Soseki's high school days:

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When I was in high school, there was someone by the name of 0 who was one of my closer friends. Since starting from that time 1 did not have many friends, I naturally tended to socialize with him fairly often. I visited him about once a week. One year, during summer vacation, I would go every day to his lodging house in Masagocho to invite him to go swimming in Ogawa. Because 0 was from the northeast, his manner of speech was different from ours, and he would draw out his words slowly and deliberately. And it seemed that his speech somehow represented his character. I remember arguing with him a number of times, but I don't recall ever seeing him looking angry or excited. Just for that I regarded him as a more mature person whom I fully respected and loved. Just as his character was generous in spirit, his intellect was much larger than mine. He often thought about problems that I was incapable of considering at that time. Since he aimed at being in the sciences from the start, he by choice steeped himself in philosophical works. I still remember borrowingfrom him one time [Herbert] Spencer's First Principles [1862]. On sunny autumn days with a clear blue sky, we would often accompany each other and wander where ourfeet took us while talkingfreely about whatever we liked. On those occasions, we often saw tiny leaves, dyed yellow, fluttering and falling from the branches of trees that peered over the wall along the street, despite the fact that there was no wind. Once when such a scene by chance caught his eyes, he called out softly, "Ah, now I understand." To me, who was capable ofperceiving only the beauty of movement in the autumn air, his words sounded like some strange utterance filled with magical symbols. "Understanding is a wonderful thing," he later explained in his usual unhurried manner, as though speaking to himself. Even then, I could not respond with any word. He was a poor student. When he was lodging next to the Dai Kannon Temple and making his own meals, he would often

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broil dried salmon and invite me to join him at the simple dinner table. Sometimes instead of sweets I would bring boiled beans, and we would pick at them while they were still in the bamboo sheath. Soon after he graduated from college he took up a teaching job at a middle school in the provinces. I thought it was a shame for someone like him. But to the university professors who did not know him, it might have seemed appropriate. He himself of course took it with composure. And then, after a number of years, he was hired as a teacher in China on a three-year contract, and, when he came back after the terms of the contract were fulfilled, he became a headmaster in a middle school in the back country. He was then transferred from Akita to Yokote, and now he is a headmaster in Kabafuto. Last year, when he stopped by to visit me on a trip to Tokyo after a lapse of many years, I immediately went into the living room when I received his calling card, and as usual I took my seat before the guest arrived. He went through the corridor to the entrance of the room, and, on seeing me sitting squarely on the cushion, he said, "Why, don't you look grave!" Before he clearly finished his remark, the response "hm" slipped out of my mouth almost without my knowing. I wondered why my response to his friendly abuse tumbled out of my throat so naturally, unpretentiously, and unceremoniously. I was in a splendid mood, as though my heart had been rinsed fresh and clear.... ... In the past 0 had ruddy cheeks that looked like apples, round eyes that were twice as big as other people's eyes, and a soft, round profile that was suitable for a woman. Now as I saw him he still had those red cheeks, round eyes, and gentle profile, but somewhere it looked slightly different. I showed him my moustache and the tufts of hair under my temples. For my sake he passed his hands over his head. Mine had turned gray, while his was thinning.

Chapter 4 "If one has gone as far as Kabafuto, then there is really nowhere further to go," I teased him. He answered by saying, "I guess you're right," and told me various things about Kabafuto that I had never seen. But I have already forgotten everything he said. I only remember he said it was a wonderful place in the summer. Since I had not seen him for so many years, I went out with him. He was wearing a loose overcoat,23 something that resembled a cross between a cape and an inverness, on top of his frock coat. As he held onto the strap of the streetcar, he pulled from his pocket a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief and showed me. "What is it?" I asked. He said, "It's chestnut cakes." The chestnut cakes were sweets I offered when he was at my home earlier on. When I thought about how he managed to wrap them up in a handkerchief unnoticed, I was a little surprised. "Didyou take those chestnut cakes?" "Maybe I did," he said in a tone that made fun of my look of surprise, and tucked the bundle back into his pocket. That night we went to the Imperial Theater. The two tickets I had directed us to enter through the north side, but I made a mistake in the end and was about to go around to the south. Just then he reminded me, "It's not that way." I stopped and looked, and, saying "of course it's in the direction of Kabafuto," we went around to the specified entrance. He had said from the start that he knew the Imperial Theater. But after dinner, when we were returning to our seats, like everyone else, he mistook the second floor door for the first floor, and I laughed at him. From time to time he would take his gold-rimmed glasses from his pocket and read the program in his hand, and, without taking his glasses o f f , he would gaze calmly at the stage. "Aren't those farsighted spectacles? You see faraway things well with those, don't you?" "Well, chabuduo."

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I didn't understand at all what chabuduo meant. He said that it's a Chinese phrase that mean "more or less." That night in the streetcar on our way back he bid me farewell, and once again he set offfor the faraway and cold northernmost tip of the Japanese territory. Whenever I think of him, I think of his name, Tatsujin, "the master."241

feel as though that name was given from heaven

particularly for his sake. And I think that the master is still a principal of a middle school in the deep north, in a world sealed by snow and ice. (sz, 8:432-436) Broad and unhurried, simple and generous, learned and unpretentious, 0 is one of the very few men of virtue to appear in Soseki's works whom he genuinely loves and respects. O's childlike, unselfconscious, playful nature completely dissolves Soseki's innate selfconsciousness, gloominess, and lugubriousness. Ota Tatsujin, as 0 was known in real life, 25 reminisced fondly about Soseki's visits: "When summer came, Natsume would come trotting over from Waseda almost every day and ask me out, or we would both go out on foot and walk all the way to the swimming pool." 26 0 embodies many characteristics of the Confucian ideal of the truly virtuous or benevolent man: "Imperturbable, resolute, tree-like, slow to speak—such a one is near to benevolence" (Analects, 13.17). 27 "A gentleman wishes to be slow in words and prompt in deeds" (Analects, 4.24).28 "Clever talk and a pretentious manner are seldom associated with benevolence" (Analects, 1.3). 29 True sagacity is often associated with slowness, as in the phrase "great wisdom resembles foolishness" (dazhi ruyu), and this kind of paradoxical pairing between reality and appearance is commonly featured in the Confucian ideal.30 O's name, Tatsujin, is an allusion to one of the most concise statements in the Analects summarizing the spirit of self-actualization and self-cultivation through the sharing of knowledge and understanding with others: "Now the benevolent man, wishing to be established him-

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self, seeks also to establish others; wishing to be enlarged himself, he seeks also to enlarge others [Ch. daren; Jap. tatsujin]" (Analects, 6.28). Thus, 0 is n a m e d after the idea of ren (benevolence), which stresses self in relation to others (the character ren combines the radicals for " h u m a n " a n d "two"), a n d O's largeness of spirit clearly delivers Soseki, if only momentarily, f r o m the b r o o d i n g solitude revealed in Garasudo no naka. H in Kdjin is p e r h a p s the only other of Soseki's characters who inherits O's simplicity a n d kindness. H a n d Ichiro are diametrical opposites: H is p l u m p a n d Ichiro wiry; H is slow a n d Ichiro swift footed; H sleeps soundly, a n d Ichiro suffers f r o m chronic insomnia; and, above all, H is solidly planted in his surroundings, a n d Ichiro "transcends geography a n d topography" (4.3). The juxtaposition of H a n d Ichiro shows the difference between a m a n who cares about the details of daily life a n d one w h o confines himself to the realm of the intellect. The a u t h o r of such a dichotomy is also a quester whose soul resonates with Ichiro's existential loneliness a n d whose spirit longs to share the shelter of H's stability a n d generosity. H's letter delineates a j o u r n e y that alternates between sea a n d m o u n t a i n s a n d links the changing landscape thematically with the unraveling of Ichiro's fear. It is not a journey with a single, fixed destination. H a n d Ichiro set off f r o m Shimbashi Station in Tokyo, m a k e their first stop at N u m a z u on the western coast of the Izu Peninsula, a n d slowly weave their way back with stops at Shuzenji, a hot spring resort in a ravine, Odawara, another m a r i t i m e city, Hakone, a relatively hilly region, and, finally, Benigayatsu, a valley set amid gentle hills a n d dales. As a rule, Ichiro's fears r u n wild by the waters, a n d his ego climbs high in the m o u n t a i n s . Soseki himself seemed to enjoy swimming, as indicated by his repeated invitations to his friend 0 to go to the pool as well as the delightful scenes of sea bathing in Kokoro. But the sea is associated with fear m o r e t h a n once in his works, a n association s t e m m i n g p e r h a p s f r o m the contrast between the ocean on the one h a n d a n d

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human life and knowledge on the other—the former vast and deep, the latter finite and limited; the former powerful and dark, the latter defenseless and alone. One of the most haunting scenes in Soseki's works occurs in the seventh-night episode in Yumejuya, a dream that depicts a man on board a ship filled with strangers and going in an unknown direction in the dark night. Unable to withstand the choking anxiety, the man throws himself overboard, but the time between the leap and the impact becomes an eternity in which the man lives out his fears and regrets in slow motion. In Kojin. Ichiro picks up the intense fear of the man suspended between life and death and gives utterance to unbearable anxiety and loneliness. By the waters of Numazu, Ichiro explains his anxiety to H. He is possessed by the feeling that he does not understand his own actions. Because he cannot sleep peacefully, he gets up. Once he is up, he cannot stay still, so he walks. Once he starts walking, he feels compelled to run, and he cannot help but run ever faster. H writes, "He says it frightens him to imagine what it will ultimately lead to; he says it is so frightening that he breaks into a cold sweat. Yes, he says it is unbearably frightening." Ichiro attributes his own anxiety to the frenzied scientific advances that the modern age is seeing: "Never once has science, which never ceases to move forward, allowed us to pause. From walking to ricksha, from ricksha to carriage, from carriage to train, from train to automobile, from there to the dirigible airship, further to the airplane, and further on and on" (4.31,32). In the lecture "Gendai Nihon no kaika," Soseki, like Ichiro, bemoaned the nervous prostration that Meiji Japan suffered as a result of its efforts to catch up with the West, packing a hundred years of modernization into a decade or two.31 While Soseki harbored no romantic notions about primitivism—he kept abreast of the newest developments in science and technology, as is clear from his knowledge of physics—he was nonetheless appalled by the mad race that Japan was running to maintain the status of world power earned after the signing of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance 1902 and victory in the

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Russo-Japanese War 1905. The result was the phenomenon known as uwasuberi (gliding on the surface), a society that has lost its bearings and has no new vision with which to replace the old values now lost. This is the misguided society that Soseki depicts so mercilessly in the garden party scene in Nowaki, where the elite of society prattle pretentiously on about the price of cigars and pride themselves on their knowledge of proper Western attire. It is also a highly insecure society, one of which he speaks with despair and resignation in "Gendai Nihon no kaika." Ichiro personifies the plight of his age—a lost horse charging frantically and heedlessly ahead until it drops from exhaustion. With no intention of dimming his tragic aura, I must point out Ichiro's almost masochistic enjoyment of his stature as prophet cum martyr. "The fate that humanity will reach in several centuries," he says, "I must go through in my own lifetime all by myself; that's why it is frightening. . . . I gather within myself the anxiety of the whole human race and distill that anxiety down into every moment; that is the fright I am experiencing" (4.32). From Numazu H and Ichiro work their way inland to Shuzenji. In H's letter to Jiro, he writes, "This hot spring is located in a town sunk deep into the bottom of a ravine and embraced by mountains. Once you are in there, you face the verdant cliffs on all sides, and you have no choice but to look upward. So cramped is it that if you walk with downcast eyes you can hardly notice the color of the earth. Your brother, who had so far preferred mountains to the sea, felt hemmed in the moment he came to Shuzenji, surrounded by mountains, and at once I took him out" (4.35). The dramatic and claustrophobic landscape reflects Ichiro's mental topography. Having already rejected God ("I prefer living people to a dead God" [4.34]) and separated himself from the rest of humanity (he looks at bathers in the hot spring and without irony mumbles, "Pious people" [4.35], knowing that he is not one of them), he swiftly ascends the mountain, an act that aptly symbolizes his mounting

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ego. Along the way he points to the white petals of the lilies and says, "Those are mine." He surveys the ravine and the woods and says, "Those are all mine, too" (4.36). These claims grow progressively more grandiose as he ascends ever higher, but, as he descends the mountain in fear, all such grandiose notions disappear. The higher Ichiro climbs, the more strongly the inescapability— and horror—of individual isolation is brought home to him. Like Zarathustra, disgusted with humankind, he has abandoned the world. Unlike, however, that Nietzschean hero, who harbors no doubts about the certainty of his exaltation—"You look up when you desire to be exalted. And I look down, because I am exalted"—and embraces loneliness with exuberance, 32 Ichiro chooses the path of solitude only in desperation and fear. And, unlike H, whose response to the heights is to quote a German proverb—"Keine Brucke fiihrt von Mensch zu Mensch" (There is no bridge leading from one man to another)—he lacks the strength of character to remain imperturbed in the face of individual isolation. Ichiro has achieved an apotheosis of sorts, but he cannot sustain it, dashing back down the mountain path, crying, "Einsamkeit, du meine Heimat Einsamkeit!" (0 solitude, solitude, my home!) (4.36). 33 Were Ichiro able to choose, he would prefer that the bitter cup of loneliness pass him by. As it is, he sees only three courses left open to him: "To die, to go mad, or to enter religion" (4.39). Too attached to life to attempt suicide, and too much the confirmed unbeliever to embrace religion, he considers madness to be his only real option. In fact, he wonders whether he has not already gone mad. Incapable as Ichiro is of facing the solitude of the heights with equanimity, he is equally incapable of facing life among the teeming multitudes on the ocean's shore. Again like Zarathustra, wherever there is a mountain, he must climb it,34 the difficult ascent evidently duplicating for him the rugged journey that is life. But, while Zarathustra climbs alone and exults in the solitude that he finds at the summit, Ichiro is always accompanied by the slow but steady H, and

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the summit gives him only the temporary joy of submission to the larger force of nature, which "conquers without hostility" (4.43). Returning from an exhilarating climb in Hakone, Ichiro expresses his religious view in a few cryptic words: "I am God," and "I am absolute" (4.44). H sees plainly that Ichiro's elimination of God and Buddha has nothing to do with a Nietzschean assertion of the ego and everything to do with his own sense of self: Your brother's so-called Absolute turned out to be no mere abstraction that a philosopher had spun out of his head. It was something plainly psychological, the kind of state that one could enter and experience in person. He argued that one who has attained a pure peace of mind should naturally be able to enter this state without seeking it and that, once he enters the state, the universe and all creatures— every possible object —would vanish, that there would be only self, and that self at the moment would be something existing andyet nonexisting....

And should some partaker of this Abso-

lute hear all at once the sound of a fire bell, then the sound of that fire bell would be his self (4.44) While Ichiro espouses the elimination of the opposition between Self and Other in the attainment of the absolute, he fails, however, to practice what he preaches: "I was born to explore topography only on a map, yet I have all along been anxious to have the same experience as a practical man in gaiters would have, ranging over hill and dale" (4.45). His torment reveals the gaping discrepancy between a theory of existence and existence itself. He limits himself to the detachment of thought and hovers on the verge of existence, seeking to enter. He lives the irony of one who theorizes about the oneness of Self and Other but erects walls of suspicion and disgust between himself and his family. Soseki understands loneliness and fear perhaps as well as any

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existentialist. And he wanders constantly in the hauntingly beautiful and bleak landscape of human solitude, repeatedly probing with the utmost care and sympathy the inner chaos of characters who harbor a sense of utter isolation—Daisuke in Sorekara, Kenzo in Michikusa,

Sensei in Kokoro,

and of course Ichiro. But he refuses to succumb

to the allure of life on the mountaintop, never glorifying loneliness or romanticizing solitude. In Kojin, for example, Ichiro's existential anxiety is pitted against H's ease and generosity, suggesting that there can indeed be established trust and connection between otherwise isolated individuals. H's stability and calm suggest the possibility of an existence unknown to a frantic soul involved in an endless dance of chaos. Although in their travels H and Ichiro follow the same road, what seems to Ichiro aimless wandering moving the pair ever farther away from their starting point is to H a journey that begins and ends in the same place. The literal journey begins in Tokyo and ends in Benigayatsu, but the spiritual journey, as outlined in H's letter, comes full circle, beginning and ending in Benigayatsu. Embodied is this one journey are two different visions of the voyage that is human existence—life as insecure and open-ended and life as secure and complete. The spiritual journey is launched from a secluded summer house built in a bucolic valley, Benigayatsu. From the eaves of the house a vegetable garden "extends as far as the fence, which is laden with the berries of sweet viburnums. Over the foliage only a quarter or so of the straw-thatched roof of the neighboring house is visible." A small hill is visible across the valley. The entire hill is some count's country seat, and at times H and Ichiro "catch glimpses through the trees of colored/ufcafa and hear women's voices coming over the precipice. On the top of the precipice a tall pine soars into the sky" (4.29). In this womb-like environment sleep returns to Ichiro, and, while he sleeps, H writes the letter that describes their journey. The space in which the narrative draws to a close is reminiscent

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of the world portrayed in the eremitic poetry of the Chinese poet Tao Qian (365-427), which inspired many of Soseki's own kanshi.35 It also calls to mind the universe of the bunjinga,i6 a school of painting that Soseki increasingly admired and practiced in the later years of his life. That artistic worlds encapsulating such harmony and tranquillity should contain an almost magical appeal to a restless intellect like Soseki's should come as no surprise. The gentle landscape in many ways echoes H's character and its effect on Ichiro. To Ichiro, H has one of those completely relaxed and serene faces that mirror the tranquillity of his soul. Ichiro sees himself as a shelterless beggar pursued by restlessness, and, whenever he catches sight of "an innocent, clear face," a deep thrill of joy runs through his whole frame: "My mind revives just as the stalks of rice withering in dry weather welcome rain. At the same time, that face, the one that is clear of thought and completely relaxed, takes on nobility for me. . . . Before that face I feel like kneeling down and expressing my gratitude with a piety akin to religious sentiment" (4.33). But, when Ichiro finally bows his head before H and weeps, it is not simply because of the nobility of H's face but rather because of H's natural sagacity and innate ability to put theory into action. Ichiro theorizes and intellectualizes, but following his intellect leads only to ruin. H, on the other hand, is able to express in very simple language the possibility of genuine communication between Self and Other that Ichiro strives to attain. "How can I change from a speculative to a practical man?" (4.45), Ichiro beseeches H. On seeing Ichiro absorbed in watching a swarm of tiny crabs crawling over blades of grass, H suggests a method. He remembers Ichiro saying that he possesses the lilies and the mountains and suggests that he look at his theory of the absolute from a different perspective. That is to say, instead of thinking that he must possess the Other in order to attain the absolute, he should simply allow himself to be absorbed in the observation of the Other. By forgetting himself in the process, the Other will cease to be alien and incomprehensible

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and become part of his own consciousness. H's intention in bringing an earthly dimension to Ichiro's lofty theory is, in his own words, to "convert the extraordinary into the ordinary," to help Ichiro "regain the position of an average person" (4.48). H's advice amounts to asking Ichiro to abandon his will to dominate the Other and instead to adapt himself to the Other the way a wise traveler adapts to the conditions of the landscape. Many times in his letter H stresses his own clumsiness and dullness in contrast to Ichiro's keen intellect and superb learning, but, ultimately, it is clear that H's is the higher understanding, the keener perception. 37 It is ironic that the man who can admit without flinching, "Keine Brucke fiihrt von Mensch zu Mensch," that there is no bridge leading from one man to another—the man who understands and accepts the isolation of individual lives—turns out to be the only character in the novel who suggests a means of bridging that isolation, through selfforgetfulness in the Other. He himself practices what he preaches by accepting Ichiro in spite of all his Otherness—his weakness and his pride as well as his honesty and nobility. But the novel is replete with characters locked in their isolation and unable to communicate with the Other—Misawa, who can neither penetrate the mind of sono musumesan nor understand the physical condition of ano onna; Jiro, who cannot bring himself to face Nao's true feelings for him; Nao, who seals her lips and freezes her emotions; and, above all, Ichiro, who physically and spiritually alienates himself from his wife and family. H introduces the possibility of redemption in this bleak world. He sits quietly in a room in a summer house in a secluded valley and channels his entire being into writing about the anguish of a friend. And, as he writes, his presence becomes a natural part of the landscape, like a gentleman situated unhurriedly amid the hills and dales of a bunjinga. His wisdom is able momentarily to quiet the desperate and lonely wandering of at least one lonely individual, restoring, however fleetingly, peace and sanity.

CHAPTER

5

From Garasudo no naka to Michikusa

q

A. n 1915, one year before his death, Soseki produced two works

based largely on his personal life. One is a collection of essays entitled Garasudo no naka (Within the glass door), serialized between January and March in the Osaka Asahi, the other the novel Michikusa (Grass on the wayside), serialized between June and September in both the Tokyo Asahi and the Osaka Asahi. Although both works reveal much about his unfortunate childhood and its lingering effects on his adult life, the former conveys hope, while the latter is cold and bleak. While these two works obviously differ in genre, and while each draws on different autobiographical material, the most important contrast between them is in terms of the narrative persona created. That of Garasudo no naka is a calm, relaxed writer/teacher who, recuperating from a cold, sits at his desk and lets memories flow from pen to paper. In contrast, the narrative persona of Michikusa is a keenly felt voice that tirelessly and systematically combs his past, a miserable childhood, for clues that will help him understand the present. The former is the voice of a scholar-gentleman, wise, caring, and interested in humanity, the latter that of a harsh intellectual, judgmental, unforgiving, and hurt. Where we find order and peace in Garasudo no naka, we find chaos and fear, nightmares and 156

From Garasudo

no naka to Mlehlkusa

157

decay in Michikusa. Juxtaposing these two works reveals the tension between order and chaos ever present in Soseki's works and also allows the narrative voices to overlap, one amplifying the other and, in so doing, enriching our understanding of who Soseki really is. A review of the relevant biographical facts will be useful at this point. Soseki was the youngest child of relatively old parents—his father was fifty-one and his mother forty-two when he was b o r n — and was entrusted to the care of foster parents—a couple engaged in the used furniture trade—soon after birth. Little has been recorded about this very early period of his life, which came to a sudden close one night when his oldest sister saw that he had been left outside in a basket along with his foster parents' stock in trade and, taking pity on him, brought him home (Garasudo no naka, chap. 29, sz, 8:481). He was sent to live with another set of adoptive parents between the ages of three and eight but was returned to his birth parents when the marriage of his adoptive parents failed. The memories of childhood that he relates in Garasudo no naka are hazy and nostalgic and primarily associated with his birth mother and her home. Those related in Michikusa are detailed and precise and connected with his adoptive parents. Garasudo no naka belongs to the genre zuihitsu (essay), a form meant to record random thoughts, thereby liberating the writer from having to construct a unified whole. 1 The author of the zuihitsu need not make connections between chapters or episodes, although dominant themes may recur throughout. Nor need he trace the relations between events that he discusses or the way in which the past has affected his present life. He simply presents whatever he pleases and leaves the reader make the necessary associations, if any. Any missing links seem natural. For a novelist like Soseki, who never for a moment relinquishes control of the unity of imagery and meaning in his other works, the zuihitsu is almost a leisurely indulgence. Garasudo no naka consists largely of vignettes from his past and current everyday life. It records the adoption, neglect, and deaths of his dog Hector (chaps. 3-5) and

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the family cat (chap. 28), the deaths of acquaintances and distant relatives (chaps. 16,17,24), the deaths of his brother (chap. 36) and Otsuka Kusuo (chap. 25), a woman of whom he was very fond, and the decline of various lives around him (chaps. 20,26). It describes his birthplace, Kikuicho 2 (chap. 23), and his old home in Oku no Babashita (chap. 19). It includes memories of his mother told with dream-like vividness (chaps. 8,37) and of the sadness and gratitude he felt toward the maid who secretly told him that he had been mistaking his real parents for his grandparents (chap. 29) as well as toward the sister who brought him home from his first foster parents, place of business (chap. 29). There are also essays about his current life: occasional public lectures (chap. 34), an unpleasant but hilarious meeting with a photographer (chap. 2), and numerous meetings with female readers or admirers (chaps. 6 , 7 , 1 1 , 1 8 ) . Regardless of the random nature of the subject matter, Soseki maintains a consistent voice throughout the collection. A typical example comes from the beginning of the first chapter: When I look out from within the glass door, I can see the frostsheltering banana tree, branches of the plum tree with its clinging red fruits, and a straight, blunt power pole. But nothing else that lean truly name comes within my sight. My range of vision from inside the study is extremely simple and narrow. On top of that, because of a cold I caught at the end of the year, I sit all day within the glass door without going out, so I have no idea what's happening in the world. Since I don't feel very well, I haven't been doing much studying either. I simply sit and lie here day after day. However, sometimes my mind becomes active. My mood, too, sometimes changes. No matter how small my world is, small things occur. Sometimes people come within the glass door that separates my tiny self from the big, wide world. Also, unexpected people call to say and do unexpected things. With a heart full of interest, I receive and see these people o f f . (sz, 8:414-415,)

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t o Mlchlkusa

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The study provides a fitting setting for a meditating scholargentleman. It also constitutes in itself a clever allusion to the poetry of Tao Qian 3 —with a touch of the contemporary added by the power pole. The immobility, or stillness, of the narrative persona is sustained throughout the text, recalling the ideal of benevolence in a Confucian gentleman: "The wise are active; the benevolent are still" (Analects, 6.23 [Lau]). That the narrator is receptive to and interested in visitors also calls to mind the famous first chapter of the Analects: "Is it not a joy to have friends call from afar?" (1.1 [Lau]). Thus, the opening paragraphs of Garasudo no naka paint a clear picture of the narrator. He is at once a recluse and a scholargentleman interested in humanity, wisely and nobly holding solitude and compassion in perfect balance. (This is a vision of himself that Soseki sometimes likes to project.) In what follows, I first examine a few chapters in Garasudo no naka to see how the narrative persona guides us through childhood memories and present experience. The method there discerned will then be compared with that used in Michikusa. Consider the stance that the narrative persona takes in chapter 19 toward the home in Ushigome where Soseki was born: "My old home is in a town called Oku no Babashita, about four or five blocks from where I live now. Although it is called a town, it is in fact not much more than a village, and to me, only a child at the time, it looked lonely and desolate. Originally, the name Babashita meant Below Takada no Baba, so if you look at a map of Edo, you will no doubt find it tucked up in a remote corner, its location within the red boundary that separates Edo from the counties unclear." Having established the rustic nature and lonely situation of the town, the narrator proceeds to describe the places and people that made it memorable. Particularly seared in his memory was the beautiful voice of a local girl, Okita, as she practiced the nagauta: "During spring afternoons, while the beautiful sunlight enveloped my absentminded soul, there were times when I stood leaning against our whitewashed storehouse,

i6o

Chapters

allowing the sound of Okita's rehearsal to drift in and out of me" (sz, 8:457). The narrator recalls that the town supported a few warehouses, an apothecary, a wine shop (owned by Okita's father), a tool shop, a blacksmith, a wholesale store, and a tofu store. The tofu store had a rope curtain that was deeply infused with the smell of oil, and the water that ran in the ditch outside the store was extremely clear. Beyond the tofu store, half a block down a side street, "one could see the slightly elevated gate of Seikanji Temple. Behind the red gate was a thick bamboo grove, so one could not see anything inside from the road. But the sound of the bell deep within that tolled for morning and evening services still remains in my ears up to this day. Especially from the misty autumn to the blustery winter, the clear sound of the Seikanji bell always chills my spirit, as though it were echoing something sad and cold in my heart" (sz, 8:458-459). In chapter 23, Soseki's birthplace is discussed in connection with his biological father: Close to where I live is a place called Kikuichd. That was my birthplace, so I am more familiar with it than other people. But by the time I came back after having left home and wandered about in the world, Kikuichd had expanded considerably and spread all the way to Negoro. Perhaps because I was so used to it, the name Kikuicho— a name so intimately bound up with my life—has none of the nostalgic ring that might invite me to think of the past. However, as I sit alone in my study with my chin in my hands, I let my thoughts flow freely, and sometimes my mental associations would come on the word Kikuicho, where my mind would begin to linger. This town most likely did not exist in the old Edo. Perhaps when Edo turned into Tokyo, or perhaps even much

later—I

am not sure of the exact time—my father must have named the town.

From G arasudo no naka to Mlchlkusa

Our family crest consists of a chrysanthemum

161

[kiku] inside

a well crib [igeta], so the town Kikuicho was named after that, using the phonetic combination of the chrysanthemum

[kiku]

and the well [i]. I heard this story either from my father or from someone else. In any case, I still remember it. After the headman of the village died, my father temporarily worked as the chief of the ward, so maybe that's why he had so much liberty. Now when I think about his vanity in taking such pride in naming the town, I no longer feel annoyed but only feel like smiling at it. My father also attached our family name, Natsume, to the long slope that one must climb in going from the front of our house to the south. Unfortunately, that name did not become as famous as Kikuicho, and only the slope itself remains. However, recently someone came and said that, in looking up names around this area on a map, he found the name Natsumezaka. So it seems that the name chosen by my father may still be in use. (sz,

8:466-467)

This is one of the rare passages in which the author's father is mentioned in Soseki's works. The recollection is presented with an air of detachment, cautiously withholding any suggestion of either pain or pleasure. The narrator is also careful to reveal no grudge toward a father who gave his son away, and we cannot detect the hurt in his description of his old home until, in the chapter on Kikuicho, we encounter a wish that the past be obliterated: "Why is it that our house alone still exists like a corpse of the past? In my heart, I wish that it would collapse soon" (sz, 8:468). It is with great subtlety that the narrator addresses the irreparable harm that he suffered in his childhood, and it is with the composure of one who can smile at his father's youthful vanity that he attempts to pardon and forget. Memories of Soseki's birth mother, who died when he was thirteen, are always connected to her clothing and possessions, whose texture and substantiality compensate for the elusiveness of the memories. He remembers his mother as a strong and reassuring figure who com-

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Chapters

forted her young son when he had a nightmare of being in debt (see chap. 38, sz, 8:505-506). In chapter 37, the narrator assumes a reminiscent tone, conjuring a picture of a subdued and graceful woman of whom he was obviously fond: The mother I knew was always sewing, with a large pair of glasses on her face. The glasses were old-fashioned and metal rimmed, and the diameter of each lens must have been over two inches. Wearing those glasses, sometimes my mother would pull her jaws toward her collar and stare at me, and not understanding the nature offarsighted glasses at that time, I thought that was just a habit of hers. I always recall my mother along with those glasses and a sliding door in the background. I can see clearly the decoration on the sliding door about the impermanence of life. In the summer my mother always wore a deep blue garment of silk gauze, tied with a narrow black satin belt. Strangely, the image of my mother is always associated in my mind with this summer outfit, and if the deep blue silk garment and narrow black satin belt were removed, all that remained would be her face, (sz, 8:502) We also learn that the mother used to be a maid for a daimyo, and the richness of her clothing, carefully preserved, is recorded with obsessive care: "On the surface of the kimono lined with crimson silk were dyed the patterns of cherry and plum blossoms, with embroidery in gold and silver threads here and there. This is perhaps what they called a kaidori at that time" (sz, 8:503). Through the description of the luxurious clothing and possessions (e.g., a letter box with a scarlet tassel), the past acquires a romantic aura, and the narrator begins to assume the air of an arbiter of good taste. Recorded in such light, the past is comforting and almost quaint. For all his acute sense of alienation, displacement, estrangement, and isolation—and no doubt these feelings are genuine—Soseki as a writer harbors a special fondness for depicting his and his characters'

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no naka t o Mlchikusa

163

surroundings with meticulous accuracy, creating in his novels imaginary and believable textual territories in which his characters are situated and the narrative unfolds. Despite the air of unconnectedness that some of his more philosophically inclined characters occasionally project, his novels generate a wealth of meaning and drama through their situatedness. Soseki's firm tie to places, and with them memories, whether pleasant or painful, is perhaps what saves him from descending into existential despair as he reflects on human loneliness. While Soseki possesses a deep understanding of the sense of loneliness embodied in the famous line of Nietzsche's that he has Ichiro quote in Kdjin—"Einsamkeit,

du meine Heimat Einsamkeit!" (0 soli-

tude, solitude, my home!) —he certainly does not share Nietzsche's complete physical isolation. William Barrett writes eloquently about Nietzsche's disconnectedness from the world around him: "Nietzsche . . . had cut himself off from the human community; he was one of the loneliest men that ever existed. By comparison, Kierkegaard looks almost like a worldly soul, for he was at least solidly planted in his native Copenhagen, and though he may have been at odds with his fellow citizens, he loved the town, and it was his home. Nietzsche, however, was altogether and utterly homeless." 4 Compared with Nietzsche, Soseki has the luxury of being a part of the cityscape that he inhabits, and, despite certain bitter associations with some places, he has not been banished, nor is he in self-imposed exile. To borrow Barrett's phrase, he is "solidly planted," and his situation would seem enviable to someone like Akutagawa Ryunosuke, whose mental torment stems partly from his sense of rootlessness, as well as to many postwar writers, who were abruptly confronted with an altered landscape and whose sense of space was in a flash invaded and torn asunder. The narrator of Garasudo no naka lingers in the familiar places lodged in his memory: At that time, if we wanted to go to a real town from our home, we would have to go through uninhabited tea fields or bamboo

164

Chapters groves or down a long lane through rice fields. For any proper shopping, we usually had to go all the way to Kagurazaka. Brought up to face these circumstances, I should not have found them unduly painful. But, even so, the five or six blocks where you had to go up a slope and past the Sakai's fire tower to reach the temple grounds—that

distance was dim and eerie even dur-

ing the day, and it was always faintly gloomy as though overcast. The embankment

there was lined with big trees, each requir-

ing two or three people to encircle it with outstretched arms. The gaps between the trees were filled with bamboo groves, so there was probably hardly a moment in the entire day when you could see the sun. Those who thought they were going downtown

and

went out in their clogs would definitely be in for some big trouble. The fact that a thaw was more frightening

than rain and snow

lies firmly etched in my memory. In such an inconvenient place, there was what appeared to be a provision against fire, a tall ladder that stood at the corner of the street. At the top of that hung something that resembled

afire

bell. This is how I think of the past, exactly as it was. The image' of the little restaurant underneath the fire bell also floats naturally before my eyes. I will never forget the warm, delicious fragrance of cooking mingled with smoke that seeped out of the narrow gaps of the rope curtain and traveled on to blend with the evening mist. The verse that I composed when Shiki was still alive—"0,

what tall winter trees stood alongside the fire bell!"—

was, as a matter of fact, in commemoration

of this fire bell,

{chap. 20, sz, 8:460-461) Not only is Soseki able to capture the sights, sounds, and flavors of his past experiences, but he is also capable of creating a narrative space with the kind of cohesion that belongs specifically to the imagination. The following passage exemplifies Soseki's artistry in creating imaginary space replete with meaning and emotion:

From G a r a s u d o no naka

t o Mlchlkusa

165

The memories I have connected with my home are all rustic. And somewhere there lingers a shadow of faint, chilly sadness. So I was very surprised to hear from my surviving brother, recently, about my sisters' outings to the theater. That such a glamorous lifestyle was also part of the past can seem only like a dream to me. At that time the small theaters were all in Saruwakachd. In a time when there was neither streetcar nor ricksha, it did not seem easy to getfrom the lower side ofTakadanobaba

to beyond the

Kannon statue early in the morning. My sisters would all get up in the middle of the night to get ready. It was said to be dangerous on the way, so, for safety's sake, the houseboy would always accompany them. They would go down Tsukudo, walk from Kakinoki yokocho to Ageba, and board the pleasure boat reserved in advance from the boathouse. I imagine they were rowed down the river slowly, passing by the front of the armory factory, going past Ochanomizu and continuing on to Yanagibashi, their hearts filled with anticipation. Just as there is no reason why their journey would end there, the past, with no boundary in time, remains the source of recollection. The boat would leave Okawa and go upstream, pass through Azumabashi, and reach the side ofYumeird in Imado. That was where my sisters would get off and walk to the theater teahouse. When the prepared seats were finally ready, they would be escorted to the theater. The prepared seats as a rule were in the upper middle section. Since it was a convenient location for other people to catch sight of the outfits, faces, and coiffures of those seated up there, those who loved glamour would fight to get their hands on those seats. Between acts the actors'attendant

would come and invite

them backstage. My sisters would then follow this man, who wore his hakama over a kimono of patterned silk crepe, to the rooms of

166

Chapters the actors they favored —be it Tanosuke or Tossho—in order to have a picture or something drawn on their fans. That must have been for their vanity. One cannot purchase that kind of vanity without the power of money. On their way back they would be rowed up the same route in the same boat up to Ageba. Again, because it was said to be unsafe, the houseboy would go to meet them with a lantern. When they reached home, it would have been midnight by our present clocks. So, traveling from the depth of night to the depth of night, they were able to spend some time at the

theater....

When I heard this colorful account, my first reaction was to doubt if it was really something that happened in my family. Ifeel as though I was told a story of the bygone days of a rich family somewhere in the shitamachi. (chap. 21, sz, 8:46I-463)5 In this passage, direct emotional expression and judgment are kept to a minimum, while the excitement and the richness of the experience are conveyed mainly through the enumeration of the places passed during the boat ride, the description of the location of the prepared seats, the silk crepe of the male attendant, and the careful lantern bearer. Written at the end of his career, Garasudo no naka represents the culmination of Soseki's lifelong artistic achievement in carving out a textual space by utilizing either his familiarity with the cityscape or his strong conceptual sense of space and the relations of things and people within a defined sphere. Into that space he places the narrator, firmly planted and eloquently expressing joy, sadness, nostalgia, or fear. But the indulgence in the magic of the past is interrupted by bitter reminiscence. In a factual manner, the narrator speaks about his unfortunate childhood: I was born to my parents in their evening years. I was their youngest son. The story that my mother was ashamed of having a baby at her age I hear even now....

At any rate, I was sent

F r o m G a r a s u d o n o naka

t o Mlehlkusa

soon afterward to a certain couple as their adopted son....

l6j

I

was with them until the age of eight or nine, when one begins to understand things. There was some trouble between them, so it was arranged that I should be returned to my

parents....

I did not know that I had come back to my own home and I went on thinking as I did before that my parents were my grandparents. Unsuspectingly I continued to call them "grandma"

and

"grandpa." They, on their part, thinking perhaps that it would be strange to change things suddenly, said nothing when I called them this. They did not pet me as parents do their youngest children....

I remember particularly that my father treated me

rather harshly....

One night, the following incident took place.

I was sleeping alone in a room when I was awakened by someone calling my name in a quiet voice. Frightened, I looked at the figure crouching by my bedside. It was dark, so I could not tell who it was. Being a child, I lay still and listened to what the person had to say. Then I realized that the voice belonged to our maid. In the darkness, the maid whispered into my ear: "These people that you think are your grandfather and grandmother are really your father and mother. I am telling you this because recently I heard them saying that you must in some way have sensed that they were your parents, since you seemed to prefer this house to the other one. They were saying how strange it was. You mustn't tell anybody that I told you this. Understand?" All I said at the time was "All right," but in my heart I was happy. I was happy not because I had been told the truth, but because the maid had been so kind to me. {chap. 29, sz, 8:481-483) 6 Perhaps nowhere else does Soseki speak so clearly and directly of his abandonment in childhood and his resulting confusion. Yet, instead of the bitterness and self-pity apparent in Michikusa, the narrator directs our attention to the kindness of the maid and the gratitude of the boy, two positive and redeeming elements that strongly counteract the pain inflicted by his real and adoptive

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parents. Although in Michikusa it becomes clear that Soseki could not forgive his parents for having given him up for adoption, the narrator's emphasis in Garasudo no naka on the natural affinity the child feels for his parents' home implies that hope for forgiveness and reconciliation nevertheless exists. This glimmer of hope is sustained throughout the work. The narrator does indeed at times speak plainly of anxiety, loneliness, and death, but such dark instances are mitigated by brighter thoughts and reminiscences about warm personal relationships. In one episode, a female reader /admirer confesses her sad past and seeks advice. After listening patiently and sympathetically, the narrator gently escorts her home and encourages her not to contemplate death but to live on (chaps. 6-8). In another episode, a former geisha who was once involved with the author's older brother travels a great distance to inquire about the brother's burial place after the latter's death from tuberculosis (chap. 36). Yet another episode describes the visit of a childhood friend, 0 , a warm, unpretentious man whose generosity and humor seem contagious (chap. 9-10). 7 Revealing a tender spot for old friendships and sentimental relationships does not embarrass the narrator, and it is this continual trust in human connection that gives Garasudo no naka its humanity. From the various chapters of Garasudo no naka the narrative persona that Soseki wishes to project slowly emerges. Although the narrator had a miserable childhood, he has learned to forgive his parents and harbors selective fond memories. Although he may be a negligent pet owner, he is always well intentioned toward the animals in his care and never fails to write a line of poetry on their grave markers to note the significance of their deaths. Although he is not a doting father, he still takes an interest in his children and is capable of accepting and returning affection. Because of his capacity to understand loneliness, he is generous and compassionate to those who solicit his help. He notices women and expresses his interest in them boldly.8 Above all, he is a scholar-gentleman who enjoys his days at

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home, receiving visitors, thinking about the past, observing and recording the changing seasons. The final chapter records a form of delicate, gentle interaction, nowhere present in Michikusa,

between Soseki and his children. The

episode related took place on a Sunday morning, when the children did not have to go to school. Soseki got up at quarter past seven, washed his face, and had his usual breakfast of toast, soft-boiled egg, and milk. As he was about to use the outhouse, he realized that the night-soil collector was there, so he wandered into the backyard. There he noticed three of his daughters, the youngest age eleven, crowding around a good open fire and enjoying the warmth. He said to them, "If you stick your faces so close to the fire, they will turn black," to which the youngest one, Aiko, responded, "Iyaa da" (sz, 8:506-507).9 The lengthening of the abrupt iya da into iyaa da softens the protest and lends the speech a kind of demure defiance.10 That Aiko feels comfortable answering her father that way suggests a certain rapport between Soseki and his children that is completely lacking in Michikusa.

There are certainly scenes of parental warmth in some

of his nonfictional accounts of his family life, such as his tender and poetic description of four-year-old Aiko standing by herself and drinking from the cup of water in front of the cat's tomb as well as his careful recording of the get-well letters that his daughters send him in Shuzenji.11 Such scenes of humanity are, however, completely removed from the parched landscape of In the final chapter of Garasudo

Michikusa.

no naka, the wintry landscape

is dispelled by the songs of the nightingale and the rejuvenating spring breeze. The narrator opens the glass door and basks in the warm sunshine, smiling indulgently at his own faults and limitations. Concerning his recollection of the past, he writes, "The Confessions of St. Augustine, Rousseau's

Confessions,

the Confessions of an Opium Eater—someone once said that,

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Chapters no matter how far one goes, there is no way to tell the truth by human means. Moreover, what I have written is not a confession. My fault—if you can call that a fault—is

to have written simply

about the brighter side of things. Maybe that makes certain people unhappy. But I have surpassed that unhappiness and am gazing at humanity with a smile. With the same gaze, I behold myself who have written nothing but mundane matters, as though I were someone else, and I smile." (sz, 8:508} "I behold myself... as though I were someone else"—this summarizes the process throughout Garasudo no naka by which Soseki creates for the text's narrator a calm and forgiving persona as an alter ego that helps restore order to the chaotic memories of the past and the anxieties of the present. The final paragraph contains the kind of peace and serenity rarely found in any of Soseki's works. The nightingale is singing in the garden, the spring breeze is teasing the leaves of the orchid, and the cat is sleeping in the warm sun. The children have all been taken to the movies, and the house is quiet. "I opened the glass door, and, basking in the silent spring light, I shall absentmindedly bring this manuscript to an end. Afterward, I plan to rest my head on my bended arm and take a nap on the veranda" (sz, 8:509). Resting one's head on one's bended arm is an allusion to the pose of the self-contained Confucian scholar-gentleman who, although poor and unrecognized, finds joy and contentment in learning and humanity. 12 This is the persona that Soseki manages to sustain in a soft and humane landscape before the haunting memories of Michikusa beckon. After indulging in writing about his childhood memories and present life in a relaxed, free-flowing manner, Soseki turns to the form of the novel to recapture the past. A novel, even one that is episodic, gives rise to the expectation of a conceptual or organic whole in which events and characters are not unrelated, accidental, or inconsequen-

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tial. Underneath the surface juxtaposition of seemingly random characters or events lies the subtle shadow of the interplay that is so essential to the novelistic form. A Soseki novel, in particular, always strives to be a tightly unified whole, in which image resonates with image and nothing is whimsical or out of place. Michikusa brings together two things that are conspicuously absent or underplayed in Garasudo no naka: his memories of his adoptive parents and his unhappy married life. 1 3 The act of bringing these two subjects together in a novel forces him to realize that there are tenuous but persistent connections between the past and the present, connections that he struggles to elucidate. This frantic and obsessive search dispels any semblance of the order and peace that he labored to create in Garasudo no naka. The narrative voice that Soseki creates to examine the past is judgmental and discerning, unsentimental, intelligent, and clearheaded, tireless in its pursuit of the truth. It is a voice close to that of the protagonist, Kenzo, except that it points out things that Kenzo fails to perceive, such as his own pride and priggishness. 14 It is also a voice obsessed with repetition; it meticulously records similar occurrences as though considered together they can bring some sense of order to a narrative marked by emotional chaos. The narrative voice aims at detail and precision in recording the past. It systematically guides us through the dark passage of memory and records places and incidents in stark detail—the house with the mean street, the pond with the dead carp. It has none of the dreaminess and haziness that the narrative voice in Garasudo no naka suggests. 15 Despite this precision, however, the voice also suffers memory lapses—confusing, for example, the order in which events took place—and often what it forgets speaks more eloquently about the pain of memory than what it assiduously recalls. The voice is unforgiving, condemning others without mercy. It speaks with contempt of the coldness of Kenzo and the moral shabbiness of those around him. Finally, it is a voice that gives utterance

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to what the characters fail to express. And it is here that we find the possibility of understanding, and with it redemption, in the chilly world of Michikusa. In what follows, I discuss the ways in which Soseki manipulates the narrative voice. Many scenes in Michikusa are curiously and deliberately repetitious. The keen and observing narrative voice tirelessly records each repeated experience with its slight variation. By repetition I do not mean simple mechanical, identical reproduction, as in the minting of coins. Rather, I am referring to a process through by means of which things that recur dig ever more deeply into one's consciousness, awakening uneasiness and compelling an introspective search for the cause of the repetition. Consider, for instance, the first of two encounters with Shimada at the beginning of the narrative: A light rain was falling steadily the day it happened. With only an umbrella to shield him from the rain, [Kenzo] was walking at the usual time, along the usual route, toward Hongo. It was just beyond the rickshaw stand that the unexpected encounter took place. The other man had presumably come up the hill behind the Nezu Gongen shrine. He was perhaps twenty yards away when Kenzo, happening to raise his eyes, first saw him approaching. Quickly Kenzo looked away. He wanted to pretend he had not recognized him. But as the man came nearer, he felt he had to look at him again to make sure he had not been mistaken. He looked, and found the man staring at him. The street was quiet at the time. Through the fine, almost invisible drizzle they could see each other clearly. Again Kenzo averted his glance and walked on. The man stood absolutely still and stared in silence as Kenzo walked past. Kenzo noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that with every step he took the man's face moved a little, (chap. 1)

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This encounter, predicated on regularity (the usual route, the usual time of commuting), precipitates the second, less than a week later, a scene again depicted in almost monochromatic and oppressive brush strokes: Then, on the sixth day, he suddenly appeared once more, like a threatening shadow from the hill behind the shrine. The hour was the same, and they would pass each other almost on the same spot. Kenzo sensed the man's desire to accost him and took care not to slacken his steady pace. This time the man was more bold. With a terrible concentration he fixed his dull, tired eyes on Kenzo. He was watching for an opening, for some sign of relenting in Kenzo. Kenzo walked past, with all the nonchalance he could muster. He thought fearfully, this is only the beginning, (chap. 2) Another series of repetitions involves the two visits of Otsune, Kenzo's former adoptive mother. Employing the same vocabulary and the same manner, she recounts her destitution, and, after each visit, Kenzo places a five-yen note in front of her, saying, "Forgive me, but I thought you might want to go back by rickshaw." She denies that she came for the money, but always pockets it and leaves. The repetition of events becomes almost comical when Kenzo says to his wife, "What if I don't have five yen the next time she comes?" (chap. 88). Like Shimada's appearance, Otsune's visits are reminders of a buried but festering past. The incidents have separate causes but nevertheless evoke similar feelings of disgust in Kenzo. Considered against the backdrop of the larger composition, they are variations of the same dark theme in Kenzo's life. The repetition persists throughout the novel. Money is given and received so many times that these transactions become a steady undertone in the novel. The scene, for instance, in which

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Chapters

Kenzo gives his father-in-law the money he raised for him from a friend is emblematic of all such scenes: "They had briefly stretched out their hands, one man to give and the other to take, then had immediately withdrawn them. Kenzo's wife stood on the side, watching the impersonal transaction and saying nothing" (chap. 75). The same basic impersonal transaction is repeated in different forms when Kenzo yields to Shimada's reiterated demands for money, when he agrees to increase his sister's monthly allowance, and when he places the five-yen note in front of Otsune.16 The silence and coldness of this kind of transaction are also repeated both in the way Kenzo sullenly throws the extra income in front of his wife after he learns that she has been pawning her clothes to make ends meet and her wordless reception of it. 17 Currency, symbolic of repetition by virtue of the necessary identical nature of the bills and coins, quickly imparts to these transactions a mechanical quality devoid of warmth and human value. The transactions themselves become meaningless, and for this reason Kenzo knows that the hundred yen he gives Shimada to purchase the contract of severance is just another lost, empty gesture. The hollow transaction will simply repeat itself as it had before. The repetition spirals into an almost deafening din. As Hida (Kenzo's brother-in-law), Chotaro (Kenzo's brother), and Kenzo discuss the problem of Shimada in the living room of Hida's home, the space is filled with the incessant coughing, wheezing, and gasping of Kenzo's sister, who is suffering from one of her repeated attacks of asthma in the sickroom. Furthermore, Kenzo's endless arguments with his wife, the repeated births of daughters ("One ugly child after another, and to what end?" [chap. 82]), and the unending pleas and demands for monetary assistance from his relatives form a web around him that makes him feel inhuman and uncharitable and at the same time guilty and misunderstood. Even his work—seemingly endless grading of poorly written student assignments—is compared to "Penelope's web" (chap. 94). The narrator's obsession with repetition in Michikusa betrays a

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desire to rely on repetition as a comforting and reassuring pattern in narrating a life replete with painful memories. Repetition gives the narrative a rhythm and order that the haphazardness and disorderliness of real life cannot. It also brings to the narrative a kind of simplicity and predictability. Repetition beguilingly gives rise to the hope of a unified interpretation of disparate events and characters in a chaotic world. As a result, the present echoes the past, events are interconnected, and characters are united in their loneliness, destitution, and decay. Repetition creates a false sense of order and structural control in a narrative overrun with emotional chaos. Ironically, despite the steady rhythm that repetition generates in Michikusa, no other work of Soseki's depicts better the power of chaos, expressed in terms of fear, disgust, and powerlessness in the face of things beyond one's control. Repetition ceases to be comforting when it forebodes endless entrapment. At the end of Michikusa, we are told that Kenzo temporarily wards off Shimada with the sum of a hundred yen in exchange for a signed statement guaranteeing the termination of contact. However, Kenzo does not believe that Shimada will cease to interfere with his daily life and to haunt his consciousness. To his wife, who thinks that everything has now been settled, he says, almost with venom, "Hardly anything in this life is settled. Things that happen once will go on happening. But they come back in different guises, and that's what fools us." Kenzo's final statement denies the narrative firm closure by pointing back to the repeated scenes of decay, anguish, and loneliness throughout the novel as well as anticipating the maddening reverberation of the sound of bleakness that lingers on unceasingly after the novel ends. The darkness and pessimism in the narrative voice permeate the novel. The voice judges harshly the decay of human life. Consider, for instance, the lives of Kenzo's brother, Chotaro, his brother-in-law, Hida, and his father-in-law. They exist in the text as sharply defined, independent characters, but they are united in their destitution. The narrative voice takes on a matter-of-fact, reportorial tone as it recounts their degeneration. Chotaro works as a lowly civil servant

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Chapters

in a large government building in Tokyo. He must work a night shift every other day, and the grueling schedule takes a toll on his already poor health. In twenty-five years, he has never been promoted, and he is always in danger of being laid off when there is a change in the government. He was quite the wastrel in his youth, and, as age creeps on, he slowly loses all his money, especially after the futile attempt to cure his favorite daughter of tuberculosis. He goes to work dressed in an old suit of Kenzo's and has to borrow Kenzo's hakama for a funeral (chap. 34). Hida is in no better shape. He has a hearty appetite for food and the theater and, when Kenzo was a child, would occasionally take him out for a vaudeville show and a stand-up meal of tempura or sushi (chap. 28). Now he takes money from the allowance that Kenzo gives his sister and habitually lies to her when he stays out at night. Kenzo's father-in-law used to be a man of means. In the past, he owned a beautiful Western-style mansion and would cut a proud figure as he marched out of its imposing gate in his frock coat and silk hat (chap. 72). He gradually lost everything, however, through unwise investments, and now he must borrow Kenzo's old overcoat and his money. The metaphor of decay is the endless borrowing of money and clothing. It is as though, in wearing Kenzo's shabby old suit, hakama, and inverness, these men shroud their rotting present with Kenzo's painful past and make Kenzo an inextricable part of the inevitable putrefaction. 18 Kenzo's emotional reaction to each man is different, but, thinking about their lives, it occurs to him that, if people do in fact change, it is not growth or renewal that they experience but only decay (chap. 69). The lives of these three men, each reflecting the others, all interrelated on the same plane, dissolve into a putrescent morass. We begin to understand why the narrative voice must remain chilly and almost haughty as it judges these men; detachment saves it from being sucked in as well. The narrative voice examines childhood memories of abandonment and enslavement with characteristic thoroughness and, in so doing, connects the past to the present. It describes how the Shima-

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das pamper Kenzó as a child but constantly require verbal assurance of his loyalty. Seated between them, the child Kenzó is forced again and again to reassure them that they are his real parents. Kenzo's inability to express and accept affection as an adult stems from his learning as a child to associate kindness with possessiveness. By defining clearly the hurt and confusion that he experienced as a child and relating those feelings to his coldness as an adult, the narrative voice testifies to the fact that the child is father to the man. The narrative voice relentlessly traces the source of Kenzo's existential loneliness and cruelty to his family. And the episode in which the boy Kenzó wrestles with the carp, "the specter in the muddy water," represents his losing battle with memory: Once he peeked through the reed fence at the back of the cottage and saw a pond with rocks around it. A wisteria trellis stretched over the water at one end, supported by two posts sunk into the bottom. Azaleas grew in abundance around the pond; and occasionally one caught a glimpse of a patch of red moving about like a specter in the muddy

water.

Kenzó felt he must try to catch the carp. He made himself a crude fishing pole, and one day, when there seemed to be no one in the cottage, he crept into the garden. He threw in the bait, and almost immediately

the carp was pulling at it. As he felt the

strain in his arm, he was suddenly afraid. The mysterious, powerful creature, he knew, was trying to drag him into the water. Throwing the pole down, he rushed away. He went back the next day and saw the carp, now quite still, floating on the surface. It was an eerie sight, (chap. 38) Lured by darkness and secrecy, Kenzó is drawn to the pool of memory as he was drawn to the muddy water in his childhood, and memory wells up as readily as the carp pulls at the bait. But the emotions that accompany his childhood memories prove at times to be so painful, inexplicable, and torrential that he fears being overwhelmed by

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them, as the boy Kenzo was afraid of being dragged into the water by the invisible, powerful creature. Recoil though he might, once having plumbed the depths of memory Kenzo remains haunted by the past, just as, as a child, he was haunted by the carp, which, abandoned and left for dead, returned to the surface. Memory casts its shadow on Kenzo's adult life, pain long buried resurfacing to affect his life in different ways: in the repeated visits of the hatless and pathetic Shimada as well as of the aging and decrepit Otsune, in the decaying lives of his siblings and in-laws, and most indelibly in his chilly married life. The narrative voice also tells us, with almost clinical starkness and precision, about places, events, and people in the past, but as a rule it fails to pinpoint an exact time frame. The result is that memories become detached from time and from each other and therefore eerily ubiquitous, everywhere and nowhere. For example, the narrative voice describes in minute detail the first house that Kenzo shared with the Shimadas but fails to recall who was looking after him at the time: "His mind was blank as a sheet of paper" (chap. 38). 19 Again, certain memories are linked in his mind, but he cannot remember why, and he does not know which precedes which: "Which had come first—the hawk or the play, the countryside with the fields and groves or the dark house facing the mean street—he did not know. And no one he knew seemed to figure in any of the scenes" (chap. 39). By admitting partial amnesia, the narrative voice allows patches of memory to spill over onto one another and into the present, rendering the mental replay of the past more powerful, uncontrollable, and haunting than ever. Thus is Kenzo delivered into the grip of memory and rendered a man of the past: During this period he could not at times avoid losing himself in reminiscence. Like his brother, whom he pitied, he had become a man of the past. He tried to cut his life in two, the past and the present. Yet

From Garasudo

no naka

t o Mlchlkusa

the past refused to be sliced off, and was with him

179

constantly.

His eyes were focused on the future, yet his legs took him in the opposite direction, (chap. 38)

The only hope for redemption in Michikusa

lies in the pervasive-

ness of the narrative voice, which reflects the thoughts and feelings that Kenzo and his wife, Osumi, fail to express. In relating this lack of understanding or communication between the two, Soseki often employs the image of a mirror or some other (often dulled) reflective surface. One example is the language that describes Osumi's inability to fathom Kenzo's complex feelings toward Shimada: "Keredomo sono hara no naka w a marude saikun no mune ni utsuranakatta" (However, his inner thoughts were not reflected in his wife's consciousness at all) (chap. 14). Later, Osumi's mind is described as "kokoro no kagami" (the mirror of her mind) (chap. 61). And, when Osumi suffers attacks of hysteria, her eyes fail to reflect her spirit: "Her large black eyes seemed not to be focused on anything. They clearly belonged to a living person, yet they seemed without life, as though they had lost touch with the soul. Wide open, they stared at nothing in the near-darkness" (chap. 50). The failure to reflect each other's thoughts and feelings becomes the central motif in the marital relationship of Kenzo and Osumi. Their words and gestures are meaningless when directed toward an unreceptive consciousness, and meaning is restored only when those words and gestures are perceived by the narrative consciousness. The narrative consciousness travels freely from Kenzo's mind to Osumi's, penetrating the inner consciousness of each and linking them together, thereby revealing the depths that lie beneath the inexpressive surface. It is thus through the narrative voice that we gain a more complete understanding of the characters, something that they themselves never achieve. Ultimately, the narrative consciousness becomes a powerful reflection of the characters' minds, 2 0 allowing Kenzo and Osumi to attain the full depth of their inherently tragic nature.

180

Chapters The narrator continually juxtaposes the states of mind of Kenzo

and Osumi, showing us the way one event appears to these two different consciousnesses and then bringing these two perspectives together in his own, omniscient point of view: His wife remained aloof and watched him from afar. She had long ago decided that she could do nothing to comfort him. Her seeming indifference angered Kenzo. Had she forgotten she was his wife? She, on her part, reasoned that if he was content to spend all his time in the study, then she was not to blame for their

estrangement....

He went to the table feeling refreshed, but as soon as he sat down he began to feel a slight chill down his back. He sneezed violently, twice. His wife, sitting beside him, said nothing. Neither did he, but he resented her lack of concern. She remained silent, hating his pride and reserve, and thinking: it's his fault that I can't behave like a wife. (chap. 9) "Her expression [as Kenzo silently throws his extra income before her] was blank. I could have shown pleasure, she thought, if only he had said something kind. Kenzo, on the other hand, resented her seeming indifference, and blamed herfor his own silence." (chap. 21) Without the narrative consciousness to preserve them, the characters' unspoken, and hence unheard, thoughts would never have been realized. By preserving those thoughts, the narrative voice acknowledges the reality of the characters' individual suffering. Despite the narrator's heroic endeavor in the trials of understanding, the ending of Michikusa rejects the comfort of closure. Kenzo's forecast of repetition reiterates a dark and pessimistic comment made by the lonely hero, Sosuke, at the end of Mon. To his wife, who cheerfully remarks, "How nice! Spring has finally come," Sosuke

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says, "Yes, but it will soon be winter again" (sz, 4:864). Michikusa ends when Kenzo's wife responds to her husband's bitter comments by picking up the baby and saying, "Nice baby, nice baby, we don't know what daddy is talking about, do we?" chap. 102). We realize that the ending is just a continuation of oppressive repetitions and failed communication, and the hope of deliverance from loneliness is ruthlessly destroyed. When we juxtapose Garasudo no naka with Michikusa, we realize that Soseki has begun by creating order and ended by turning that order into chaos. Written within two months of each other, Michikusa and Garasudo no naka both depict the lives of different people and the writer's childhood memories, but, while the lives portrayed in Michikusa are in the process of degenerating, those depicted in Garasudo no naka are resilient, colorful, and at times hilarious. While the lives portrayed in Michikusa provoke moral disgust and existential nausea, those in Garasudo no naka arouse sympathy, admiration, gratitude, and mirth. Certainly, Garasudo no naka is permeated by sadness and a sense of loss, but those emotions are close to beauty and gentleness and contain no trace of the despair and fear diffused throughout Michikusa. While Garasudo no naka introduces a self-contained narrative persona and fulfills the need for closure, Michikusa is told by an introspective, unpardoning, and intellectual narrative voice that shatters the well-crafted peace and denies closure. One almost wishes that Michikusa had preceded Garasudo no naka so that one could move from the unresolved emotional chaos in the novel to the sublime order in the essays. Yet, in the movement from order to chaos, we see Soseki's struggle and honesty as well as his endeavor to gaze inward through his art.

CHAPTER

6

In Quest of an Ending: An Examination of Soseki's Kanshi

q A. n the last few months of his life, Soseki was mired in the writing of Meian, a work that leads him deeper and deeper into the depiction of the stark loneliness of the modern individual in urban scenes of power and influence. Meian seduces him and makes him shudder: it seduces him because it enables him to express himself fully as a natural poet and critic of the modern society to which Meiji Japan had given rise, and it makes him shudder because human relationships in Meian, as in many of his later works, are reduced to a moneyed order set against an urban landscape that is dry, cold, and claustrophobic. To abandon the world of Meian would be the ultimate act of indifference, for, much as he finds despicable and pitiful the men and women in his fiction, his concern for them is genuine, and his own life is rooted in the world they inhabit. Yet to have no relief from that world means no escape from the barren landscape in which fantasies, myths, and passions slowly wither and die. Beginning on 14 August 1916, Soseki turned to writing kanshi (poems in literary Chinese) in the afternoon as a form of "daily ritual" while continuing to write Meian in the morning.1 Day by day, until he became too ill to write, he composed kanshi—over seventy in about a 182

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183

hundred days, most of them in verses of eight regular lines with seven characters per line. Kanshi

seem to fulfill both his need to create a

space in which his mind could rest and his urge to find expression for his imagination in his dying days. These are almost warring desires; part of him longs for quietude and peaceful closure, while part of him craves to luxuriate in the power and richness of language. In the microcosm of these kanshi,

one catches a glimpse of the

lonely recluse and the solitary thinker—two interrelated poetic personae that reflect Soseki's temperament and his somber view of human fate. One is also reminded of the colorful writer who believes in the mystic power of the word, that is, the Soseki who uses language to summon mythical figures, demons, and seductresses from the romantic past in his Arthurian legends, ghost stories, and early novels. Finally, one sees the terrifying visions of a man ravaged by illness and haunted by death. There is no doubt that one discerns peace and enlightenment in Soseki's kanshi, but any attempt to provide a unified interpretation of his last moments often does injustice to the beauty of uncertainty and the powerful emotion of fear that he conveys in the face of death. Not only do the seventy-some kanshi vary in language and content, but their quality also fluctuates greatly, resulting in some near-perfect gems of balanced construction and some awkward accumulations of parallelisms. Those that I discuss and translate in this chapter I have selected for their quality and the glimpses that they offer into Soseki's continuous struggle to understand the human condition at the end of his life. Some of Soseki's best compositions from this period are poems of rural retreat filled with pleasant scenes of hazy mountains and spring breezes, gentle willows and chrysanthemums. Many of them respond to the eremitic world of the Chinese poet Tao Qian (365-427). The allusions to Tao Qian's poetry are clear and frequent; the noise of carriages and horses is shut off, in Soseki's as well as in Tao Qian's poetry, with the gentle but firm closing of the wooden door.2 Added to these allusions are the frequent mention of the southern mountain, the chrysanthemums, the fields, and the "poetry of returning."3

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Perhaps the most inspiring aspect of Tao Qian's poetry is the depiction of the hardship, simplicity, and dignity of a way of life that stands apart from the trends and fashions of society. With simple, unadorned words that distinguish themselves from the sickly rich poetic language of his time, Tao Qian creates a language to house his longings for an alternate reality. His rustic abode is none other than the language in which he dwells. Centuries later, and in a different place, Soseki is to imitate Tao Qian in composing kanshi as a word dwelling for the imaginary recluse. 4 The blockish appearance of the kanshi on the printed page suggests a solid and comforting shelter for a tired spirit who has spoken out again and again about the injustice, hypocrisy, and preposterous nature of a society undergoing rapid change. The visual impact of each eight-line unit suggests a kind of order not associated with the free-flowing Japanese script. In writing poetry to match Tao Qian's world, Soseki uses language to carve out a tranquil space in which he retreats temporarily from a society and a civilization that at times he finds ludicrous. In the space opened up by language, Soseki creates a myth. If the writing of Meian is a labor of love undertaken by an artist who refuses to be overcome by the awful nature of the real world, then the writing of kanshi is a necessary process of mythmaking that enables Soseki to seek solace in beauty and humanity. The myth that he makes concerns the bunjin (gentleman-scholar) discovering peace in nature, rural life, and solitude. There is little doubt that Soseki is conscious that he is making myth in his kanshi since the world of Meian that he confronts every morning prevents him from dissociating himself completely from the complexity and pain of modern society. 5 It is perhaps necessary for a poet to open up a space in which only he and language exist, allowing him to create a dream world unhindered by any consideration of or responsibility to reality. While the poetic persona of Soseki's kanshi has been liberated from the sordid and deceitful real world, allowing him to dwell in

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a purified state of oneness with nature, the voice of discontent and criticism nonetheless comes through, at times even more clearly and more strongly than in his novels. The tight parallelism and rhyming scheme further reinforce a sense of balance. Here are some examples: Tired of the noise of carriage and horses in the capital,6 I return to my old mountain and close the wooden door. Red peach blossoms, green water, spring clouds in the temple, Warm days, mild breeze, hazy rustic village. A row of willows ends when you reach the pier. A rain of petals falls when birds land on tree tops. On the front pond, last night, the rain softly fell, Hurrying hatchlings to enter the little garden, (sz, 12:425) Silk at my temples, my heart full— How many springs and autumns, studying and tilling? The wind blows on the weak willows—branch

against branch

they sway, The rain hits the tall paulownia—leaf Far away I see half a peak emitting

upon leaf they sound. moonlight,

Constantly I hear the sound offalling water from the clouds. Living quietly, I enjoy the simple way; my fur coat wears out. Wanting to buy a padded robe, I sometimes go into town, (sz, 12:421) Old age—I return to my old

mountain;

Four empty walls, thoughts are calm and slow. Through the colors of seaweeds, fish soundly sleep; Plum blossoms scattered, birds lament. In the airy green of the remote mountain, an ancient temple hides, In the faraway field a spring stream

vanishes.

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Chapter 6 The woods and ponds each day bring my joy, Wealth and fame—how

will they last?

(sz, 12:422) Another feature of the kanshi is the potential that the form holds for intellectual rumination. Soseki almost completely abandoned the writing of haiku in the last days of his life, a form he once esteemed as highly as he did the kanshi as a poetic vessel (fiiryu).7 While the brevity of haiku allows the poet to capture a crystallized moment of beauty, it leaves little room for the elaboration of ideas. Kanshi, on the other hand, has always been used by scholars and thinkers as a vehicle for intellectual expression. Yoshikawa Kojiro, a noted scholar of Chinese poetry, points out that the history of Japanese kanshi is dominated by poetry written by Confucians or thinkers

(shisakusha),

a fact that accounts for the dryness of kanshi from the Kaifuso in the Nara period to the kanshi in the Edo. 8 Soseki apparently enjoys the philosophical aspect of kanshi and handles the potential problem of dryness by establishing a premise in the initial couplet and elaborating the argument through poetic imagery. On the subject of poetry and nature, for instance, he writes: Do not blame me for severing your poetic

inspiration;

Good poetry always clings to one's eyes— A shadowless lone cloud vanishes with a single sail, The trace of rain dampens half the couch. The radiance of flowers so dazzles one's eyes that one looks to the faraway

trees.

Do not let the darkness of willows enter the blind. Year after year, tastefulness conveyed in unspoken

phrases,

9

Enhanced, moreover, by the spring breeze. (sz, 12:432)

The intellectuality in his poems is matched by his tight control of form and language, which together generate a sense of order and mea-

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187

sured reasoning. Soseki's insights and reflections often blend unobtrusively with the poetic imagery, thereby avoiding the overall impression of pedantry, and the intellectuality of his poetry seldom mars its lyricism, as in the following poem written shortly before his death: Hard to reach Great Foolishness,10

hard to accomplish one's will;

Fifty springs and autumns passed by in a wink. Contemplating

the way wordlessly, I enter Silence;

Plucking a verse in a poem, I alone wish to be pure. Far, far away, beyond the sky, drift the shadows of clouds, In the wind, rustle the falling

leaves.

Suddenly I see, upon the whiteness of the quiet

window,

The moon emerging from the Eastern mountain,

illumining

half the river. (sz, 12:443) One of the philosophical questions that Soseki explores often is that of the role of the writer and the relation between language and nature. In some poems, he asserts that poetry is inherent in nature: The earth exists as long as the sun and moon; All under heaven, where can one not find poetry?" (sz, 12:427) Splendid writing is as great as the heaven and earth; The four seasons, cold and heat, have not strayed from it." (sz, 12:428) In others, he suggests that the manipulator of language, that is, the poet, discovers space and nature through words: Without entering the green mountain, I am at home; So often, in spring and autumn, I have written good prose. (sz, 12:426)

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There are times, also, when he affirms refinement and artistry in writing: A poet never finds cunning craftsmanship

distasteful,

Who says the eye cannot tell the difference between the beautiful and the plain? (sz, 12:428,) This obstinate and near desperate reliance on language has much to do with the anxiety and loneliness that Soseki must have experienced in the face of an unfinished work and a life drawing to an end. After all, it is language that gives him a means to give form to his anguish and emotion, particularly language in a structured and wellbalanced poetic form. Each eight-line poem invites the poet to discover that part of him that is capable of expressing grief, loneliness, or awe in a set number of words governed by rhyme, rhythm, parallel imagery, and sentence structure. Each poem also forces him to look for embellished and paired images for every couplet to create a stable, well-balanced poetic unit that gives shape to beauty and human feelings. Each poem enables him to intone deep emotions with appropriate restraint and reserve. In sum, writing kanshi allows him to impose an artificial sense of order and beauty on the things that he sees and feels. This overt artificiality, paradoxically, is a form of guileless acknowledgment of the inherent quality of that poetic form and the inherent nature of a poet. Despite the sense of order and control provided partly by the poetic form and partly by Soseki's eloquent intellectual arguments in many of the poems, the kanshi that Soseki wrote at the end of his life reveal a sense of labored stability rather than a sense of ease and acceptance. The very form and language that hold together the apparent tranquillity in these poems also undermine it by betraying an underlying anxiety, for it is in the excessive use of parallelism and the almost compulsive search for balance that one discerns the

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189

fragility of Soseki's peace of mind. At this stage of his life, Soseki must craft his tranquility. Quietude no longer descends on him as in the days of his convalescence in Shuzenji after his grave illness in 1910. In Shuzenji, Soseki was able to capture the simple beauty of a single petal: The day is mellow, like spring; My mind, flowing with the water, is empty. At the head of my bed, a single petal quietly falls into my sleep, (sz, 12:407,) Of this period Soseki writes in Omoidasu koto nado (1911), "Because of my illness I came to enjoy this sort of commonplace happiness and overripe leisure, and it felt just like the time when I first returned from abroad and had an ordinary meal of rice placed in front of me." He adds, "The verses and poetry I gathered during my illness were not written by force of idleness to dispel boredom. They are natural configurations that welled up freely at a time when my mind escaped from the stress of daily life, bounced back to the state of original freedom, and regained a generous margin of leisure" {sz, 8:281, 285-286). The Shuzenji poems mostly take the form of four-line regular verse of five characters per line, resulting in shorter poems, usually depicting a single scene or thing, without much philosophical rumination. These poems also reveal Soseki's preference for visually simple characters, and the physical appearance of these compositions on the printed page is clear and uncluttered, like a cold gleam of moonlight on a rock. The style and content are reminiscent of the short poems of Wang Wei (699?-/6i), a Tang painter/poet who time and again captures the distilled beauty and peace of a scene in the brevity of a couplet or a twenty-character poem. 11 The cluster of poems composed in the several years that follow the Shuzenji crisis continued to be written in that style and often capture nature in crisp images:

190

Chapter 6 After the rain, the sky's a sweep of blue. Warm water, willows swaying west and east. Behold, under the roofed gate, Clear and white is the wind, (sz, 12:412) The color of grass by the empty terrace— Lush, lush after the rain. A single cuckoo flew o f f , calling its mate, The late sunlight fills the quiet garden, (sz, 12:412) How high—the clouds of green! Leaf upon leaf, layers of cool shade. After the rain it is even more tasteful— The snail crawling along the verdant stalk, (sz, 12:413) The clarity and lightness of these short poems eventually give way

to longer and heavier poems. Soseki's later kanshi are visually more dense and filled with philosophical meanderings. The depiction of nature hailed by many critics as a sign of Soseki's spiritual detachment in his evening years is a form of linguistic indulgence that demonstrates his love of words and his power to summon them to build a detached space and reality. Kanshi offers a chance for him to luxuriate in the richness and compactness of the language. It also provides him with an outlet into which to channel his anxiety. In many of his kanshi, he relies heavily on the parallelism of images and the fixed number of characters and lines to create a sense of balance and stability. Examples abound: Young and succulent, at midday, the peach flowers are about to bloom. Clear and certain, in the blue sky, the cranes begin to soar, (sz, 12:428)

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191

In the whiteness of a lone cloud, the colors of autumn are far away; In the greenness of the fragrant grass, the sound of rain is frequent, (sz, 12:429) The great mountain, without clouds, glistens in the accumulated snow; the blue sky, faintly shadowed, is reflected in the red peach blossoms, (sz, 12:436) The opulence and colorfulness of the imagery are further emphasized by the stacking of dense characters one on another, with the result that many late Soseki kanshi about nature have the appearance of a landscape created in strong colors—red, white, yellow, and green. Some of his best works in this mode, however, are tinged with a faint sadness, which mutes the colors and makes them less jarring: My muse lies faraway, east of the bridge in the wilderness. Things suspended in the light fog— Against the corn-yellow water a white sail appears, In the flow of the green clouds remain traces of the pagoda's red. The peach blossoms are ablaze in the light, While the color of willows softly fades, not minding the wind. Drifting thoughts of loneliness as spring draws to an end, A single bird enters the void.12 (sz, 12:426) Soseki often used color and imagery lavishly in his fiction, especially in his earlier novels (Nowaki, Gubijinso) and his fantastic and romantic pieces (Yumejuya, the Arthurian legends, Rondon To). In Nowaki, for instance, Hibiya Hall is filled with the resounding notes of music and voices in maddening red, green, and yellow, while, in Gubijinso,

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Fujio is an enchantress draped in purple and glittering with rubies and gold. Scholars who emphasize Soseki's return to simplicity at the end of his life and point out his frequent use of such pure and natural imagery as the white cloud and green vegetation tend to omit his undying fondness of the baroque luxuriance of language. 13 One should note that, on returning from London in 1902, it took Soseki thirteen years to start writing—somberly and realistically— about his bitter experience abroad in Michikusa (1915), but two years after his return he published a series of romantic short works with a Western motif, including the Arthurian legends of Kairoko and Maboroshi no tate, as well as Rondon To and Koto no sorane. Apparently, the flamboyance of a refined and almost decadent literary language, and his ability to dance to its rhythm, allowed the artist to forget himself in frenzied expression and created a buffer zone, protecting him from experiences too painful or frightening to be faced directly. Later, facing death and the emotionally draining process of writing Meian, Soseki sought solace and escape in his kanshi. If Meian had to remain unfinished, at least he could be certain that he could complete one or two finely crafted poems each day, in language that is at once alien, ancient, and close to the fount of his literary inspiration. 14 Yet, no matter how secure the poetic unit is, there finally comes a moment when emotion floods the form and dissolves into a chaos of imagery. This is when goblins, dragons, butchers, fish, and shrimps begin to appear in droves in Soseki's kanshi. His poetry crosses the border from playfulness to frenzy, from the exuberant to the grotesque. It is also at this point that his style becomes seriously flawed, not simply in terms of the jarring images, but in terms of the overly colloquial language ("When I have to die, I have to die / From the beginning, there are just twenty-four hours in a day" [sz, 12:430]) and the unorganized thoughts. Some poems allude to images found in zen practices and koan, a fact that accounts partially for the abrupt imagery and the colloquial language, but such poems often leave an unpleasant aftertaste and the impression of a mind mangled

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193

by thoughts of death and persecution. How is one expected to respond to lines like these? The long tongue talks about zen and gains The bald head peddles the way—what

nothing

does he desire?

(sz, 12:433) The Majestic One decrees that sins will be pardoned Cutting thieves, like cloud: full revenge in blood, (sz, 12:433) Besides thieves and monks, mythic animals and quadrupeds also appear frequently in his poems: As I mounted the cow's back by mistake, the horse left with a neigh; When I regained the dragon's tooth, the dog came running back, (sz, 12:439) Swords and the metallic noises that they make are common, and violence—suicide by poisoning, murder, revenge, beating, sudden death—is no longer a surprise in the last twenty-some poems. 1 5 Some imagery, admittedly, is striking: Holding the moon in my arms, I threw it into the red burning fire; Suddenly the moon died, and green rose above the bay. (sz, 12:439) Hitting the ground with a jangle is the sword inlaid with gold, Shattering the sky into glittering sparks are the iridescent (sz, 12:441)

pearls,

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Chapter 6

It is as though such violent images were the only ones into which Soseki could channel his emotions. One suspects that he was at times hallucinating or visited by horrible visions of death. There remain, however, moments of lucidity when he knows that it is largely language that shapes his universe as his life comes to an end. Love, disgust, angst, injustice, fear, loneliness—all his life he has been giving form to these feelings. He has created characters that embody his own questions, concerns, and fears, and what have they brought him but an apprehensive glimpse into the inscrutability of existence and the insoluble problems inherent in the human condition? What will happen to all the anguished social malcontents whose fate he has left undecided? Thinking of the heavy load that he has undertaken, he looks the task of writing in the face and quotes the Tang poet Du Fu (712-770): undertaking,16

Someone once said writing is an eternal

When I consider its qualities, it is indeed a lifetime's

endeavor,

(sz, 12:426} Only at the end, when death approaches, does he realize that he is physically and emotionally drained. Seriously weakened by illness, he persists in fulfilling his obligation to supply the Asahi with daily installments of Meian—even

twenty days before his death—invest-

ing his energy in depicting characters who struggle to survive in a hard and cold society, each in his or her own isolated world. It is not surprising that he sought comfort in a separate, myth-like, remote sphere, one untouched by the realities of human existence. The longing for enlightenment—be it communion with nature or the forgetting of self—fills his final poems. In his much quoted last poem, he writes: The true way is lonely and hard to find, With my empty bosom I travel through past and present. Green water, green mountain—where

is Self ?

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195

All over heaven and earth is the absence of consciousness." (sz, 12:443-444,) The desire of self-effacement, losing oneself in nature, reveals both great wisdom and unbearable weariness. But it is not clear that it is death alone that Soseki wishes to escape. An examination of his life and work makes it clear that his sense of self and his creativity were sustained by the urban cityscape and the world of human affairs. Thus, it seems more natural for him to end his life as he spent it, carving out the lives of his characters, for it is in them and their world that he finds the solid truth underlying existence. The writing of kanshi provides a retreat—but only a momentary one—from the harsh reality with which it is his fate to wrestle. Soseki's kanshi remain a window that offers glimpses into his internal world. They speak eloquently of his rapture and his depression, his desires and his disappointments. Above all, they probe the nature of human solitude, an inquiry that concerned him deeply throughout his life and career: Fifty years of loneliness, Quietly I grow old, chasing the world

away—

For no reason other than the love of the murmur of bamboo at night, With others, at Pine-Planting17

Temple, I contemplate Zen.

Pale moon, faint clouds, the fishes'joy

in water,

Falling flowers, fragrant grass, the bird's longing for the sky. The city in spring each day basks in the warm eastern wind, I want to write "Poetry of Returning," but have not yet bought afield.1* (sz, 12:424; In his quest for a deeper understanding of solitude, Soseki turned to nature, Zen Buddhism, Taoism, and his literary forebear Tao Qian, but what comes through finally in his poems is a permeating sense of

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Chapter 6

loneliness that seeps through the layers of apparent self-containment and peace that he labors to create through frequent literary allusions. Soseki's acute sense of loneliness lent him great insight into himself and others, but it was also the source of uncertainty and self-doubt. It seems that, the older he got, the less sure of himself he became. In his earlier works, he was more willing to express firm convictions and orchestrate strong closures laden with moral judgment, but his later works are more often attempts to understand meanings that cannot be grasped and even existence itself. Perhaps the mark of great insight and wisdom is the acknowledgment of uncertainty, in the end turning inward to confront the unknowable. Thus, it may be only an exercise in self-gratification to think that Soseki attained the transcendental state of sokuten kyoshi ("follow heaven, eliminate ego") at the end of his life, as some of the early critics of his work tended to believe. 19 What he has managed, instead, is to translate into the imagery of nature the distilled beauty of a proud and solitary existence crystallized in a moment of loneliness. Pure autumn shakes itself and transforms the mountain, I lie behind dosed doors, cold shadows creep upon one another. In stillness the empty boat sits in the shallow bank, As if whispering, the light rain moistens the water lilies. Facing my melancholy, I trim the wick as the night grows more silent, After a poem, I burn incense, and words darken. Sometimes I gaze at the horizon of water and cloud, Quietly I listen all alone to the bell beyond the forest, (sz, 12:431)

NOTES

The place of publication, when Tokyo, has been omitted for books and articles in Japanese.

Introduction 1. D. A. Miller, Narrative and Its Discontents: Problems of Closure in the Traditional Novel (1981; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989), ix. 2. Paul de Man, Allegories of Reading: Figural Language in Rousseau, Nietzsche, Rilke, and Proust (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1979). 69. 3. "Chaos was associated with the unformed, the unthought, the unfilled, the unordered. Hesiod in the Theogony designates Chaos as that which existed before anything else, when the universe was in a completely undifferentiated state" (N. Katherine Hayles, Chaos Bound:

Orderly

Disorder in Contemporary Literature and Science [Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990], 19). 4. In the Tao te ching, it is written, "Of unity, / its top is not distant, / its bottom is not blurred. / Infinitely extended/and unnameable, / It returns to nonentity. / This is called 'the form of the formless, / the image of

197

Notes to Pages 7 - 8 nonentity.' I This is called 'the amorphous.' / . . . Hold to the Way of today / to manage the actualities of today, thereby understanding the primeval beginning" (Lao Tzu, Tao te ching, trans. Victor Mair [New York: Bantam, 1990], 74-75). See Eto Jun, Soseki to sonojidai,

3 vols, to date (Shincho sensho,

1970-1993). In "Natsume Soseki 0 megutte: Sono yutakasa to mazushisa" (Concerning Natsume Soseki: The Richness and Paucity of His Life and Works), a roundtable discussion published in the journal Hihyd kiikan (no. 8 [1993]: 6-43, esp. 13-14), Karatani claims that Soseki might be the first or perhaps the only person in Japan at that time who was serious about theory and that it was the loneliness of being the only theorist that made him turn to fiction. He added that one might consider Soseki a frustrated theorist turned novelist. I have serious doubts about these speculations since on many occasions Karatani has drawn the parallel between his own life and Soseki's that they both began their study of theory at the age of thirty-five (Karatani at Yale, Soseki in London). See Karatani Kojin, Nihon kindai bungaku no kigen (Kodansha, 1980), translated by Brett de Bary as Origins of Modern Japanese

Literature

(Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993). The argument in this paragraph is taken from the first chapter, "Fukei no hakken" (The discovery of landscape). The genbun itchi (instituted around 1890) involves the concept of making writing equivalent to speech, as opposed to writing in classical Japanese or Chinese. For Karatani's argument, see "Natsume Soseki 0 megutte," 8. See Karatani Kojin, "Soseki no sakuhin sekai" (The world of Soseki's works), in Soseki oyomu (Iwanami Seminar Books 48), by Karatani Kojin, Komori Yoichi, Komori Yoichi, Haga Toru, and Kamei Junsuke (Iwanami, 1994). Various aspects of Soseki's works are explored in Karatani Kojin, Sosekiron shusei (Daisanbunmeisha, 1992). Zadankai are roundtable discussions, the mode of literary discourse favored by critics and academics in Japan; they are usually recorded and published in journals or as monographs.

Notes to Pages 8 - 1 1

199

12. The biannual Sdseki kenkyu, published by Kanrin shobo, more or less makes up for the irregular appearance of Soseki hikkei (A compendium to Soseki) issued by the journal Kokubungaku

(National literature) and

has the advantage of being more handsomely printed and bound (thus more readable) as well as very thorough in recording, issue by issue, all the critical works published on Soseki since 1988, including works in European languages and translations. Each issue centers on a certain theme or a particular work. The format of the journal includes a tripartite discussion (usually among Komori, Ishihara, and a special guest), a roundtable discussion, essay contributions, interviews, the editorial selection of the fifty "best" articles on a specific topic, and a list of current works on Soseki. 13. Komori Yoichi, "Kokoro 0 shosei suru haato" (The heart that creates Kokoro), and Ishihara Chiaki,"Kokoro no oidipus—hanten suru katari" (Kokoro's Oedipus: The inverted narrative), Seijd kokubungagku

1

(March 1985): 39-52,29-38. 14. See "Kokoro ronso iko" (Since the Kokoro debate), Soseki kenkyu 6 (1996): 156-195. 15. See "Natsume Soseki 0 megutte," 33. 16. See ibid., 43. 17. Mizumura Minae, Zoku Meian (Chikuma, 1990); Mizumura Minae, " 'Otoko to otoko' to 'otoko to onna'—Fujio no shi" ("Man and man" and "man and woman"—the death of Fujio), Hihyo ktikan 6 (July 1992): 158-177. See also Mizuta Noriko, "Tasha to shite no tsuma: Sensei no jisatsu to Shizu no fuko" (The wife as other: Sensei's suicide and Shizu's unhappiness), Sdseki kenkyu 6 (1996): 32-46; and Egusa Mitsuko, "Michikusa no ninshin, shussan 0 megutte" (Pregnancy and childbirth in Michikusa), Sdseki kenkyu 3 (1994): 102-107. 18. The following discussion is taken from the overview presented by Asada Akira in "Natsume Soseki 0 megutte," 6-8. 19. Eto Jun, Natsume Sdseki (1956; reprint, Nihontosho Sentaa, 1993). Karatani Kojin, "Ishiki to shizen" (Consciousness and nature) Gunzo, vol. 6 (1969), reprinted in Sosekiron shusei. Hasumi Shigehiko, Natsume Sdseki ron (Seidosha, 1978). 20. James Fujii, "Kokoro ni okeru shi, teikoku, soshite rekishi no tankyu"

200

Notes to Pages 1 1 - 1 3 (Death, empire, and the search for history in Natsume Sóseki's Kokoro), Bungaku 3, no. 4 (Fall 1992): 50-65. Fujii's argument was incorporated in his Complicit Fiction: The Subject in the Modern Japanese Prose

Narrative

(Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993). 21. For Hasumi's and Asada's comments on Fujii's work, see "Natsume Sóseki 0 megutte," 42. 22. There is no biography of Sóseki in English. Edwin McClellan's Two Japanese Novelists: Sóseki and Toson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968) remains the most readable account of Sóseki's life, especially his childhood (see esp. the introduction and other, scattered references). In Japanese, the most thorough and intelligent study I have read is Etó, Sóseki to sonojidai,

vols. 1-3, but even that is not a comprehensive biog-

raphy, and vol. 3 covers only the period before Sóseki became a full-time writer at Asahi Shimbun. Needless to say, all Japanese reference books on modern Japanese literature have an entry on Sóseki, and most (e.g., Nihon kindai bungaku daijiten, ed. Odagiri Susumu [Kódansha, 1990]) offer a detailed summary of his life and works. I myself often refer to Sóseki's letters, essays (especially Garasudo no naka), and Michikusa for biographical material, knowing perfectly well that these are literary works that present, not faithful life histories, but narrative personae.

Chapter 1

Strong Closures in the Early Novels

1. Toson's Hakai (The broken commandment; 1906) and Katai's Futon are in general considered the preeminent works of the naturalist school. 2. The language of the first chapter of Nowaki has the certainty and economy of such classic Chinese texts as the Analects. Certain passages display Sóseki's characteristic "reportorial" style—descriptions and moral judgments delivered with authority and precision. One example is the summary of reactions to Dóya's speech on the corrupting powers of money: "The employees of companies thought him impertinent. The village newspaper criticized [his speech] as the arrogant complaints of an incompetent teacher. His colleagues thought it foolish of him to do something so unnecessary, endangering his position in school. The principle admonished him for stirring up trouble in the relationship between the

Notes to Pages 14-19

201

village and the companies. The students, in whom Dôya placed his final hopes, echoed the opinions of the elders and called him an idiot. Dôya drifted away from Echigô" (Natsume Sôseki, Sôseki zenshii [hereafter sz], 17 vols. [Iwanami shoten, 1974], 2:634; unless otherwise stated, all quotations are taken from this edition and are my translations from the Japanese; volume and page numbers will hereafter be given in the text). 3. Two lectures that Sôseki delivered in 1911, "Bungei to dôtoku" (Literature and morality) and "Bungei to kyôiku" (Literary art and education), dwell on this theme. I discuss these lectures in chap. 3. 4. Sôseki questions the moral dictums of the past through the struggle of Daisuke in Sorekara. I discuss Sorekara in chap. 2. 5. See "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso" (The philosophical foundation of literary art), a public lecture that Sôseki delivered in 1906 at the Tokyo Institute of Art (sz, 11:30-96). I elaborate on this subject in chap. 3. 6. Kôko zasshi, which can be rendered in English as The World or The Public, is supposedly based on the journal Kôko bungaku (Literature of the public), established in November 1896 and published by Tetsugaku shoin. Kôko bungaku published articles on culture and current affairs and was well received, but it ceased publication after seven issues. 7. Etô points out that one of Sôseki's disciples, Morita Sôhei—whose edition of the complete works of Dostoyevsky Sôseki borrowed before writing Meian—fits the description of the dispossessed young man from the provinces (Natsume Sôseki ronshû, vol. 1 of Etô Jun bungaku shùsei [Kawade shobô shinsha, 1986], 114). 8. Ibid., 113. 9. Lionel Trilling, The Liberal Imagination (New York: Viking, 1950), 62. 10. The little song sung by Nakano's fiancée at the beginning of chap. 7 contains the image of the autumn wind (nowaki) that gives the novel its title. In the song, the autumn wind disrupts the clear demarcation of the divided world of black and white: White butterflies among white flowers Tiny butterflies among tiny flowers Tossed into confusion by the wind.

202

Notes to Pages 20 - 24 Long worries in long hair Dark worries in dark hair Tossed into confusion by the wind. The autumn wind blows in vain In this floating world of vanity White butterflies, black hair Tossed into confusion by the wind, (sz, 2:723,)

11. "Dostoevsky's politics were those of a man whose way of dealing with life rested on a fundamental belief that a true rebirth, a great conversion, can come only after a great sin" (R. B. Blackmur, quoted in Irving Howe, Politics and the Novel [1957; 2d ed., New York: Horizon, 1987], 55-56). 12. Irving Howe, introduction to The Idea of the Modern in Literature

and

the Arts, ed. Irving Howe (New York: Horizon, 1967), 15. 13. Natsume Soseki to Suzuki Miekichi, 26 October 1906, sz, 14:491-493, esp. 492. 14. It is not by chance that this idea can be traced back to Cao Pi (187-226), Emperor Wen of the Wei dynasty. In his essay "Lun wen" (On literature), which constitutes a chapter of his partially extant Dian lun (Classical treatise), Cao wrote: "Literature is an enterprise that governs the country, a splendid project that never ends" (Wen xuan [Taibei: Zhengzhong shuju, 1971], 52.6a-8a). 15. Nowaki's

didacticism finds its resonance in young, impressionable

Mushanokoji Saneatsu, who at that time was fervently pursuing the idea of humanism in the later thoughts of Tolstoy. After reading Nowaki, Mushanokoji wrote Shiga Naoya that he was impressed by the virtues of Nakano and his wife as well as by the unswerving dignity of Doya (letter of 7 January 1907, quoted in Nishigaki Tsutomu, "Soseki to Shirakaba ha," in Koza Natsume Soseki: Soseki nojidai to shakai, ed. Miyoshi Yukio et al., 5 vols. [Yuhikaku, 1982], 4:224-236). 16. See, e.g., the series of lectures he delivered sometime between April and June 1903 under the title "Eibungaku keishiki ron" (The form of English literature) at Tokyo Teikoku Daigaku. The lectures were transcribed by Minagawa Masayoshi (see sz, 16:301-366).

Notes to Pages 24-28

203

17. For biographical material, see Ara Masahito, Soseki kenkyu nenpyd, ed. Odagiri Hideo (Shueisha, 1984), 328-332. 18. See Furukawa Hisashi, "Kyoshi ka sakka ka" (Teacher or writer?), in Soseki no shokan (Tokyodo, 1972), 127, but see also 118-135. 19. See Ara, Soseki kenkyu nenpyd, 447. kyukata

is a summer robe tradi-

tionally worn in spas or bathhouses. 20. Serialization in the Osaka Asahi ended on 28 October. Soseki actually completed Gubijinso sometime between 31 August and 2 September (see Ara, Soseki kenkyu nenpyd, 459,455). In a letter dated 4 June to Noma Matsune, Soseki declined a wedding invitation, saying, "I will be occupied with the production of Gubijinso from today onward, so I most likely will not be able to go" (sz, 14:583). 21. Yoshida Sei'ichi, "Dokusoteki na jikken shosetsu" (An experimental novel of individual style), in Natsume Soseki zenshii, vol. 4 (Chikuma shobo, 1988), 666. Eto Jun, "Shokugyo sakka Soseki no tanjo" (The birth of the professional writer Soseki), in Ketteiban Natsume Soseki (1979; Shincho bunko, 1986), 75. Karaki Junzo comments that Gubijinso is a "torrent of beautiful words and phrases" (quoted in Hiraoka Toshio, "Gubijinso ron," in Soseki josetsu [Hanawa shobo, 1976], 137). 22. This closing scene turns the traditional felicitous "grand reunion" in Chinese drama on its head. 23. Kanzen choaku, which translates literally as "encouraging virtue and chastising vice," is a form of moral judgment that leads to a didactic reading of literary texts. Gubijinso has invited such readings, a number of them extremely rigid. A contemporary of Soseki's, Togawa Shukotsu, commended the moral teaching at the end of Gubijinso, especially at a time when novels of flesh and love (nikujd shosetsu) abounded (Tokyo Asahi, 17 December 1907, quoted in Yoshida, "Dokusoteki na jikken shosetsu," 670). According to Okazaki Yoshie, Fujio and her mother represent the ego, Kono and the Munechikas represent heaven, and Fujio's death, like Shylock's downfall in The Merchant of Venice, is a punishment from heaven (Soseki to sokuten kyoshi [Soseki and following heaven, eliminating the ego] [Hobunkan, 1968], 134). For a summary of the views of critics (including Masamune Hakucho and Komiya Toyotaka) who saw Gubijinso as a tale of kanzen choaku, see Hiraoka,"Gubijinso ron," esp.

204

Notes to Pages 30-35 137-141. See also Oketani Hideaki, "Kanzen chòaku to seikaku byòsha: Nowaki, Gubijinsó"

(Encouraging virtue, chastising vice, and characteri-

zation in Nowaki and Gubijinsó), in Natsume Sóseki ron (Kawade shobò, 1972), 58-80. 24. The gold watch is the object intended for the one who will continue the K5no line through marriage. 25. Like Pip in Great Expectations,

Ono is afraid of reverting to poverty after

being made half a gentleman: "Ono took his eyes away from the sensei's lusterless face and stared at his own knees. The cuffs were starched white. A smooth, faint red gleam shone in the green of the cloisonné cufflinks that were snugly set in an extravagant gold frame. The material of his suit was fine-quality English weave. When he actually looked carefully at himself with his own eyes, Ono all of a sudden became aware of the kind of place fit for him" (sz, 3:274-275). 26. The word used here is tóen, the fountain of the peach blossoms, an allusion to the blissful and unworldly realm described in

Taohuayuan

ji (A record of the peach blossom spring), written by the fourth-century Chinese poet and essayist Tao Qian, whose works Sóseki admired. 27. Sóseki on occasions writes kanshi in the language of the gongti shi. One example would be "A Poem in the Old-Style on Separation" (1888), which reads in part as follows: The tower above the green water of the River

Shang,

The moonlight that shines through the rolled blind, Her sleeves, the fragrance of roses, The jasper cup, a thousand pieces of gold, Slender is her form when she plays the purple flute As she leans on the veranda, silent tears fill her eyes, (sz, 12:402-403) 28. These works were collected in Yókyoshu (1905). 29. One feature of the poetry of Wang Wei (699?~76I?) and Tao Qian (365-427) is the depiction of the quiet beauty of nature in simple language. For example, Wang Wei's "Deer Park" reads: "Empty hills, without a soul, / Only the echoes of words, / The evening light shining into the deep woods I Illumining the green moss" (Chùgoku shijin senshii:

Notes to Pages 35-37

205

Wang Wei [Iwanami, 1958], 45). Soseki writes kanshi (Chinese poetry) that alludes to Wang's and Tao's poetry. For a more detailed discussion of Soseki's kanshi, see chap. 6. 30. According to Ronald C. Miao, palace-style poetry is a thematic designation for Chinese verse centered on the life of the imperial residence. Such poetry may include such varied but related subject matter as court functions and ceremonies, objects of palace art and architecture, landscape, and the most glamorous of fixtures within the harem or "forbidden interior," the palace lady ("Palace Style Poetry: The Courtly Treatment of Glamour and Love," in Studies in Chinese Poetry and Poetics, vol. 1, ed. Ronald C. Miao [San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1978], 1-42). 31. Fujio's sudden death has been a matter of debate among Japanese critics. Karatani Kojin, e.g., suggests that she is eliminated to demonstrate an ideology (rinen), that of kanzen choaku. Precisely because an ideology as such gives form to the inexpressible through imagination, Soseki holds on to the ideology out of pathological necessity. Once again, Karatani sees Soseki as a theorist whose theory governs his creative impulse, and I have reservations about this argument (see Karatani et al., Soseki oyomu, 26-30). Mizuta Noriko's feminist reading argues that, since Fujio's mother schemes to get rid of her stepson and have Fujio inherit the family name and wealth, Fujio's death can be read as the stepson's revenge on the stepmother ("Gubijinso ni okeru Soseki no Fujio koroshi ni tsuite," Kokubungaku

42, no. 6 [May 1997]: 102-111). For Mizu-

mura's interpretation of Fujio's death, see n. 32 immediately below. 32. Mizumura ("'Otoko to otoko' to 'otoko to onna') points out that the language that describes Fujio is that which is used for the description of enchantresses ( y o f u ) , favored courtesans, beloved concubines, and queens. Such female characters are associated with killing men and ruining nations; thus, it is only a matter of course that they come to a bad end. I agree with Mizumura that the language that constitutes Fujio determines her fate. 33. There is reason to believe that, of all the characters in Gubijinso, Soseki identifies most closely with Kono. A poem he wrote and liked is partially included in chap. 4 of Gubijinso as part of Kono's diary. It reads: "Life and death, cause and effect—an endless cycle. / In this world of phe-

206

Notes to Pages 38-41 nomena, madness and foolishness come into play" (sz, 2:64). In a letter to Suge Torao, he said, "This poem is a good work I wrote when I was abroad, and I think, along with my calligraphy, it can be passed down to future ages, so I am sending it to you" (sz, 14:249).

34. Kingo is Kono's given name. 35. The snake is commonly associated with sexuality and desire in both Eastern and Western literature, such as the snake in the Adam and Eve story, the Legend of the White Snake (Baishe zhuan) in Chinese literature, and the Ddjdji legend in Japanese literature. In the context of Soseki's works, the snake is a sexual symbol in Higan sugi made (the walking stick with a snake head) and Kdjin (Nao is compared to a green snake [aodaisho]). 36. In an informal talk entitled "Senmonteki keiko" (senmonteki is glossed as "special" in katakana, thus the title translates as "Special Tendencies"), published in Kokumin shimbun (7 October 1908), Soseki comments on the depiction of human desires by naturalist writers: "In the beginning they were content just writing about love [rabu], but they became dissatisfied and began to write about adultery and incest between siblings. When even that becomes stale, they start writing about incest between parent and child" (sz, 16:622). 37. Hiraoka Toshio pointed out that Itoko is the ideal image of a sister, quoting the passage in which Munechika and Itoko discuss Fujio to illustrate their rapport, but he did not emphasize the intimacy between them ("Gubijinso ron: Jiga to kyoko 0 megutte" [On Gubijinso: Self and fabrication], in Soseki kenkyu [Yuseido, 1987], 255-274). While the act of incest is not suggested, there is still an almost exclusive and impenetrable closeness between them whenever they are together. Tsuda and Ohide in Meian are another set of siblings whose relationship suggests incest. 38. Soseki states his view on didactic literature, especially in relation to Gubijinso, in "Yo no egakan to hossuru sakuhin" (Works that I want to write), Shincho (1 February 1909), reprinted in sz, 16:654-657,657. 39. Masamune Hakucho, "Natsume Soseki ron," in Masamune Hakucho shu, Chikuma gendai bungaku taikei (Chikuma, 1977), 11:326.

Notes to Pages 42-45 Chapter 2

207

A Parody of Forms: Adventures in Narrative in Kofu

and Sorekara 1. Examples of such theoretical treatises abound in Western literature: the last two hundred years alone have given us Shelley's Defence of Poetry (1821), James' The Art of Fiction (1884), Forster's Some Aspects of the Novel (1927), Eliot's The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism (1933), and Robbe-Grillet's For a New Novel (1963). In Meiji Japan, the theoretical acumen of writers is evident in Tsubouchi Shoyo's Shosetsu shinzui (The essence of the novel; 1886), Futabatei Shimei's Shosetsu soron (An introduction to novels; 1886), and the critical writings and lectures of Soseki. 2. I am tempted to borrow Harold Bloom's term and call Soseki a strong poet for his undeniable boldness and creativity, but I hesitate to do so since that would also imply his comfortable fit among the company of those who, in Bloom's words, "make [poetic] history by misreading one another" and "wrestle with their strong precursors, even to the death" (The Anxiety of Influence [1973; New York: Oxford University Press, 1975], 5). Soseki never hesitated to identify his precursors and displayed no anxiety in reinterpreting existing literary traditions. 3. Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (1966; London: Oxford University Press, 1968), 129. 4. "We might say that it was not because he had given up on theory that Soseki became involved with creative writing—but rather that [it was] his theory that gave birth to his fiction" (Karatani Kojin, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, 17). I harbor reservations about the absoluteness of Karatani's assertion, but, of all of Soseki's novels, Kofu most demonstrates the theoretical mind at work behind the fiction. 5. See Jay Rubin, afterword to Natsume Soseki, The Miner, trans. Jay Rubin (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1988), and "The Evil and the Ordinary in Soseki's Fiction," in The World of Natsume Soseki, ed. Iijima Takehisa and James M. Vardaman Jr. (Tokyo: Kinseido, 1987). (Unless otherwise stated, all quotations from Kofu are taken from Rubin's translation, although the corresponding citation from sz is given for the reader's convenience. Page numbers are given in the text.) 6. The Japanese compound for savage is domo, which can also be trans-

208

Notes to Pages 46-49 lated as "bestial," and both characters in the compound are written with a beast radical. This compound, which becomes almost an epithet for the miners, is used close to ten times in the succeeding two pages, and the miners are also called "animals" (chikushdme), "beasts of machinery" (kikai no kedamono), and "half-human half-beast" (hanju hanjirt) (sz, 3:554,568,569).

7. Jay Rubin, afterword to The Miner, 176. 8. Karatani Kojin, Ifu suru ningen (Individuals who fear) (Tojusha, 1972), 80. 9. According to Edwin McClellan, "Just as Sanshiro is only potentially a tragic figure, so is Soseki at this point only potentially a tragic writer" (Two Japanese Novelists, 34). 10. Rubin tends to suppress the poetic quality of descriptive passages like this because it does not fit with the tone and vocabulary of the narrator, who often reminds us that he is no writer. 11. A padded dressing gown (in the shape of a kimono), often used as a nightgown. 12. In the surrounding passages, words with a poetic and antiquated ring are used, such as miyako (capital),yadonashi (homeless), and michizure (traveling companions). 13. Teikai shumi is sometimes rendered as "dilettantism," but "the poetics of lingering" seems to me a more appropriate way to express the aesthetic nature of the term. Hiraoka Toshio argues that Gubijinso is based on the theoretical discourse in "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso" and that Kofu is based on "Keito jo." I think that he overstates the direct correspondence, but he presents a clear discussion of the poetics of lingering (see "Gubijinso kara Kofu Sanshiro e: Teikai shumi to sui'i shumi" [From Gubijinso to Kofu and Sanshiro: The poetics of lingering and the poetics of change], in Soseki josetsu, 159-194, esp. 159-164). 14. After using the tentative daro concerning the intention of a decision made in his youthful past, the narrator continues, saying, "I know it's a little strange for me to be writing about myself in this tentative way, as though I were someone not myself, but humans are such inconsistent beings that we can't say anything for certain about them—even when they're us. And when it comes to past events, it's even worse: there's

Notes to Pages 49 -60

209

no distinguishing between ourselves and other people. The best we can say is 'probably' or 'apparently'" (Rubin, 10; sz, 3:445-446). 15. In the text of "Kofu no sakui," Soseki attaches the reading of "personal affair" in katakana to the phrase kojin

nojijo.

16. I hasten to add that there is considerable separation in time between the writer and the narrator, which is crucial to the lyricism of Haru. 17. "Shaseibun" appeared in the 20 January 1908 issue of Yomiuri

shimbun.

For a s u m m a r y of different views of shasei, see Kumasaka Atsuko, "Soseki to Asahi bungeiran: Shaseibun ron no tenkai," in Koza

Natsume

Soseki, 4:269. Masaoka Shiki, e.g., considers shasei as depicting something as it is (ari no mama); Takahama Kyoshi thinks that shasei should be a mixture of objective depiction and imagination, a balance between objectivity and subjectivity (see Masaoka Shiki, "Jojibun," Nippon, 29 January 1900,203; and Takahama Kyoshi, "Jyunigatsu no hyoron," Hototogisu, January 1910). 18. For Karatani's argument, see Karatani et al., Soseki oyomu,

21.

19. See Shimada Masahiko, Soseki 0 kaku (Iwanami shinsho, 1993), esp. 62-74, the chapter on Kofu. 20. See Rubin, "The Evil and the Ordinary in Soseki's Fiction," 71. 21. See the excellent arguments of Kubo Tadao in "Soseki to shizen kagaku" (Soseki and the natural sciences), in Koza Natsume Soseki, 5:202-235, esp. 220-222, the section "Baku museikakuron" (In arguing against the theory of the nonexistence of character). 22. A hanten is a workman's short coat. The incongruous contrast with the dotera, a padded nightgown, makes Chozo comical. 23. "Seikaku wa consistent naru yori wa katsudo suru ho ga yoi. [Cjonsistent de shinda character wa yoku aru. Mujun shite katsudo suru no m o aru" ("Tanpen" [Fragments; 1910], in sz, 13:519; the English words appear in the original). 24. Alain Robbe-Grillet, "On Several Obsolete Notions," in For a New Novel: Essays on Fiction (1963; Evanston, 111.: Northwestern University Press, 1989), 27. 25. Paul Anderer points out the parody of this form of writing in his review of Rubin's translation, The Miner (Journal of Japanese Studies 16, no. 1 [Winter 1990]: 140-142).

210

Notes to Pages 6 0 - 6 2

26. At a symposium on Soseki's works organized by Child koron, many critics expressed their reservations about Kofu (see Chuo korort [March 1908]: 34-57; and the discussion of these critical views in Rubin, "The Evil and the Ordinary in Soseki's Fiction," 60-61). 27. Rubin, afterword to The Miner, 181. 28. In a similar move, the writer-narrator of Kofu denies that he is writing a novel: "That's all there is to my experience as a miner. And every bit of it is true, which you can tell from the fact that this book never did turn into a novel" (Rubin, 161; sz, 3:674). 29. While Robbe-Grillet picks up on the negative connotations of the term— "the word ' a v a n t - g a r d e ' . . . despite its note of impartiality, generally serves to dismiss—as though by a shrug of the shoulders—any work that risks giving a bad conscience to the literature of mass consumption. Once a writer recreates his own way of writing, he finds himself stuck with the label 'avant-garde'" (For a New Novel, 26)—Rubin focuses instead on the positive. In describing Kofu as avant-garde, he attempts to create the impression that Kofu is superior to Soseki's other novels. But can any work of art be judged fairly by the sole criterion of whether it is avant-garde? Referring to Rubin's claim, Anderer comments, "Without a discussion of what the avant-garde ca. 1908 more generally represented (did any such thing functionally exist in Japan prior to the 1960's?), it is hard to accept The Miner as an avant-garde experiment, if easy to agree with Rubin that this is a stubbornly unorthodox book" (review of The Miner, 141). 30. In an announcement in the Asahi shimbun dated 21 June 1909, a week before Sorekara was serialized, Soseki writes, "The novel is entitled And Then for various reasons: first, Sanshird was about a university student and now this is about what then followed; secondly, the hero of Sanshird was very simple-minded but this one is beyond that stage; and thirdly, in this novel some strange fate befalls him, but nothing is said about what will then follow" (sz, 11:500; translated and quoted in Beongcheon Yu, Natsume Soseki [New York: Twayne, 1969], 80). 31. Soseki attributes to Daisuke certain activities that he himself is known to have undertaken, such as the reading and criticism of Morita Sohei's Bai'en. In a letter to Kuroyanagi Kaishu of 26 July 1909, Soseki admits that there are reasons for Kuroyanagi to think that Daisuke is Soseki

Notes to Pages 62-68

211

himself, but he points out that there is considerable discrepancy between the character and himself, especially in the area of adultery (see sz, 14:770). 32. Earl Miner et al., The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese

Litera-

ture (1985; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988), 279. 33. C. Andrew Gerstle, Circles of Fantasy: Convention in the Plays of Chikamatsu (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), 63. 34. Mushanokoji Saneatsu, "Sorekara ni tsuite," Shirakaba 1 (April 1910): 1-16. 35. "To say that Sorekara is a canal is quite a wonderful comparison" (Soseki to Mushanokoji, 30 March 1910, sz, 14:817). 36. James Brandon, introduction to Kabuki: Five Classic Plays, trans. James Brandon (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975), 25. 37. Norma M. Field, trans. And Then (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978); sz, 4:360. (All quotations from Sorekara are taken from Field's translation, although the corresponding citation from sz is given for the reader's convenience.) 38. "As a child, Daisuke was possessed of a violent temper and, at eighteen or nineteen, had even come to blows with his father once or twice. But time passed and soon after he finished school, his temper had suddenly subsided. Since then, he had never once been angry" (Field, 23; sz, 4:34i)39. Emura Akira points out this interesting combination ("Sakuhin ni arawareta Soseki no Nihon kindaikakan: Sorekara 0 chushin to shite" [Soseki's perception of the modernization of Japan as seen in his works: Focusing on Sorekara], in Kdza Natsume Soseki, 4:25-51). 40. T. S. Eliot, Preludes, in Collected Poems, 1909-1962

(New York: Harcourt,

Brace & World, 1970), 15. 41. John Gardner argues that, in the works of Homer, Dante, and Tolstoy, art's morality is derived from divine goodness but that, as the world becomes "ungodded," art comes to express a "lingering religious feeling" in nature—mountains, lakes, panthers—as in Wordsworth or "some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing" as in T. S. Eliot's Preludes (On Moral Fiction [1977; New York: Basic, 1978], 34-36). Gardner calls this lingering religious feeling an "ardent wish," which is close to Daisuke's search for something lost in Sorekara, although I have no

212

Notes to Pages 68-78 intention of comparing Soseki's philosophical or religious standpoints to Eliot's or situating Soseki among the Romantic and post-Romantic writers in the Western canon.

42. For a discussion of the love-suicides plays, see Gerstle, Circles of Fantasy, chap. 5,113-153, esp. 113-118. 43. This discussion is partially inspired by the thoughtful analysis of faith and incertitude in Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life in Men and in Peoples, trans. J. E. Crawford Flitch (London: Macmillan, 1926). 44. A Latin phrase that Michiyo's brother uses as a sobriquet for Daisuke (sz, 4:561-562). 45. At one point, Daisuke even draws a parallel between himself and Kadono. When, in response to a question from Umeko, Daisuke catches himself repeating a noncommittal phrase that Kadono frequently uses, sonna mono desho ka (Is that right?), he comments, "Every time I come here, I end up feeling like Kadono" (Field, 32; sz, 4:352). 46. Hiraoka prefigures the self-pitying, mean, and anguished soul Kobayashi in Meian. These are the characters that Eto Jun calls the "illegitimate children of enlightenment and civilization"—as well educated and intelligent as the children of the privileged class but forced to remain on the margins of society (Natsume Soseki ronshu, 113). 47. See Yu, Natsume Soseki, 92. 48. Soseki calligraphed the phrase sokuten kyoshi without explaining its meaning. According to Matsuoka Yuzuru's Shiikydteki mondo (Religious questions and answers; 1932), Soseki supposedly uttered those words in a meeting of the Mokuyokai ( the Thursday Club) in November 1915, saying that sokuten kyoshi amounts to the idea of "getting rid of the ego" (shoga no watashi 0 satte) and acting out the will of the larger and collective humanity (daiga) (see Nihon bungakushi jiten: Kingendai hen, ed. Miyoshi Yukio, Yamada Kenkichi, and Yoshida Sei'ichi [Kadokawa shoten, 1982-1987], 110). It is clear neither that Soseki in fact uttered those words nor that, if he did, his explanation of what they mean can be credited, but these four calligraphed characters have assumed a disproportionate importance in many critical discussions of Soseki's works. For a brief history of the debates surrounding the idea of sokuten kyoshi, see Aihara Kazukuni, "Meian to sokuten kyoshi" (Meian and the idea of sokuten kyoshi), in Soseki bungaku—sono

hydgen to shiso (Hanawa

Notes to Pages 79-84

213

shobo, 1980), 262-277. Eto Jun is one of the major critics who sets out to demystify the notion of sokuten kyoshi (see "Soseki shinwa to sokuten kyoshi" [The Soseki myth and sokuten kyoshi], in Ketteiban

Natsume

Soseki, 11-19). 49. She points in particular to the surrealistic train rides at night and the morbid images of death (see Norma Field, afterword to And Then, 274). 50. Barbara E. Thornbury, Sukerokus Double Identity: The Dramatic Structure ofEdo Kabuki, Michigan Papers in Japanese Studies, no. 6 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1982), 20-21,27-28.

Chapter 3

The Critic, the Teacher, and the Writer

1. I am using the word writer to refer to one who acknowledges the artfulness of language and uses it in fiction, zuihitsu (essays), poetry, etc., instead of simply in historiography and criticism. In the course of the chapter, I will refer to Soseki as a writer, novelist, or artist when appropriate, but always meaning fundamentally one who uses language to create art. 2. Between 1895 and 1900, Soseki taught for two years in a middle school in Matsuyama and three years in Kumamoto. After returning from England in 1902, he taught at Dai'ichi Koto Gakko and Tokyo Imperial University as a lecturer in English. He published his first novel, Wagahai wa neko de aru (I am a cat), in 1905. In 1907, he quit his university position and joined Asahi Shimbun as a professional writer. He died in 1916. 3. In much the same way, the English Romantic poets sensed the importance of the times through which they were living, and many shouldered the responsibility of the artist to give voice to the ideas of the Revolutionary era. Shelley's Defence of Poetry, e.g., champions the imagination over reason; Wordsworth also comes to mind. 4. There is no doubt that naturalist writers pursued a variety of styles, but they share a common bond in their interest in depicting daily life instead of some fantastic world peopled by allegorical characters, and their language, in general, is unadorned. 5. As Edward Fowler points out, "In Tokugawa Japan, the ideal writer was the scholar-sage—a man like Ogyu Sorai (1666-1728) or Arai Hakuseki (1657-1725), who pondered the problems of correct living

214

Notes to Pages 8 4 - 90 and correct government through the study of history. Their treatises are unabashedly didactic. Society looked to them for moral pronouncements just as naturally as it looked to craftsmen or fishermen for the specialized services they rendered" (The Rhetoric of Fiction: Shishosetsu in Early Twentieth-Century

Japanese Fiction [Berkeley and Los Angeles:

University of California Press, 1988], 190-191). 6. Shiga Naoya zenshu (Iwanami shoten, 1973), vol. 10, quoted in Ara, Soseki kenkyu nenpyd, 444-445. 7. Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984), 63,66-67. Rubin quotes Hasegawa's article more extensively (the passage was originally in English). See also ibid., 291 n. 31. 8. The phrase Soseki used is "Meiji no yo ni shosetsu-rashiki shosetsu" (Soseki to Morita Shohei, 1908, sz, 14:388). 9. The word heroism appears in English in the original text. 10. Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1968), 12. The concept of taste—particularly as taste is affected by the sensibilities and experience of the individual—is central to the Western understanding of art in the eighteenth century. 11. Soseki's attempts at close reading are infrequent and often purely analytic. In "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso," he devotes about five pages to a discussion of one line in Shakespeare's King Lear: "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." He dissects the words uneasy, lies, and head to determine whether the line describes a mental or physical state (sz, 11:80-84). Compared with such efforts as this, his abstract criticism is more effective in synthesizing. 12. The story that Soseki summarily dismissed, "Shellfish for Monsieur Chabre" (1876), concerns an old man who hopes eagerly for his young wife to conceive. He is told by the doctor that she should eat a certain kind of shell. He takes her to the seaside, where she encounters a young man she likes, and, one day, when the three of them are walking by the sea, the two young people enter a cave, leaving the old man outside. Just then the tide rolls in, and it takes quite some time for the young people to emerge from the cave. Shortly afterward, the old man is overjoyed to

Notes to Pages 90 - 92

215

learn that his wife is pregnant, thinking that the "shell remedy" really worked. For Sóseki on Ibsen, Maupassant, and Zola, see sz, 11:72-77. 13. In notes taken in English in 1907, Sóseki wrote, —The tendency of modern art—the true, ugly truth Hedda Gabler, Othello, Zola, —Succession of

Maupassant.

consciousness—choice—ideals

Ideals in art and literature differentiated

into 4.

4 ideals to be differentiated ad infinitum Choosing one ideal, neglects all others Is dark, gloomy unpleasantness excusable when one small ideal is reached?" ("Tanpen," sz, 13:263-264). These notes set out the central argument in "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso" as well as his principle objection to the emphasis on "objective reality" in naturalism. 14. For Sóseki's discussion of these stories, see "Kinsaku shósetsu nisan ni tsuite" (On several recent novels), which appeared in the 1 June 1908 issue of Shinshosetsu (sz, 16:584-589; see esp. 584-586). 15. Compare Shelley: "Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in p a i n . . . . The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself" (A Defence of Poetry, in The Belles Lettres Series: Literary and Critical Theory, ed. C. H. Herford [Boston, 1911], 4:45). 16. See "Shaseibun" (Literary sketches; 1908), in sz, 11:24-25; my discussion of Kdfu in relation to shaseibun in chap. 2 above; and Karatani's argument for the shaseibun quality of Kdfu in Karatani et al., Sóseki oyomu, 21. 17. The passage in question reads: I sat on the moss. Thinking that from now on I was going to wait for a hundred years, I folded my arms and stared at the round

tombstone.

Before long, as the woman had said, the sun rose from the east. It was a big, scarlet sun. And then, again as she had said, it finally sank into the west. In blazing red it rolled off the horizon. "One," I counted. After some time, the crimson sun again rose heavily from the sky. And then silently it sank. "Two," I counted." (sz, 8:34)

216

Notes to Pages 9 2 - 9 4

18. The description of the buncho reads as follows: The eyes of the buncho were jet black. Surrounding

its eyelids were

delicate streaks of faint red that appeared like silk filaments. Every time it winked, the silk filaments promptly gathered into a single thread. And before I knew it, its eyes would become round

again....

. . . How splendid were the feet that stood lightly on the perch! Its slender claws of light red edged with the shavings of pearls firmly wrapped around the handy perch...."(sz,

8:18-19)

19. See Ooka Shohei, Shosetsuka Natsume Soseki (1988; Chikuma shobo, 1989), 106. 20. Furukawa, Soseki no shokan, 280. 21. The Mokuyokai was a gathering of students and disciples that met regularly from October 1906 until November 1916, a month before Soseki's death (see Nihon bungakushijiten,

ed. Miyoshi et a l , 109).

22. "Are you studying? Are you writing something? You must see yourselves as the writers of the new era. I, too, see that as your future. Go ahead, be great. But you must not be impatient. It is important for you to push on single-mindedly like an o x . . . " (Soseki to Akutagawa and Kume Masao, 21 August 1916, sz, 15:575). Again, "No matter what, it is crucial to become like an ox. We all tend to want to become like horses, but there is something in an ox that is more than what we can be. Even an old experienced man like me only amounts to something like a cross between an ox and a horse n o w . . . . You must not be i m p a t i e n t . . . . Push forward with a groan until you die. That's all there is. The ox pushes forward with a detached air . . . " (Soseki to Akutagawa and Kume Masao, 24 August 1916, sz, 15:580). Akutagawa Ryunosuke and Kume Masao attended the meetings of the Mokuyokai in its later years. 23. See "Watashi no kojin shugi," chap. 34 of Garasudo no naka (1915), in sz, 8:493-496, esp. 496. "Watashi no kojin shugi" was delivered at Gakushu'in in November 1914. 24. An example of his sternness would be his refusal to smile in front of the camera (see chap. 2 of Garasudo no naka, in sz, 8:417-418). 25. The rambling delivery is also seen in Wagahai wa neko de aru. And something of the public speaker—such as direct appeals to the audience

Notes to Pages 94 - 97 (shokunyo shokun)—can

217

be found in the style of Dóya's public lecture

in Nowaki. 26. Judging from the marginal notes in the texts of Soseki's personal collection of William James' works, Ogura Shüzó (Natsume Sóseki: William James juyó no shühen [Yóseidó, 1989]) concludes that Sóseki had closely read The Principles of Psychology (1902), The Varieties of Religious

Expe-

rience (1902), and A Pluralistic Universe (1909). I do not discuss the influence of James on Sóseki, as that demands a separate study, referring the reader instead to Ogura's illuminating book. See also Harue M. Summersgill, "The Influence of William James and Henri Bergson on Natsume Soseki's Higan sugi made," in Kyushu American

Literature

22 (May 1981): 5-17. 27. A comparable move on James' part would be, "I mean to give a whole lecture to the statement of [the theory of truth], after first paving the way, so I can be very brief now. But brevity is hard to follow, so I ask for your redoubled attention for a quarter of an hour. If much remains obscure, I hope to make it clearer in the later lectures" (The Moral Philosophy of William James [New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1969], 280-281). 28. Ara, Sóseki kenkyü nenpyd, 692. 29. In speaking of "romantic literature," Sóseki is most likely referring to heroic romances of the past, such as Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, rather than the poetry of Wordsworth, Keats, or Shelley or of the Japanese romantic poets of the journals Bungakkai or Myojo. Among his own literary creations, Kairokó can be considered "romantic" in that the character of Elaine embodies the ideals of chastity and purity. 30. Abstract formalism and deconstruction have shifted the emphasis of postmodern literary criticism onto the play of the language of the text, indirectly giving rise to a resistance to discussing the ethical content and implications of literature and its power over the decisions and judgments one makes in daily life. As Wayne C. Booth argues, "Many critics today still resist any effort to tie 'art' to 'life,' the 'aesthetic' to the 'practical.' Indeed, when I began this project I thought that ethical criticism was as unfashionable as most current theories would lead one to expect. When I first read . . . Fredric Jameson's claim in The Political

Uncon-

scious that the predominant mode of criticism in our time is the ethi-

218

Notes to Pages 9 8 - 1 0 0 c a l . . . , I thought he was just plain wrong. But as I have looked further, I have had to conclude that he is quite r i g h t . . . . I am thinking more of the way in which even those critics who work hard to purge themselves of all but the most abstract formal interests turn out to have an ethical program in m i n d — a belief that a given way of reading, or a given kind of genuine literature, is what will do us most good" (The Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction [Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988], 5).

31. Nanette Twine, "The Essence of the Novel," Occasional Paper no. 11 (University of Queensland, Department of Japanese, 1981), 78 (translating Tsubouchi Shoyo, Shosetsu shinzui, in Gendai Nihon bungaku

taikei

[hereafter GNBT] [Chikuma, 1971], 1:222). (Unless otherwise specified, all translations of Shosetsu shinzui are taken from Twine, although the corresponding page numbers in the GNBT are given for the reader's convenience.) 32. He uses the examples of Ikku's Hizakurige and Kinga's Shichi

henjin—

both of which are outstanding works among pre-Restoration novels but fall far short of the standards of the "true" novel because they contain so much bawdy dialogue. He contrasts these works with Dickens' Pickwick Papers, which he considers pure comedy but which, he adds, contains no hint of indecency in either plot or language since its wit is not founded on bawdiness (see Twine, 78; GNBT, 1:222). 33. Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957), 10. 34. Although he has not specifically identified what he has in mind when he refers to naturalism, it is most likely the works of Toson, Katai, and Shusei, while what he considers "romantic" works most likely include Kyokutei Bakin's Nanso Satomi

hakkenden.

35. This comment is made in connection with the discussion of selfexamination in Freud's time. Gay adds, "What Rousseau in his painfully frank Confessions and the young Goethe in his self-lacerating and self-liberating Sorrows of Young Werther had sown in the eighteenth century, the decades of Byron and Stendhal, of Nietzsche and William James, reaped in the nineteenth. Thomas Carlyle perceptively spoke of 'these Autobiographical times of o u r s ' " (Peter Gay, Freud: A Life for Our Time [New York: Anchor, 1989], 129).

Notes to Pages 103 - 1 1 6

219

36. Taking his theory to the extreme, Soseki adds that the work of a geisha is probably the most "other-oriented" occupation since she exerts herself solely for the sake of others in making a living. 37. In the illuminating essay "Bunmei kaika to bunmei hihyo" (in Ketteiban Natsume Soseki, 20-31; see esp. 26-28), Eto Jun says that, except for a few exceptions, modern Japanese literature since the Meiji is no more than a footnote to Western literature since the nineteenth century. Those exceptions are works by Futabatei, Soseki, Ogai, and Kafu, all of whom Eto calls bunmei hihydka (critics of enlightenment). 38. Futabatei Shimei, "Watakushi wa kaigiha da" (I am a skeptic), in GNBT, 1:379-80. 39. Futabatei Shimei, "Yo ga hansho no zange," in GNBT, 1:383,386. 40. The naniwa-bushi

is a type of narrative ballad rhythmically intoned to

shamisen accompaniment. For a more detailed definition, see Kodansha Encyclopedia

of Japan (Kodansha, 1983), 5:328. The nagauta is a long

epic poem. 41. Nagai Kafu, Kafu zuihitsushu (1986; Iwanami bunko, 1990), 2:9. Sensei is used here as a respectful appellation for a gentleman. 42. "Mihatenu yume" is a story that Kafu himself wrote. Kafu frequently uses this technique of attributing his own works to his characters, thus blurring the distinction between author and character. In "Bokuto kidan," e.g., he attributes the authorship of both "Shotaku" and "Mihatenu yume" to the character Oe Tadasu. 43. Of the man of letters as hero, Thomas Carlyle says, "Whence he came, whither he is bound, by what ways he arrived, by what he might be furthered on his course, no one asks. He is an accident in society. He wanders like a wild Ishmaelite, in a world of which he is as the spiritual light, either the guidance or the misguidance" ("The Hero as Man of Letters," in Selected Writings, ed. Alan Shelston [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971], 240). 44. See Fukae Hiroshi, Soseki to Nihon no kindai (Ofusha, 1983), 112. 45. Note also the very personal nature of the 1914 lecture "Watashi no kojin shugi" (sz, 11:431-463), especially when Soseki speaks about his personal history. 46. My discussion of Carlyle and Arnold is inspired by the piercing analyses

220

Notes to Page 117 in Raymond Williams, Culture and Society: 1780-1950

(1958; 2d ed., New

York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 71-86,110-129. 47. Perhaps T. S. Eliot sums it up most succinctly: "Arnold was not Dryden or Johnson; he was an Inspector of Schools and he became Professor of Poetry" (The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism: Studies in the Relation of Criticism to Poetry in England [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1964] 102). As both Williams and Eliot have pointed out, Arnold turns poetry into a surrogate for religion. He believes that poetry can "save us" by setting a standard of "beauty, and of human nature perfect on all sides" (quoted in Williams, Culture and Society, 121; see also Eliot, The Use of Poetry, 95-112). 48. See sz, 13:230. 49. Eliot, The Use of Poetry, 111. 50. His article "Shosetsukai" (The world of novels; 1906) in the Waseda literary column set up three categories of novels: shizen (naturalistic), shajitsu (realistic), and haikai (haikai poetry-like). The first category includes works by Toson and Katai, the third category his own. Certainly, Kusamakura

(The three-cornered world; 1906) and the novellas

collected under the title Yokyoshu, which includes the fantastic and highly ornate Arthurian legends of Moboroshi no tate and Kairoko as well as the eerie Ichiya (One night), Rondon To (London Tower), and Koto no sorane (The sound of the koto), reveal his romantic flair. Indeed, the Yomiuri shimbun (February 1905) called Rondon To a work that "enters the realm of poetry, mystery, and spirits" (quoted in Yoshida Sei'ichi, "Shizenshugi to Soseki," in Natsume Soseki: Nihon bungaku

kenkyu

shiryo sosho, 3 vols. [Yuseido, 1970-1985], 99-107). But how is one to categorize Wagahai wa neko de aru and Botchan? 51. Eto Jun ("Shinkei suijaku to Bungakuron" Bungakuron],

[Nervous prostration and

in Ketteiban Natsume Soseki, 40-49) calls Bungakuron

a

"deformed child" (kikeiji), neither scholarly work nor literary criticism. Although Soseki began the project in 1902 during his sojourn in London, its progress was interrupted by periods of nervous prostration, and the work was not published until 1907. Eto points out that, in it, Soseki discusses literature from a sociologist's point of view and that that fact betrays Soseki's doubts about literature. Eto considers the work worthless except for what it reveals about Soseki's uncertainty about literature

Notes to Pages 119 - 1 2 0

221

and life itself. While I agree that, at this point in his career, Soseki was anxious about the course that his life was taking (e.g., he became increasingly doubtful of his ability to relate to English literature), I do not think that he doubted the value of literature per se.

Chapter 4

Space and Movement in Kojin

1. The announcement of Kokoro, which was serialized after Kojin, indicates that Soseki was entertaining the idea of writing tanpen—"This am thinking of writing a few tanpen"—and

time I

Komiya Toyotaka argues

that the phrase "this time" (kondo wa) implies that Kojin was not written as tanpen ("Kojin," in Soseki no geijutsu [Iwanami, 1942], reprinted in Asada Takashi et al., eds., Soseki sakuhinron shusei [Ofusha, 1991], 9:9-23, esp. 10). (The "announcement" was originally a short letter from Soseki to Yamamoto Matsunosuke of 30 March 1914. It was later used as an advertisement in the 16 April 1914 Tokyo Asahi, before the novel was serialized. The entire announcement has been reprinted in Sdseki zenshu [Iwanami shoten, 1995-1996], 16:566. 2. Her pale face and deep, dark, eloquent eyes link Nao to two other victims of fate—the crazed girl (as Jiro notes) and to "the Woman" in the hospital (as Misawa notes). Many critical essays discuss the resemblance among the heroines (e.g., Izu Toshihiko, "Kojin ron no zentei" [A premise in the discussion of Kojin], Nihon bungaku 18 [March 1969]: 1-17; Komashaku Kimi, "Kojin ron: Tochakuten to shuppatsuten to" [A discussion of Kojin: The points of arrival and departure], in Sdseki

sonojiko

hon'i to rentai to [Yagi shoten, 1970]; and Ando Shoji, "Kojin no sekai: Sono zasetsu no imi" [The world of Kojin: The meaning of setback], Jinbun ronkyu 33 [June 1973]: 1-26); these articles are collected in Asada et al., eds., Sdseki sakuhinron shusei, vol. 9). 3. It is no accident that their names incorporate the first three numbers, Ichiro's the character ichi (one), Jiro's ni (pronounced as ji, meaning "two"), and Misawa's mi (three). 4. Maeda Ai, Toshi kukan no naka no bungaku (1982; 2d ed„ Chikuma shobo, 1985), 5. 5. Tanizaki Jun'ichiro writes that the residents of the Yamanote were mostly government bureaucrats, military personnel, politicians, and

222

Notes to Pages 120 -124 scholars and that the Yamanote was associated with the intelligentsia and the shitamachi (lower city) with chonin (townsfolk, or the trading class) ("Tokyo 0 omou" [Memories of Tokyo], Chiid koron [January-April 1934], cited in Asano Akira, "Han Yamanote no monogatari— Chijin no ai no senryaku" [Anti-Yamanote stories—the tactics of Chijin no ai], in Showa bungaku ronko—machi to mura to [A study of Showa literature—town and country], ed. Odagiri Susumu [Yagi shoten, 1990], 97-117, esp. 112).

6. My discussion of Sanshird and Sorekara is inspired by and partially based on Maeda Ai's brilliant discussion of space and its relation to plot and characterization in these two novels in the chapter "Yamanote no oku" (In the heart of the Yamanote), in Toshi kiikan no naka no bungaku, 343-344. In another chapter, "Kaso no michi," Maeda talks about the fivefold increase in population in the suburbs of Tokyo in the five years following the Russo-Japanese War (1905) as well as the rapid urbanization of Tokyo with the development of the network of trains and streetcars. Sanshiro, for one, is amazed by the large number of people carried all over town by the streetcars, and Keitaro in Higan sugi made frequently makes use of the streetcars in his detective work. Transportation redefines space, distance, and human activities, all of which in turn give rise to new dimensions in human interaction and relationships. 7. Quoted in Komiya,"Kdjin," 23. In the introduction to his translation of Kdjin, Beongcheon Yu writes, "A word must be said about the title of the novel. Ordinarily it would, if pronounced kdjin, mean a wayfarer or a messenger. If pronounced gydjin, however, it would mean the living in contrast to kijin, the dead, in keeping with Lieh Tzu's usage. While following Soseki's own reading, I have adopted the more inclusive Wayfarer for the present translation" (The Wayfarer, trans. Beongcheon Yu [Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1967], 26). No matter how it is pronounced in Japanese, the Chinese compound accommodates both shades of meaning comfortably. In seeing in the title of Kdjin, however, an allusion to the Lie zi, one should downplay the relevance of the moralistic concept of death as the final judgment of virtue and concentrate instead on the meaning of kdjin as "the living" and "the wanderer." 8. A shosei, or a shokkyaku, is not exactly a houseboy or a male servant,

Notes to Pages 125 - 1 3 4

223

although he performs similar tasks. He is a live-in helper whose education is usually sponsored by the host family. When Okada was living with the Naganos, he occupied the shoseibeya (the helper's room) next to the kitchen. Besides running the family's errands, he was allowed time to study, and he later married Okane, the female kitchen helper who was the daughter of one of the lower-ranking officials who worked under Jiro's father. 9. Owing to the brevity of the chapters, all quotations from Kdjin are identified only by part and chapter numbers, and citations are given in the text. Unless specified otherwise, the English version is taken from Yu's translation, The Wayfarer, with modification. In this particular passage, Yu added words such as annoyed distinctness in describing Okane's response to Okada's invitation to view the flowers, which is a misinterpretation of the casual and comfortable relationship between the young married couple. 10. One such example is Hanjo, a play that expresses the aesthetics of madness (kurui). Obsessed with the memory of her lover, Hanago, the shite of Hanjo, goes mad (owing to her lover's absence) and does not recognize her lover when he reappears. (A shite is the main character in a No play.) Her madness is marked by her speech (which is characterized by the free-flowing, accidental association of words) rather than lunatic behavior. (This is very similar to "the Girl's" obsession with words in Kdjin.) For an English translation and a brief discussion of Hanjo, see Donald Keene, ed., Twenty Plays of the No Theatre (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970), 130-145. For a brief discussion of madness in No plays, see Konishi Jin'ichi, A History of Japanese Literature (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1991), 3:538-539,539n. 11. William Barrett points out that the modern novel is marked by the deflation of climaxes, just as modern art is marked by the flattening of all planes, as in cubism (Irrational Man: A Study in Existentialist

Philoso-

phy [1958; 2d ed., New York: Anchor, 1990], 50). This, of course, is a radical departure from the Aristotelian idea of a well-made plot as having a beginning, a middle, and an end. 12. Barrett (ibid., 189) points out that the problem of the fragmentation of the individual has become central in German culture. Schiller began tackling it as early as 1795—for man, he says, "the problem is one of

224

Notes to Pages 136 -139 forming individuals"—followed by Goethe and Nietzsche. Modern life has departmentalized, specialized, and thereby fragmented man's very being.

13. Miyamoto Yuriko compares Nao's naturalness (shizensei) to qualities that Michiyo and Oyone possess ("Soseki no Kojin ni tsuite," Shincho [June 1940], reprinted in Miyamoto Yuriko zenshu [Shin Nihon shuppansha, 1980], vol. 11; and in Soseki sakuhinron shusei, 9:24-26). 14. Jiro's infatuation with Nao—which is now taken for granted—went unrecognized by critics for a surprisingly long time. Izu Toshihiko ("Kojin ron no zentei") points out that Hashimoto Yoshi ("Kojin ni tsuite," Kokugo to kokubungaku 181 [July 1967]: 1-10) was the first to discuss Jiro's feelings for Nao (see also Shigematsu Yoshio, "Kojin ni okeru Jiro no ai: Izu setsu no kento 0 toshite," Kaishaku to kansho 35, no. 11 [September 1970]: 84-92; all three articles are collected in Soseki sakuhinron shusei, 9:77-92,69-76, and 106-115). 15. The image of the snake is commonly associated with sex and seduction, such as the suggestive image of the walking stick whose handle is shaped like a snake's head in Higan sugi made (see the discussion in Yoshida Yoshihiko, "Kojin ron: Higan sugi made no hatanbu yori mita koso ni tsuite," Hydgen to koso 16 [June 1979]: 50-60, reprinted in Soseki sakuhinron shusei, 9:183-193 [see esp. pp. 187-189]). 16. Nami is the heroine of Kusamakura. The image of the young woman with the ginkgo-leaf hairdo (ichogaeshi) recurs in Soseki's literature (e.g., Michiyo in Sorekara) and in a much-quoted letter to Masaoka Shiki of 18 July 1891: "Yesterday at the eye doctor's I by chance saw the lovely young girl that I mentioned to you before—she was wearing the ginkgo-leaf hairdo with bamboo ornaments" (sz, 14:29). 17. My reading is partly inspired by Freud's discussion of Eros and the death instinct in Civilization and Its Discontents: "A portion of the [death] instinct is diverted towards the external world and comes to light as an instinct of aggressiveness and destructiveness. In this way the instinct itself could be pressed into the service of Eros, in that the organism was destroying some other thing, whether animate or inanimate, instead of destroying its own self. Conversely, any restriction of this aggressiveness directed outwards would be bound to increase the

Notes to Pages 141 -142

225

self-destruction, which is in any case proceeding" (The Freud Reader, ed. Peter Gay [New York: Norton, 1989], 754). See also Cleanth Brooks' discussion of the association of death and sexual intercourse in Donne's "Canonization." Concerning the verse "Wee can dye by it, if not live by love," Brooks comments, "In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries to 'die' means to experience the consummation of the act of l o v e . . . . Shakespeare uses 'die' in this sense; so does Dryden" (The Well-Wrought Urn: Studies in the Structure of Poetry [New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1975], 16). Soseki plays with the association of death and love in the first-night episode of Yumejiiya. 18. Soseki might more than once have asked himself these questions. Eto Jun talks about Soseki's hidden love for his sister-in-law, Tose, who died at age twenty-three of complications in childbirth ("Tose to iu aniyome," in Soseki to sonojidai, 183-197). Ishikawa Teiji talks about Soseki's frustrated hope of marrying the daughter of his adoptive father's mistress (Natsume Soseki: Sono kyozo tojitsuzd [Meiji shoin, 1980], 57-60). Furthermore, in Soseki's works there are traces of regret at not having expressed his love for the various women he desired, such as the young woman with the ginkgo-leaf coiffure and the woman symbolized by the buncho. 19. Ichiro tells Jiro the tragedy of the lovers Francesca and her brother-inlaw, Paolo, who carry on their clandestine love affair only to be discovered and murdered by the older brother. The world remembers only the lovers, not the brother, because, in Ichiro's words, "the natural love of the lovers is more sacred than the man-made relationship of husband and wife" (3.27). Ichiro believes that the law of nature, the impulses and desires that urge one to love, transcends the transitory moral code established by society to regulate behavior. 20. Karatani Kojin ("Ishiki to shizen") points out that there is often a stylistic or thematic break in many of Soseki's novels, such as the abrupt switch to the epistolary form in Kokoro and Kojin. 21. Eto Jun considers Kojin to be seriously flawed, but he points out that the "enchantment of this unsuccessful work" is felt in its fragmented structure and the lively ideas that erupt in it from time to time (Ketteiban Natsume Soseki, 118-119).

226

Notes to Pages 142 - 1 4 7

22. When I refer to Jiro as an "unconscious hypocrite," I mean that his hypocrisy is not intentional but born of his observance of a set of rules dictating correct behavior. I am using the phrase differently from the way Soseki uses it in criticizing a female character in a novel by Hermann Sudermann, referring to the kind of woman who seduces men naturally and unconsciously (see Natsume Soseki, "Bungaku zowa," Waseda burtgaku 35 [October 1908]: 21-29, especially 26 [reprinted in Sdseki zenshu (Iwanami shoten, 1995-1996), vol. 25), where the phrase was written in katakana next to the kanji "mu'ishiki na gizenka"). Many critics identify Mineko in Sanshird as an unconscious hypocrite (see the discussion of the phrase in Nakayama Kazuko, "Sanshird: Katazukerareta ketsumatsu," in Natsume Sdseki hikkei, ed. Takemori Ten'yu, Bessatsu kokubungaku 14 [Gakutosha, 1982], 122-130, esp. 123). 23. The loose overcoat is a tonbi, a coat that resembles an inverness. 24. The word tatsujin usually requires a more lengthy translation than "the master" because it alludes to an important comment on benevolence (ren) in the Analects, but I settled on this short version in this passage because it is used as a name. A more detailed translation is provided in the text below. 25. See sz, 8:569n. 26. Ota Tatsujin, "Yobimon jidai no Soseki" (Soseki in the preparatory class), Ketteiban Sdseki zenshu geppo, no. 4 (2 November 1936), quoted in sz, 8:569n. 27. Apart from the original Chinese text, I consulted the following works in preparing the translations used in the text: James Legge, trans., The Chinese Classics (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, i960), vol. 1; D. C. Lau, trans., The Analects (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979); and Arthur Waley, trans., The Analects of Confucius (New York: Vintage, 1938). To avoid confusion, I adhere to benevolence to translate ren, the highest Confucian ideal in the cultivation of self, although other choices of words—including virtue, goodness, and humaneness—also

to some

extent express different aspects of its broad meaning. "Tree-like" in this first quotation means "simple," its original Chinese character being that for tree or wood.

Notes to Pages 147 -154

227

28. Similarly, "A gentleman... is prompt in deeds and careful in words" {Analects, 1.16). 29. The phrase "clever talk and a pretentious manner" is found in the Shu jing, 2.3. 30. For the phrase dazhi ruyu or dazhi ruoyu, see Su Shi, Jingjing Dungbuo wenji shilue, fasc. 27, quoted in Ciyuan, ed. Editorial Board of Shangwu yinshu guan, 4 vols. (1979; Hongkong: Shangwu yinshu guan, 1984), 1:682. 31. See sz, 11:319-343, esp. 340-341, and also my discussion of enlightenment in chap. 3 above. 32. Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (1961; reprint, with a new introduction, New York: Penguin, 1969). The quotation can be found on p. 68 of the chapter "Of Reading and Writing." Zarathustra embracing loneliness with exuberance can be found in "Exhortation of Cheerfulness" and "A Hymn to Solitude." 33. Ibid., 202. 34. "I am a wanderer and a mountain-climber (he said to his heart), I do not like the plains and it seems I cannot sit still for long. And whatever may yet come to me as fate and experience—a wandering and a mountainclimbing will be in it: in the final analysis one experiences only oneself" (ibid., 173). 35. For a discussion of Tao Qian's poetry and Soseki's kanshi, see chap. 6 below. 36. Bunjinga (literati painting; Ch. wenrenhua) is also known as nanga, or "southern painting." It is a school of Japanese painting of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries based in theory on the Chinese tradition of the scholar-amateur artist. In China, the term literati style refers to landscape painting by scholar-gentlemen proficient in the skills of calligraphy, poetry, and painting. The Japanese bunjinga generally concentrates on such traditional Chinese themes as landscapes, birds and flowers, the "four gentlemen" (plum, orchid, chrysanthemum, and bamboo), and other motifs—e.g., a landscape of mountains and waters with a solitary hut or a single traveler or workman situated at his ease in the midst of nature—rendered in ink and light color. Some of the most famous bunjinga painters include Ike no Taiga and Yosa Buson. For a more detailed

228

Notes to Pages 155 -168 description, see Kodansha Encyclopedia ofJapan, vol. 2, s.v. bunjinga. For illustrations of Japanese and Chinese literati paintings, see also Yoshizawa Chu, Yamakawa Takeshi, et al., Nanga to shasei, in Genshoku Nihon no bijutsu (Shogakkan, 1969), vol. 18; and Meisei no bijutsu, ed. Osaka shiritsu bijutsukan (Heibonsha, 1982).

37. H's character embodies the Taoist paradox that "great cleverness seems clumsy" (see Mair, trans., Tao te ching, 13). Chapter 5

From Garasudo no naka to Michikusa

1. While there is considerable overlap between the genres of zuihitsu and shohin, the former is generally more free-flowing, the latter more finely crafted. (Among Soseki's works, Yumejuya and Eijitsu shohin are examples of shohin.) The writing of shohin and zuihitsu is particularly common among writers who perceive themselves as bunjin (Ch. wenren), i.e., scholars or literary men. Some of Nagai Kafu's best works, e.g., are his zuihitsu. 2. Before 1868 (the first year of the Meiji era), the area where Soseki was born was called Ushigome. After the advent of the Meiji era, Soseki's father, being the headman of the village, renamed the area Kikuicho after the name/pattern of his family crest, a chrysanthemum (kiku) inside a well crib (igeta). 3. "Bright daylight, but I shut my bramblewood door, / in empty rooms rid myself of dusty thoughts" (Tao Qian, "Returning to My Home in the Country, No. 2," in The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Early Times to the Thirteenth Century, trans, and ed. Burton Watson [New York: Columbia University Press, 1984], 130). 4. Barrett, Irrational Man, 180. 5. The shitamachi is the traditional shopping and entertainment district of Tokyo. 6. Quotation taken from the translation in the introduction to Grass on the Wayside, trans. Edwin McClellan (1969; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), vii-viii. 7. Material concerning 0 is discussed and partially quoted in chap. 4 above. 8. To Otsuka Kusuo, whom he encounters by chance in the rain, he says,

Notes to Pages 169 -174

229

"In fact, I looked just to see who this beauty is. I was wondering if you're a geisha" (chap. 25, sz, 8:472). 9. Biographical information, including the ages of the children, is taken from Ara, Soseki kenkyu nenpyd, 795. 10. Iyaa da can be rendered "I don't like that," but the emphasis here is on the lengthening of the iya into iyaa. 11. For the scene of Aiko and the cat's tomb—"Many times had that ladle, covered with the fallen petals of the bush clover, moistened the little throat of Aiko in the quietude of the evening"—see "Neko no haka" (1909), in Eijitsu shohin (sz, 8:89-92). For letters from his daughters, see Omoidasu koto nado, chap. 25 (sz, 8:341). 12. "With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow;—I have still joy in the midst of these things. Riches and honors acquired by unrighteousness are to me as a floating cloud" (Analects, 7.15, quoted from The Four Books, trans. James Legg [Macau: Zhuwentang, 1962], 85). 13. Michikusa is closely based on Soseki's personal life. The period dealt with in the novel begins soon after his return from London in 1903 and ends as his career as a writer is about to begin (around 1905). A large part of the novel deals with his memories of the past, especially his adoption and subsequent return to his birth parents. For relevant biographical information, see Komiya Toyotaka, Natsume Soseki, 3 vols. (Iwanami shoten, 1953); Eto, Soseki to sonojidai; and the introduction to Edwin McClellan's translation of Michikusa, Grass on the Wayside. 14. "That he was also rather proud of [the smell of the alien land], that it gave him a certain sense of accomplishment, he did not know" (McClellan, trans., Grass on the Wayside, chap. 1). (Hereafter, quotations will be identified in the text by chapter number alone; owing to the brevity of chapters, page numbers are not provided.) 15. Expressions of uncertainty frequently follow recollections in Garasudo no naka, such as "Zenbu yume na no ka, mata wa hanbun dake honto na no ka" (Was it entirely a dream or only half reality?) (sz, 8:509) and "Yumeutsutsu no yo ni mada oboete iru" (I still remember it as in a dreamy illusion) (sz, 8:459). 16. The five-yen note is always discreetly placed in his wallet by his wife, to whom he turns over his income.

230

Notes to Pages 174 - 1 8 3

17. "He made up his mind to work harder and earn more money. Not long afterward he returned home with some extra money in his pocket. He pulled out the envelope containing the bills and threw it down in front of his wife. She picked it up and looked at the back to see where it had come from. Neither of them said a word" (chap. 21). 18. In Soseki's world, the borrowing of clothes indicates not only poverty and destitution but also a certain moral shabbiness in the form of meanness, self-hatred, or naked aggression. An example from Nowaki is the stinging sarcasm of Takayanagi, who, unable to afford proper winter clothing, taunts Nakano, his friend and benefactor, for his affluence when he mindlessly plays with a pair of kidskin gloves that he is not wearing (sz, 2:662). An example from Meian is Kobayashi's coatborrowing scene (sz, 7:101-102). 19. The original text reads, "kare no atama wa maru de hakushi no yo na mono de atta" (sz, 6:398). 20. As J. Hillis Miller remarks of Mrs. Dalloway: "The narrator is that 'something central which permeate[s],' the 'something warm which [breaks] up surfaces,' a power of union and penetration which Clarissa Dalloway lacks" ("Mrs. Dalloway: Repetition as the Raising of the Dead," in Fiction and Repetition: Seven English Novels [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982], 176-202, esp. 178-179). Miller is quoting Virginia Woolf.

Chapter 6

In Quest of an Ending: An Examination of Soseki's Katishi

1. "I am writing Meian every day. Pain, pleasure and boredom assail me all at o n c e . . . . But if I continue to write this sort of thing day after day for 100 days, I will start to feel begrimed, so for the past couple of days now, as a daily ritual, I have been writing kanshi. I write about one seven-character risshi per day. It is quite difficult, so as soon as I get sick of it I stop immediately" (Soseki to Akutagawa Ryunosuke and Kume Masao, 21 August 1916, sz, 15:575; translation taken from Maria Flutsch, "An Introduction to Soseki's Chinese Poetry," in The World ofNatsume Soseki, 10). 2. Soseki is not reluctant to identify his literary and spiritual forebear either by directly evoking his name or by alluding to his work. One of Tao Qian's

Note to Page 183

231

most famous poems, the fifth in the series Yinjiu, provides a constant source of inspiration for Soseki and a pattern for his aspirations: I built my hut among human

dwellings,

Yet hear no noise of the carriages and horses. You ask me how that could be? When the mind is remote, the place becomes Gathering chrysanthemums Calmly, I see the southern

removed.

by the eastern hedge, mountain.

The mountain air is beautiful in the evening, Flying birds return in twos and threes. In these things there is truth, I would like to define, but have forgotten the words. (My translation, with reference to James Hightower, The Poetry

ofT'ao

Ch'ien [London: Oxford University Press, 1970], 130; and Watson, trans, and ed„ The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, 135.) For example, quoting the lines "Gathering chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge, / Calmly, I see the Southern Mountain," the artist in Kusamakura

comments,

"Happily, poetry of the East frees one from [the affairs of the world]" (,sz, 2:393). Tao Qian pursued an official career for a number of years before he retired to the countryside to become a farmer. Much of Soseki eremitic poetry is modeled after Tao Qian's Guiyuantian

zhu (Returning to my

home in the country), a series of five poems, and Yinjiu (Drinking wine), a series of twenty poems. 3. The "poetry of returning" is an allusion to Tao Qian's Guiyuantian

zhu

(Returning to my home in the country), a series of five poems. One of the recurring themes of these poems is returning to the country to work in the fields: "I've opened up some waste land by the southern fields; / stupid as ever, I've come home to the country" ("Returning to My Home in the Country, No. 1"); "Out here in the fields, few social affairs, / on backwoods lanes, rarely a horse or carriage" ("Returning to My Home in the Country, No. 2"); "So long since I've enjoyed the hills and ponds, / the boundless pleasures of woods and fields" ("Returning to My Home in

Notes to Pages 184-186 the Country, No. 4") (The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, 129,130,131). Heidegger writes, "Building is not a way toward dwelling—to build is in itself already to dwell" (Martin Heidegger, "Building Dwelling Thinking," in Poetry, Language, Thought [New York: Harper & Row, 1975], 143-162, 146). Sôseki's mythmaking is matched perhaps by that of Nagai Kafu in his diary, Danchôtei nichijô. Danchôtei nichijô is Kafu s magnum opus, composed over four decades—from 16 September 1917 to 29 April 1959, shortly before his death—during which time Kafu lived through the Kantô earthquake of 1923 (during which his home was destroyed by fire), the second Sino-Japanese War, which began in 1937, and the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The diary at points mixes airraid sirens with Kafu's description of his life as abunjin and his taste for women and things of the past. It was written in gabuntai, a style that blends literary Chinese with Japanese. It first appeared in print as Rinsai nichiroku (A journal on encountering disaster) in 1946. This line alludes to the opening lines of Tao Qian's "Drinking Wine, no. 5" (see n. 2 above). In Omoidasu koto nado, Sôseki calls haiku and kanshi "furyu 0 mortibeki . utsuwa." Concerning his writing of kanshi, he says, "Only when I could look at reality from afar and when there were no worries on my mind, then verses would come gushing out naturally, and poetry would also ride on thé wings of inspiration and appear in different forms. When I look back, those were the happiest times in my life" (sz, 8:285-286). The Kaifusô is a collection of poetry in Chinese, and the preface allows for dating it to about 751. The poets are largely sovereigns, other members of the high nobility, and priests (see Miner et al., The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature, 174). In his comment about the dryness of kanshi, Yoshikawa makes an exception for the Gozan poetry, especially that by Gidô Shushin (1325-1388) and Zekkai Chushin (1336-1405). He adds that Sôseki enjoyed Zekkai's poetry, as is made evident in the line "On my desk the Writings of Shôken" (sz, 12:419) in one of his kanshi ("Writings of Shôken" refers to the collection of kanshi by Zekkai). See Yoshikawa Kôjirô, preface to Sôseki shichû (1967; Iwanami shoten, 1992), 8-9.

Notes to Pages 186 -192

233

9. The parallel images of "the radiance of flowers" and "the darkness of willows" allude to the poem "You Shangxi cun" (Visiting Shangxi village), by the Sung poet Lu You (1125-1210). 10. Yoshikawa points out that "Great Foolishness" (Dayu) alludes to a line in Zhuangzi: "The biggest fool [dayu] will end his life without ever seeing the light." However, since the use of dayu in Soseki's kanshi does not carry a negative connotation, I suggest that it alludes instead to the phrase "dazhi ruyu" (great wisdom resembles foolishness), referring to one who appears to be slow but in fact has great wisdom. H, the older and reticent traveling companion of Ichiro in Kdjin, and 0, a character in Garasudo no naka modeled after Soseki's friend Ota Tatsujin and whom Soseki depicts with affection and respect, embody the virtue of "Great Foolishness." See the discussion in chap. 4 above. For the allusion to Zhuangzi, see "Tiandi pian" (Chapter on heaven and earth), in Zhuang zi, annotated by Guo Xiang (Taipei: Yiwen yinshu guan, 1966), 257; translation taken from The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), 139. "Dazhi ruyu" is an allusion to Su Shi's Jingjing Dongbo wenjishilue, no. 27. See Ciyuan, 1:682. 11. One of Wang Wei's most famous poems, the "Bamboo Mile Lodge," reads: "Alone I sit in the dark bamboo, / strumming the lute, whistling away; / deep woods that no one knows, / where a bright moon comes to shine on me" (Watson, trans., The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, 201). The artist in Kusamakura quotes this poem and comments, "In just twenty words, another world exists splendidly" (sz, 2:394). 12. This last line involves a causative ("A single bird is sent into the void"), which I avoided in translating it. 13. Sako Jun'ichiro emphasizes the imagery of the white cloud and the use of the words quietness (Jap. sei; Ch. jing) and emptiness (Jap. kyo; Ch. xu) (Soseki ronkyu [Chobunsha, 1990], 260-312). Saito Junji emphasizes the willow as zen imagery and its relation with the idea of sokuten kyoshi (follow heaven, eliminate self) in the kanshi (Natsume Soseki kanshi kd [Kyoei bunkasha, 1984], 176-198). 14. Soseki apparently did not understand spoken Chinese. (One piece of evidence supporting this view is the scene in Garasudo no naka in which he fails to understand the simple Chinese phrase chabuduo [more or less]

234

Notes to Pages 193-196 that his friend 0 utters in the theater [see sz, 8:436].) However, there is no doubt that he was steeped in Chinese learning. The curriculum in his early schooling included rigorous study of the Chinese classics, and he was writing kanbun (Chinese writing) at a tender age (e.g., "Seiseiron" in 1878). In the kanbun "Bokusetsuroku" (Sawdust record), he recounts that he had read several thousand works of Tang and Sung poetry during childhood and expresses his love for reading and writing Chinese poetry (sz, 12:445). For a brief description of some of the Chinese classics that he studied in school, see Yamashiki Kazuo, "Soseki to gaikoku bungaku: Chugoku bungaku (kanbiingaku)," in Natsume Soseki hikkei, 193-95.

15. For imagery of the sword, see sz, 12:438,441; poisoning, murder, and revenge, sz, 12:437; and beating and sudden death, sz, 12:441-442. 16. The phrase "writing is an eternal undertaking" is an allusion to a poem ofDu Fu's. 17. The allusion "Pine-Planting" (saisho) is not entirely clear. Yoshikawa Kojiro thinks that it refers to a zen koan about Rinzai and the planting of pines. In Edo, there was a Pine-Planting Temple (Saishoji) in Ushigome, Soseki's place of birth and residence, to which Soseki may be referring. For Yoshikawa's note, see sz, 12:941. For the reference to Saishoji, see Tamamura Takeji, Rinzai shushi (Shunjusha, 1991), 142. 18. The "Poetry of Returning" refers to Tao Qian's series of poems Guiyuantianju. The buying of a field is an allusion to the frequent mention of farming activities in Tao Qian's poems. Tao Qian's influence on Soseki is discussed earlier in this chapter. 19. The contemplative and peaceful compositions among Soseki's kanshi led scholars to emphasize, or perhaps even mythicize, the idea of sokuten kyoshi in his later works. In discussing the various aspects of Soseki's kanshi, Yoshikawa Kojiro (Soseki shichii) emphasizes Soseki's antiWestern and pro-Chinese sentiment, Sako Jun'ichiro (Soseki ronkyu) elaborates on the idea of quietude and emptiness, Saito }un]i(Natsume Soseki kanshi ko) talks about Zen and melancholy, and Nakamura Shoun (Natsume Soseki no kanshi [Daito Bunka Daigaku Toyogaku kenkyujo, 1970]) refers to Taoist literature, but they all pay special attention to the concept of sokuten kyoshi as though the final phase of his life and career can be summarized in those four characters. For a discussion of the idea of sokuten kyoshi, see Okazaki, Soseki to sokuten kyoshi.

SELECTED

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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Chung, Chong-hae. "Natsume Söseki: The Spiritual Basis of His Art." Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1981. The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Early Times to the Thirteenth Century. Translated and edited by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1984. The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu. Translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1968. De Man, Paul. Allegories of Reading: Figural Language in Rousseau, Nietzsche, Rilke, and Proust. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1979. Doi Takeo. Söseki no shinteki no sekai. Shibundö, 1969. Ernst, Earle. The Kabuki Theatre (1956). Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 1974. Etö Jun. "Natsume Söseki: A Japanese Meiji Intellectual." American Scholar 34, no. 4 (1965): 603-621. . Söseki to sonojidai. 2 vols. Shinchösha, 1970. . Ketteiban Natsume Söseki (1979). Shinchö bunko, 1986. . Söseki to Aasaa-ö densetsu: Kairokö no hikaku bungakuteki kenkyü. University of Tokyo Press, 1975. . Natsume Söseki ronshü. Vol. 1 of Etö Jun bungaku shüsei. Kawade shobö shinsha, 1986. . Söseki ronshü. Shinchösha, 1992. . Söseki to sonojidai. Vol. 3. Shinchösha, 1993. Felman, Shoshana. Jacques Lacan and the Adventure of Insight. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987. Fowler, Edward. The Rhetoric of Confession: Shishösetsu in Early TwentiethCentury Japanese Fiction. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988. Fujii, James A. "The Subject in Meiji Prose Narratives." Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1987. . Complicit Fiction: The Subject in the Modern Japanese Prose Narrative. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993. Fujita Kenji. Söseki sono kiseki to keifu (Ögai, Ryünosuke, Yüzö: Bungaku no tetsugakuteki kösatsu). Kinokuniya, 1991. Furukawa Hisashi. Söseki no shokan. Tökyödö, 1972.

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Hibbett, Howard. "Natsume Söseki and the Psychological Novel." In Tradition and Modernization in Japanese Culture, ed. Donald N. Shively. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971. Hightower, James. The Poetry ofT'ao Ch'ien. London: Oxford University Press, 1970. Hirakawa, Sukehiro. "Image of a British Scholar: Natsume Söseki's Reminiscences of His London Days." In Proceedings of the British Association for Japanese Studies, 1980, vol. 5, pt. 1, ed. John W. M. Chapman and JeanPierre Lehmann. Sheffield: University of Sheffield Press, 1980. Hiraoka Toshio. Söseki josetsu. Hanawa shobö, 1976. . Söseki kenkyü. Yüseidö, 1987. Hiraoka Toshio, Köno Toshirö, Miyoshi Yukio, and Takemori Ten'yü, eds. Kindai bungaku shi. 3 vols. Yühikaku, 1987. Howe, Irving, ed. The Idea of the Modern in Literature and the Arts. New York: Horizon, 1967. . Politics and the Novel (1957). 2d ed. New York: Horizon, 1987. Iijima Takehisa and James M. Vardaman Jr., eds. The World of Natsume Söseki. Tokyo: Kinseidö, 1987. Ishihara Chiaki. "Kokoro no oidipus—hanten suru katari." Seijö Kokubungaku 1 (March 1985): 29-38. . "Jinanbö no kigogaku." Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshö 53, no. 8 (August 1988): 26-34.

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Matsui, Sakuko. Natsume Soseki as a Critic of English Literature. East Asian Cultural Studies Series, no. 16. Tokyo: Center for East Asian Cultural Studies, 1975. Matsuoka Yuzuru, ed. Soseki no kanshi. Asahi shimbunsha, 1966. McClellan, Edwin. Two Japanese Novelists: Soseki and Toson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Miao, Ronald, ed. Studies in Chinese Poetry and Poetics. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1978. Miller, D. A. Narrative and Its Discontents: Problems of Closure in the Traditional Novel (1981). Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989. Miller, J. Hillis. Fiction and Repetition: Seven English Novels. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982. Miner, Earl, et al. The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988. Miyoshi Yukio, Yamada Kenkichi, and Yoshida Sei'ichi, eds. Nihon bungakushijiten: Kingendai hen. Kadokawa shoten, 1982-1987. Mizumura Minae. Zoku Meian. Chikuma, 1990. . "Miai ka ren'ai ka: Natsume Soseki Kdjin ron." Hihyd kukan 1 (April 1991). 2 (July 1991): 212-217,186-194. . "'Otoko to otoko' to 'otoko to onna'—Fujio no shi." Hihyd kiikan 6 (July 1992): 158-177. Mizuta Noriko. "Gubijinso ni okeru Soseki no Fujio koroshi ni tsuite." Kokubungaku 42, no. 6 (May 1997): 102-111. Mizutani Akio. Soseki no bungei no sekai. Ofusha, 1974. Morita Sohei. Natsume Soseki. Kocho shorin, 1942. Mortimer, Maya. "Reflexivity in the Stories of Kunikida Doppo." Japan Quarterly 31, no. 2 (April-June 1984): 159-163. Nakamura Shoun. Natsume Soseki no kanshi. Daito Bunka Daigaku Toyogaku kenkyujo, 1970. Nakano Kii. "Soseki to Gissing: Kusamakura 0 megutte." Eigo Seinen 122 (1976): 473-474Natsume Shinroku. Chichi Natsume Soseki. Bungei shunju shinsha, 1964. Natsume Soseki. The Wayfarer. Translated by Beongcheon Yu. New York: Twayne, 1962. . Grass on the Wayside. Translated by Edwin McClellan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969.

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State University Press, 1978. . The Miner. Translated by Jay Rubin. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1988. Natsume Sdseki: Nihon bungaku kenkyu shiryo shinshu 15. Yuseido, 1988. Natsume Sdseki: Nihon bungaku kenkyu shiryo sosho. 3 vols. Yuseido, 19701985. Natsume Sdseki: Nihon bungaku kenkyu taisei 1. Edited by Hiraoka Toshio. Kokusho kankokai, 1990. Natsume Sdseki hikkei. Edited by Takemori Ten'yu. Bessatsu kokubungaku 5, 14. Gakutosha, 1980,1982. Natsume Soseki jiten. Edited by Miyoshi Yukio et al. Bessatsu kokubungaku 39. Gakutosha, 1990. Ochi Masao. Soseki shiron. Kadokawa shoten, 1971. Odagiri Susumu. Showa bungaku ronko: Machi to mura to. Yagi shoten, 1990. Ogura Shuzo. Natsume Sdseki: William James juyo no shiihen. Yuseido, 1989. Okazaki Yoshie. Soseki to sokuten kyoshi. Hobunkan, 1968. Okubo, Jun'ichiro. "Shakespeare-geki to Soseki no shosetsu riron." Eigo Seinen 123 (1977): 568-570. Ooka Shohei. Shosetsuka Natsume Soseki (1988). Chikuma shobo, 1989. Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics. Edited by Alex Preminger. Enlarged ed. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1974. Ren, Shyh-jong. "Some English Influences on Natsume Soseki's Criticism and Novels." Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1979. Robbe-Grillet, Alain. For a New Novel: Essays on Fiction (1963). Evanston, 111.: Northwestern University Press, 1989. Rubin, Jay."Sanshiro and Soseki." Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 36 (1976): 147-180. . "Soseki on Individualism: Watakushi no kojin shugi." Monumenta Nipponica 34 (1979): 21-48. . Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984. Saito Junji. Natsume Soseki kanshi ko. Kyoei bunkasha, 1984. Sako Jun'ichiro. Soseki ronkyu. Chobunsha, 1990. Sasabuchi Tomoichi. Roman shugi bungaku no tanjo. Meiji shoin, 1958.

Selected Bibliography

241

. Bungakkai to sonojidai. 2 vols. Meiji shoin, 1959-1960. . Natsume Soseki—Yume juya ton hoka. Meiji shoin, 1982. Sato Taisei, ed. Bungaku ni okeru toshi. Baiko jogakuin daigaku kokai koza ronshu 22. Kasama sensho, 1988. Schwarz, Daniel. The Humanistic Heritage: Critical Theories of the English Novel from James to Hillis Miller. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986. Seidensticker, Edward. Low City, High City. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983. . Tokyo Rising: The City since the Great Earthquake. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990. Senuma Shigeki. Natsume Soseki: Kindai Nihon no shisoka 6. Daigaku shuppansha, 1962. Sharpe, William Chapman. Unreal Cities: Urban Figuration in Wordsworth, Baudelaire, Whitman, Eliot, and Williams. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990. Shimada Masahiko. Soseki 0 kaku. Iwanami shinsho, 1993. Shively, Donald H. The Love Suicide atAmijima. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1953. Smith, Barbara H. Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Sosekikenkyu. Vols. 1-8. Kanrin shobo, 1993-1997. Soseki sakuhinron shusei. Edited by Asada Takashi et al. Vols. 3 - 4 , 9 - 1 1 . Ofusha, 1991. Sparling, Kathryn. "Early Natsume Soseki: Images and Patterns of the Absolute." Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1973. . "Meian: Another Reading." Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 42 (June 1982): 139-176. Summersgill, Harue M. "The Influence of William James and Henri Bergson on Natsume Soseki's Higan sugi made." Kyushu American Literature 22 (May 1981): 5-17. . "Natsume Soseki's Higan sugi made: A Critical Study and Complete English Translation." Ph.D. diss., University of Hawai'i, 1985. Takamiya Toshiyuki and Andrew Armour. "Kairo-ko: A Dirge." In Arthurian Literature, edited by Richard Barber, 2:92-126. Woodbridge, N.J.: D. S. Brewer, 1982. Takemori Ten'yu. Soseki bungaku no tansho. Chikuma, 1991.

242

Selected Bibliography

Tamamura Takeji. Rinzai shüshi. Shunjusha, 1991. Thornbury, Barbara E. Sukeroku's Double Identity: The Dramatic Structure ofEdo Kabuki. Michigan Papers in Japanese Studies, no. 6. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1982. Trilling, Lionel. The Liberal Imagination. New York: Viking, 1950. Unamuno, Miguel de. The Tragic Sense of Life in Men and in Peoples. Translated by J. E. Crawford Flitch. London: Macmillan, 1926. Waley, Arthur, trans. The Analects of Confucius. New York: Vintage, 1983. Walker, Janet. The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1979. . "The Fusion of Japanese and Western Poetic Systems in Two Works of Modern Japanese Fiction." In Proceedings of theXth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association, ed. Anna Balakian, 681-686. New York: Garland, 1985. Watson, Burton, trans. Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings. New York: Columbia University Press, 1964. . Chinese Lyricism from the Second to the Twelfth Century. New York: Columbia University Press, 1971. Watt, Ian. The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957. Williams, Raymond. Culture and Society: 1780-1950 (1958). 2d ed. New York: Columbia University Press, 1983. Yamamoto Kenkichi. Söseki, Takuboku, Rohan. Bungei shunjü, 1972. Yan, Ansheng. "Natsume Söseki's View of the Modern Japanese Society." Foreign Literatures 9 (1986): 70-73. Yano Höjin. Bungakkai to seiyö bungaku. Kado shobö, 1951. Yoshida Sei'ichi. Natsume Söseki hikkei. Gakutösha, 1967. . Roman shugi no kenkyü. Tökyödö, 1970. Yoshikawa Köjirö. Söseki shichü (1967). Iwanami shinsho, 1992. Yu, Beongcheon. Natsume Söseki. New York: Twayne, 1969. Zhongguo lidai wenxue zuopin xuan (1979). Edited by Zhu Dongren. 6 vols. 6th ed. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985. Zhuangzi. Annotated by Guo Xiang. Taipei: Yiwen yinshu guan, 1967. Zhuangzijinjujinshi.

Edited by Chen shi'in. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983.

INDEX

Akutagawa Ryünosuke, 55,94,163,2i6n. 22, 23011.1

Chinese poets: Du Fu, 194; Tao Qian, 35, 154,159,183,195, 204n. 26,23on. 2,

Allegory, 5,23

23m. 3; Wang Wei, 35,189,204n. 29,

Analects, the, 147-148,159, 22911.12

233n.11

Arnold, Matthew, 116-117 Asahi Shimbun, 49,93,99,105,194; Osaka, 83,94, 95,156; Söseki joining, 3,12, 26

Civilization and enlightenment (bunmei kaika), 2 6 , 6 2 , 7 0 , 1 0 8 - 1 1 6 , 1 4 9 Closure: didactic, 2; foreboding, of Michikusa, 175,180-181; inconclu-

Avante-garde, 43,56, 61, 2ion. 29

sive, of Sorekara, 6 1 , 6 8 , 7 8 - 8 1 ; of

Barrett, William, 163,223nn. 1 1 , 1 2

14,22, 24-26; search for, 183,196

Gubijinsö, 14,35-37,41; of Nowaki, Bunjinga, 154,155, 227n. 36 Burke, Edmund, 89

Comedy, 3,43,55, 61, 81; conventional notion of, 3. See also Edo comic tradition

Carlyle, Thomas, 107-108,116-117, 2i9n. 43 Chaos: definition of, 1-2; emotional, 4, 44,175; grappling with order, 12; in

Confessional literature, 22,53-54,100, 169-170 Confucian gentleman (bunjin), 147-148, 156.159.170,184

kanshi, 192; in lives of characters,

Confucianism, 84,91,98,105

119,122,133,143,153; in Michikusa,

Conrad, Joseph, 45

156-157,181. See also Order

243

244

Index

Didacticism: in Gubinjinso, 14, 28,33,

Hearn, Lafcadio, 23

35-37; in Nowaki, 22-23; in Soseki's critical works, 89-91; in Soseki's lec-

Ibsen, 90

tures, 93; in Soseki's personality, 47

Ichögaeshi, 9

Discursive space (gensetsu kukan), 5,12 Dostoyevsky, 16,20,202n. 11

Incest: suggestion of, 37-40,2o6nn. 36, 37

Du Fu. See Chinese poets James, William, 94-95,2i6nn. 26, 27 Edo comic tradition, 56-57

Jo-ha-kyu, 62-63

Eliot, T. S., 68,117,220n. 47

Jöruri. See Traditional Japanese theater

Enlightenment. See Civilization and enlightenment (bunmei kaika) Existential loneliness, 2,3,6,16-17,91»

Kabuki. See Traditional Japanese theater Kafü (Nagai Kafu), 105,108,232n. 5

92,117,118,194; in kanshi, 195,196;

Kaißsö, 186,232n. 8

personified by Ichiro (Kdjin), 134,151

Kanshi, 182-196,204n. 27; chaotic imagery in, 192-193; colors in, 191;

Futabatei Shimei, 43,105

and Meian, 182-183,194; parallelism

Gabuntai, 34

poetic form of, 2,4-5; poetic per-

Garasudo no naka, 4,50,156-170,171;

sona in late, 183-184; Shüzenji,

in, 185,191; philosophy in, 195-196;

and confessional literature, 169-170;

189-190; sokuten kyoshi in, 196,

contents of, 157-158; description of

234a 19; solitude in, 195-196.

Tokyo in, 163-166; family life in, 169;

See also Chinese poets

narrative persona in 168-169; per-

Kanzen chöaku, 28,98,203n. 23, 205n. 31

sonal relationships in, 168; scholar-

Kermode, Frank, 42

gentleman in, 143-147,156,159,168;

Kiköbun, 43,47-49

Soseki's parents in, 160-162,166-167

Köfu, 3,8,42-61,71,92,99; as experi-

Genbun itchi, 8, i98n. 8

mental novel, 43; narrative structure

Gender, 9-10

in, 44; parody of kiköbun in, 43,

God, 67,73,133,150,152,21m. 41

47-49; parody of naturalistic writing

Gongti shi (palace-style poetry), 34,

in> 49-52,58-59; Rubin's criticism

204n. 27,205n. 30 Gubijinso, 26-41,43,55,57,71,123,143;

of, 43,56,60; and shaseibun, 9, 54-55, 61; subversion of form in, 46

didacticism in, 28,35-37,99; and

"Köfu no sakui." See Söseki, works of

kanzen choaku, 28; language of,

Köjin, 4,8,40,118-155,163; and

33-35,191-192; literary traditions in,

Confucian gentlemen, 143-148;

34; social malcontent in, 28, 29-33,

female sexuality in, 136-139,2o6n.

52-53,58; strong closure in, 37,41;

35; human solitude in, 134-136;

suggestion of incest in, 37-40

modern anxiety in, 149-150; narra-

Index

245

tive voice in, 124-126; and Nietzsche,

65-66,95-97; Söseki's vision of, 1,4.

134,151; plot of, 121-122; setting of,

See also Lectures, by Söseki, on liter-

122-123,133

ature and morality

Komiya Toyotaka, 24,36,94,121

Movement: definition of, 119-120; in

Lectures, by Soseki, 3 - 4 , 2 4 , 8 2 - 1 1 7 , 1 1 8 ,

Mushanoköji Saneatsu, 64,202n. 15

Köjin, 135,148,149-153 202n. 16; "Bungei no tetsugakuteki kiso," 83, 85,89,95; "Bungei to

Nagai Kafü. See Kafu

dotoku," 65-66,83,95-101,122; cri-

Narrative persona: in Garasudo no naka,

tique of naturalism, 84-92; "Doraku

4,156-157,158-160,163,167-168,

to shokugyo," 83,101-108,134; on

170,171,181; in Michikuw,

enlightenment 113-116; "Gendai

171,172,174-175.176-177.179-181

Nihon no kaika," 70, 83,95,108-116, 133,149; on ideals in literary work,

4,156-157,

Narrative voice: in Köfu, 171. See also Narrative persona

83; lecturing style, 94-95,109-110;

Natsume Soseki. See Söseki

on literature and morality, 96-101;

Naturalism, 2i3n. 4; Kunikida Doppo's

on modern existence, 110-112;

Take no kido, 13,84,91; Mayama

"Nakami to keishiki," 83,123; on

Seika's Kamokai, 90; Oguri Füyö's

self-oriented occupations, 103-104;

Gütara onna, 90; Shimazaki Töson's

"Sosakka no taido," 60, 83, 89; on

Hakai, 84,85; Shimazaki Töson's

the use of literature, 102

Haru, 13,49,50,53,84,101; Shimazaki Töson's Ie, 99; Tayama Katai's

Masaoka Shiki, 6

Futon, 13,84,99; Tayama Katai's

Maupassant, Guy de, 90

Sofubo, 99; Tokuda Shüsei's Arajo-

Meiji elitist society, 18

tai, 13,84; Tokuda Shüsei's Kabi, 99;

Michikusa, 170-181; emotional chaos in,

Tokuda Shüsei's Niröba, 90. See also

156-157; human isolation in, 153,169;

Söseki, critique of naturalism

intellectual distance in, 91,192;

Nietzsche, 1,134,151,163

memory in 177-179; narrative voice

Nowaki, 13-26,52,53,58,71,113,143,150,

in, 4 , 1 1 7 , 1 6 7 - 1 6 8 , 1 7 1 - 1 7 2 , 1 7 9 - 1 8 1 ;

191-192; didacticism in, 18; poetic

repetition in, 172-175; reportorial

language in, 16-17; social malcon-

style in, 175-176

tent in, 16,19-20,22, 25,32-33;

Modernization, 69,70. See also Civilization and enlightenment

strong closure in, 14,22,24-26; structured prose in, 19-21

Mokuyokai, 94, 2i6n. 21 Morality: individual, 93; and literature,

Order: and conservatism, 40; definition

1 3 , 1 4 , 1 8 , 1 9 , 22,23-24,36-37,41,

of, 1, 2; in Garasudo no naka,

96-101; naturalistic (contemporary),

156-157; grappling with chaos, 12,32,

65-66,95-97; romantic (old),

122,136,143,170,171; in kanshi, 5,

246

Index

184,186,188; and repetition, 175; restore, to chaos, 3,20, 21,22,131. See also Chaos Osaka, 121,122-124,132,133 Öta Tatsujin (0), 144-148

Japanese theater, 63-65, 68-69,73> 74,79-80,81 Söseki: birthplace of, 159-161; childhood of, 157,166-167; and Chinese learning, 13, 233n. 14; and Chinese poetry, 33,182-184 (see also Kanshi); as

Parody: of kiköbuti, 42-49; of naturalis-

critic, 4,46,53,82, 97,108,116-117;

tic writing, 49-52,58-59; of tradi-

critique of naturalism, 14,22-23,

tional Japanese theater, 63-68

83-93,96-97,100-101,116,2o6n. 36;

Persona, 156-159,170,184. See also Narrative persona Poetics of lingering (teikai shumi), 48, 2o8n. 13

on didacticism, 47, 89-91; and English literature, 7, 27,33,45,55, 117; and family, 169; joining Asahi Shimbun, 3,12,26; life of, 11-12,157; as mentor, 42,44,94,116,163,2i6n.

Reportorial style, 175-176, 200n. 2 Robbe-Brillet, Alain, 56,58, 60, 2ion. 29 Romanticism, 60,98,100; romantic morality, 6 5 - 6 6 , 9 5 - 9 6 ; romantic voice, 1; romantic works (Söseki), 5, 92,220n. 50

22; on morality, 1,4,13, 23-24,52; and parents, 160-162,166-167; persona of scholar-gentleman in, 156-159,170,184; rootedness in Tokyo, 162-166; on shaseibun, 54 (see also Shaseibun); and Tokyo Imperial University, 23-24

Samurai, 64-65 Shaseibun, 6,7,43,92,209n. 17; in Köfu, 9.54-55. 61 Shin (truth, verisimilitude), 14,83,85, 86-88 Shinjümono. See Traditional Japanese theater Shötaku (Kafu), 105-107 Social malcontents, 16,194; in Nowaki, 25,32-33; in Gubijinsö, 28,29-33, 52-53,58,204n. 25; in Sorekara, 16, 32,74-75, 2i2n. 46; in Western literature, 16 Sokuten kyoshi, 5,196, 2i2n. 48, 234n. 19 Sorekara, 16,32,42,47,61-81,108; closure of, 79; Daisuke's tragicality in, 69,71-73,120,136,137,141,153; plot of, 62-63; and traditional

Söseki, works by: Botchan, 5; Bunchö, 81,92, 2i6n. 18; Bungakuron, 7,12, 117,22on. 51; Eijitsu shöhin, 228n. 1, 229n. 11; Higan sugi made, 8,57, 118-119,2o6n. 35; Ichiya, 22on. 50; Kairokö, 5,34,35,80,92,191,192; "Keitö jo," 48; "Kinsaku shösetsu nisan ni tsuite," 90; "Köfu no sakui to shizenha denkiha no köshö," 40, 49,50-51; Kokoro, 8,9,11,24,148, 153; Koto no sorane, 192; Kusamakura, 71,137, 23m. 2, 233n. 11; Maboroshi no täte, 6,34,35,80,92,191, 192; Meian, 2,5,32,39,117182,184, 192, 230n. 18; Mon, 8,57,78,108, 124,136,139,141,143,180-181; Nihyakutöka, 57; Omoidasu koto nado, 93-94,189; Rondon To, 191,192;

Index Sanshirö, 40,120; "Senmonteki

155,163; in Sanshirö, 120; in

keikö," 2o6n. 36; Shakai to jibun, 83;

Sorekara, 120

247

"Shaseibun," 54; "Shösetsukai," 22011. 50; "Tanpen," 209a. 23; Waga-

Tao Qian. See Chinese poets

hai wa neko de aru, 5,8; "Watashi no

Takahama Kyoshi, 35

kojin shugi," 94,2i6n. 23; Yökyoshü,

Tanizaki Jun'ichirö, 123

22on. 50; Yumejüya, 46, 8i, 92,149,

Tokyo Imperial University, 12

191,2i5n. 17. See also Garasudo no

Traditional Japanese theater:

naka; Gubijinsö; Kanshi; Köfu; Köjin;

Chüshingura, 63; innovation in,

Lectures; Michikusa; Nowaki;

79-80,81; jidaimono, 63; jöruri, 3,

Sorekara

63,120; kabuki, 3,63,64,120; No,

Söseki boom, 9

129,223n. 10; sewamono, 64; shinjü-

Söseki chinryü, 11

mono, 63,68; Shinjü Ten no

Söseki kenkyü, 8, i99n. 12

Amijima, 63, 68

Söseki studies: current, 6 - 1 1 ; Egusa

Tragedy, 46,47,6i, 68,81,85,119; con-

Mitsuko, 10; Etö Jun, 7,10,16,27,

ventional notion of, 3

2i2n. 46; Fujii, James, 11; Hasumi

Tsubouchi Shöyö, 98-99

Shigehiko, 10,11; Ishihara Chiaki, 8-9; Karatani Köjin, 7 - 8 , 1 0 , 4 6 ,

Wang Wei. See Chinese poets

54-55; Komori Yöichi, 8-9; McClellan, Edwin, 200n. 2,2o8n. 9; Mizumura Minae, 9-10, 205n. 32; Mizuta Noriko, 10; Öoka Shöhei, 93; Rubin, Jay, 43,46,56; Yu, Beongcheon, 78,121 Söseki to sonojidai, 7 Space: definition of, 119-120; in Köjin, 132,133-134.137.139-141.153-154.

Yamanote, 120,123,22m. 5 Yoyü (a margin of leisure), 48,55 Zarathustra, 1,134,151,227n. 34 Zen, 192,193,195 Zhuangzi, 233n. 10 Zola, Emile, 90,2i4n. 12 Zuihitsu, 157

ABOUT

THE

AUTHOR

Angela Yiu is assistant professor of modern Japanese literature at Jôsai International University, Japan. She received her B.A. in comparative literature and East Asian studies at Cornell University and her M.A. and Ph.D. in East Asian languages and literatures at Yale University. Born and raised in Hong Kong, she brings her knowledge of Chinese and English Literature to her reading of Japanese literature. While a graduate student at Yale, she was a recipient of the Sumitomo Fellowship, the East Asian Prize Fellowship, and the Japan Foundation Fellowship. She taught Japanese at Connecticut College (1988-1989) and Chinese and Japanese at Cornell University (1989-1990). Previous publications include "The Poetics of Repetition in Sôseki's Michikusa," Jôsai International University Bulletin 2, no. 1 (March 1994): 97-115; and "Thorn" (a translation and interpretation of Mori Mari's Toge), Review of Japanese Culture and Society 7 (December 1995)148-52.

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