The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book 9781350024915, 9781350024922, 9781350024892

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The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan Series Editor: Christopher Gerteis, SOAS, University of London (UK) Series Editorial Board: Steve Dodd, SOAS, University of London (United Kingdom) Andrew Gerstle, SOAS, University of London (United Kingdom) Janet Hunter, London School of Economics and Political Science (United Kingdom) Helen Macnaughtan, SOAS, University of London (United Kingdom) Timon Screech, SOAS, University of London (United Kingdom) Naoko Shimazu, Yale-NUS College (Singapore) Published in association with the Japan Research Centre at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, UK. SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan features scholarly books on modern and contemporary Japan, showcasing new research monographs as well as translations of scholarship not previously available in English. Its goal is to ensure that current, high quality research on Japan, its history, politics and culture, is made available to an English speaking audience. Published: Women and Democracy in Cold War Japan, Jan Bardsley Christianity and Imperialism in Modern Japan, Emily Anderson The China Problem in Postwar Japan, Robert Hoppens Media, Propaganda and Politics in 20th Century Japan, The Asahi Shimbun Company (translated by Barak Kushner) Contemporary Sino-Japanese Relations on Screen, Griseldis Kirsch Debating Otaku in Contemporary Japan, edited by Patrick W. Galbraith, Thiam Huat Kam and Björn-Ole Kamm Politics and Power in 20th-Century Japan, Mikuriya Takashi and Nakamura Takafusa (translated by Timothy S. George) Japanese Taiwan, edited by Andrew Morris Japan’s Postwar Military and Civil Society, Tomoyuki Sasaki The History of Japanese Psychology, Brian J. McVeigh Postwar Emigration to South America from Japan and the Ryukyu Islands, Pedro Iacobelli The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan, Sari Kawana Gathering for Tea in Modern Japan, Taka Oshikiri Mass Media, Consumerism and National Identity in Postwar Japan, Martyn Smith Japan’s Occupation of Java in the Second World War, Ethan Mark Post-Fascist Japan, Laura Hein

The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan Histories and Cultures of the Book Sari Kawana

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2018 Paperback edition first published 2019 Copyright © Sari Kawana, 2018 Sari Kawana has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. vii constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kawana, Sari, author. Title: The uses of literature in modern Japan : histories and cultures of the book / SariKawana. Description: London ; New York, NY : Bloomsbury Academic, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2018. | Series: SOAS studies in modern and contemporary Japan | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017032810 | ISBN 9781350024915 (hardback) | ISBN 9781350024908 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Japanese literature–History and criticism. | Publishers and publishing–Japan–History–20thcentury. | Books and reading–Japan–History–20th century. Classification: LCC PL720 .K39 2018 | DDC 895.609–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017032810 ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-2491-5 PB: 978-1-3501-2636-7 ePDF: 978-1-3500-2489-2 ePub: 978-1-3500-2490-8 Series: SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgments Introduction: Japanese Literature and the Survival of the Useful 1 2 3 4 5

Mass-Produced Must-Haves: The Enpon Boom, Cultural Inflation, and Advertising Battles Reading Beyond the Lines: Young Readers and Wartime Reading Practices Murder He Wrote: Textbooks, Visual Adaptations, and Critique Policière in Natsume Sōseki’s Kokoro Authorship and Loose Canons: Media Mix, Visual Adaptation, and Literary Success Literary Ambulation: Tourism, Author Worship, and Hunting for the Past

vi vii 1

17 49 77 123 153

Conclusion: Copyright, the Commons, and Guardians Against Gridlock

189

Notes Bibliography Index

205 255 271

List of Figures 1.1 “Start by investing one yen!” 28 1.2 “For the subscription fee of one yen, build the best and most beautiful home library” 33 1.3 “A Shōgakusei zenshū for the child you love” 35 1.4 “A model children’s library” 36 2.1 “A mountain of Shōnen kurabu,” October 1935 60 2.2 “A mountain of Shōnen kurabu,” December 1935 62 3.1 Floor plan of sensei’s boarding house 80 3.2 Floor plan of the Château du Glandier 81 3.3 K smiles at sensei, Kokoro (dir. Ichikawa Kon, 1955) 87 3.4 K and sensei holding hands, Kokoro (dir. Ichikawa Kon, 1955) 87 3.5 Sensei’s cruel words to K 93–94 3.6 Original Kokoro manuscript, with the characters henshi 109 3.7 Original Kokoro manuscript, with the character bō 114 4.1 Ozaki Kōyō’s detailed sketch of O-Tane 129 4.2 Terasaki Kōgyō’s final illustration of O-Tane 131 5.1 Shirakawa Hiroshi posing as Dazai Osamu 181

Acknowledgments Writing any book takes time, but this manuscript has been a longer haul than expected. Over the last ten years there have been numerous stops and starts, twists and turns—some personal, some professional. There were intentional detours as I worked on other projects that did not make their way into this book. Like some of the episodes discussed in the following chapters, the path to publication has not been straight, but now the ideas that have been percolating for more than a decade have come together in tangible form. The foundational stages of research for this project were made possible by a postdoctoral fellowship from the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science (JSPS), which allowed me to have a base in Japan during 2005–2006. My postdoc year was productive with the help of my generous host researcher and his institution, Professor Endō Tomomi of Japan Women’s University. They provided me with an institutional home, support, and freedom with which I was able to explore various interesting questions and curious phenomena that I wished to tackle as the next step after completing my Ph.D. The grants I have received since have contributed to the completion of this project, as they enabled me to return to Japan on a number of occasions to perform necessary follow-up research: a travel grant from the Northeast Asia Council of the Association for Asian Studies, a Short-Term Research Fellowship from the Japan Foundation, and a Joseph P. Healey Research Grant and two College of Liberal Arts Dean’s Research Fund awards from my home institution of the University of Massachusetts Boston. These sources of support have actually generated more research than can fit in this book; I aim to publish more of these findings in other venues—and hopefully without as much of a time lag. I also would like to thank the institutions and organizations who gave me opportunities to present parts of this book while they were still in progress, as well as the many individuals who provided valuable comments and insights. That I was able to write this book at all owes a great deal to the libraries, archives, institutions, and publishers (and their staff members) that provided assistance in locating sources and granted permission to use their content. In Japan, I relied upon the general and specialized collections of such libraries as the National Diet Library, the Tokyo Metropolitan Library, the Museum of Modern

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Japanese Literature, the Kōbunsha Japan Library of Mystery Literature, the Meiji University Museum Library, and the Textbook Library of the Japan Textbook Research Center; I also drew knowledge and inspiration from the often small but invaluable holdings of various bungakukan devoted to individual authors and/or localities. In the United States, I could not have functioned without the support of the Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies, nor without the tremendous help of the capable and accommodating staff of the Harvard-Yenching Library as well as the Healey Library at the University of Massachusetts Boston, especially in the interlibrary loan office and at the circulation desk. I am grateful to EastPress, Iwanami Shoten, the Japanese Association for the Copyrights of Textbook Publishers (JACTEX), Nikkatsu, Tōkyō shoseki, and Waseda University Library for their kind permission to reproduce their illustrations in my book. Many thanks as well to the journal Book History for permission to include as Chapter 2 in this book a revised and updated version of my article “Reading Beyond the Lines: Young Readers and Wartime Japanese Literature,” Book History 13 (2010): 154–84. I will not be able to acknowledge everyone who has helped me along the winding road to publication, but I want to express my appreciation for the help, advice, consideration, and kindness that allowed me to write, rethink, rewrite, and complete this book. The simple language that I use here will hopefully convey the intense gratitude that I feel for my colleagues and friends. I trust that our paths will cross again soon and we will be able to talk about matters related (and unrelated!) to this project. That said, I do want to thank by name several individuals whose support have directly shaped the substance of this book. I am grateful to Mr. Kadokawa Haruki, whose input during the early stages of this project has inspired me beyond words. He graciously and generously shared his valuable time with a young researcher, not even an assistant professor, at a point when her research was still underdeveloped and uncertain. It is my hope that Chapter 4 in this book does justice to his innovation, creativity, and passion as a publisher. I am also indebted to Mr. Shirakawa Hiroshi, whose personal tour of his Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House was a breakthrough moment in the late stages of writing this manuscript. I would also like to thank him for allowing me to use his image as an illustration. Exploring the space of the museum and hearing illuminating accounts of the author’s life and activities, I realized that Mr. Shirakawa has succeeded in “calling up ghosts”—to borrow the language of David Parker, former curator of the Charles Dickens Museum, quoted in full in Chapter 5—and in creating an intimate and engaging magnet for literary

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tourists who make the journey to Aomori to directly experience the world of a favorite author. This book may have taken even longer if not for a few academic friends who came to my rescue as I was preparing the final manuscript for submission to my publisher. James Dorsey, Shinoda Tōru, and Yamada Shōji lent invaluable assistance in tracking down some elusive details in the bibliography and illustrations. Linda Chance continued to be a calming and encouraging presence for me long after my graduate days. I am truly fortunate to have such accomplished and accommodating supporters in my corner. As a scholar interested in publishing history, I am sincerely appreciative to the editorial and production staff at Bloomsbury who have shepherded this project from initial proposal to bound book. Series editor Christopher Gerteis and press editor Emma Goode have been encouraging and responsive throughout the process, and the anonymous peer reviewers provided timely and thoughtprovoking feedback on the manuscript. Thanks also to Beth Williams, Adriana Brioso, Gogulanathan Bactavatchalane, and the other publishing professionals involved in the nitty-gritty work of transforming a batch of computer files into an actual book. Lastly, I thank my family, who have been patient and supportive as this project has evolved over the years. As research and writing took precedence over my share of the cooking and cleaning, they ensured that our household continued to function. While all errors in this book are my responsibility, any credit that might accrue to this work is a testament to the help and support of everyone acknowledged here. Sari Kawana July 2017

Introduction: Japanese Literature and the Survival of the Useful

More than a century after his death, the literary great Natsume Sōseki (1867– 1916) has returned to the media spotlight of modern Japan. Since April 2014, three of his novels—Sorekara (And Then, 1909), Mon (The Gate, 1910), and Kokoro (1914)—have been re-serialized in the Asahi shinbun, the same daily newspaper in which the stories originally appeared in the early twentieth century. This resurgence has extended beyond the printed word into the physical world, with the long-dormant plan of restoring the Sōseki sanbō (the author’s famous residence that went up in flames in the Tokyo air raids of 1945) now well underway and scheduled for completion in September 2017, in time for the 150th anniversary of his birth.1 These expressions of enthusiasm for his life and works attest that although Sōseki the man has been “gone” for a hundred years, his personal fame and his literary legacy have continued to captivate the Japanese public. This survival and revival of a literary titan and his works are all the more remarkable in light of the oft-whispered “crisis” and possible “death” of not only literary studies but also literature itself in contemporary Japan. Sōseki’s contemporaries have not been so lucky. To combat the powerful partnership between Sōseki and the Tōkyō Asahi shinbun back in the 1910s, other newspapers lined up serializations of comparable quality by Kikuchi Yūhō (1870–1947), Oguri Fūyō (1875–1926), and Yanagawa Shun’yō (1877–1918), and these competing works produced modest success (especially Yanagawa Shun’yō’s Nasanu naka [The Stepchild], serialized in the Ōsaka Mainichi shinbun in 1912). However, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, these texts and their authors are largely “forgotten” in the sense that none of these works are available in popular bunko (mass-market paperback) form, nor have there been plans to establish literary museums or commemorative events in their honor.2 The posthumous career of Watanabe Katei (1864–1926), one of the most prolific and popular authors of his

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time, also reveals a stark contrast between Sōseki and his contemporaries. Katei’s Uzumaki (Vortex, 1913–14) was serialized in the Ōsaka Asahi shinbun at around the same time as Sōseki’s Kokoro. Katei’s work was so popular that it became a social phenomenon, with the Osaka Mitsukoshi Department Store producing varieties of merchandise based on the story: Uzumaki dye, Uzumaki fabric, Uzumaki dolls—and the Uzumaki pattern, which appeared as a decorative motif on handbags and han’eri collars.3 However, more than a hundred years later, nothing remains of this craze, and the work and its author have been relegated to obscurity. Why do some literary works survive while others simply fade? Regional differences between Tokyo and Osaka alone cannot fully explain the divergent fortunes of Sōseki and Katei. How can Sōseki’s works appear “timeless” and Katei’s works “dated” even though their themes and concerns seem situated squarely in the respective periods in which they were written? Sōseki’s lasting presence could be explained in part by his widespread visibility as the face of the 1,000-yen bill between 1984 and 2007—and perhaps those were times when literature enjoyed more “currency” than now—but the exalted status of his works is probably what earned him the position in the first place. Can we attribute Sōseki’s success to the sheer power of his writing, the endearingly and enduringly humorous characters like the nameless cat of Wagahai wa neko de aru (I Am a Cat; 1905–6) and lovable antihero Botchan from the eponymous novel (1906), and the universality of his concerns for modern life? Or could something else be contributing to the survival of his works and his celebrity? Studies on the general life expectancy of literary works indicate that Sōseki’s case is an anomaly. In many ways, it is more natural for a literary work to be forgotten over time, especially after the author’s death. Journalist Tanji Yoshinobu reports that most works—no matter how famous their authors and no matter how well they sold—tend to be forgotten well before the end of the fifty-year duration of copyright protection under current Japanese law.4 As heated debates over the possible extension of copyright protection took place in 2007, Tanji studied the status of works by authors who passed away between 1957 and 1966 and were most likely to be influenced by the change in the law as their copyright would expire during the subsequent ten years. Of the 1,710 authors he researched, 856 (50.1 percent) of them had some sort of posthumous publication; however, the number dropped with time, and after the fiftieth year—between the fifty-first and sixtieth years, for instance—only 1.3 percent had some sort of publication, and the number dropped further to 0.9 percent between the sixty-first and seventieth years.5 In a similar study, the economist

Introduction

3

Tanaka Tatsuo estimates that even for authors who published ten times during their lifetimes, the likelihood of even a single publication fifty years after their deaths is less than 5 percent.6 While these figures are not limited to literary works, it is likely that for literature the rate of posthumous publication is similar or even lower, as Tanji’s research also reveals that even the works of canonical authors, such as Nagai Kafū (1879–1959), can lapse into dormancy over time. Until the mid-1990s, Kafū’s works had enjoyed a decent stretch of posthumous publication, with three sets of personal zenshū (complete works); however, by 2007, only a quarter of his representative works were available in active print in popular bunko or zenshū forms.7 The unexpected longevity of some literary works and the short lives of others attest that for literature to stand the test of time it must have the help of agents (other than their authors) who recognize its value, alert new audiences to its presence, and/or ensure its availability and accessibility beyond its original form of dissemination. The findings of Tanji’s research lead him to call for a reconsideration of the relationship between authors and their works, and more importantly, between works and their incidental “users” who find value beyond the intentions of their authors: All works—not just books—exist because of their creators. But there is not much that creators can do after their works are sent out into the world to make sure that they live on. The life of a work can only rely on the support of those readers, viewers, and audiences that appreciate and use the work. In other words, it is creators who give birth to their works, but users [riyōsha] who ensure their survival.8

In Tanji’s view, those works that survive certainly may have literary and artistic value, but they also need to have “use value”; or, more precisely, they need to possess some innate or posthumously given qualities that others can mold and enhance to serve their own purposes, even if those qualities were perhaps never conceived by the author. Texts that outlive their authors and extend beyond the general literary life expectancy are the kind of literature for which others can find uses. However, in most formal literary criticism, the potential of literary works to be “useful” has been neglected—or even discouraged—as a frame of reference in favor of artistic quality or even sheer entertainment value. As Terry Eagleton points out, the utility of literature beyond its intrinsic power has been a taboo for most of the history of literature: “The Romantic opposition to the utilitarian ideology of capitalism has made ‘use’ an unusable word: for the aesthetes, the glory of art is its utter uselessness.”9 This has also been the case for modern

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Japanese literature, particularly with the tendency toward author worship among critics and readers, as well as the influence of Japanese Naturalists who upheld that literary works should be mirrors of lives actually lived.10 If one turns to literature for sheer pleasure, reading becomes nothing more than cheap voyeurism, and such an attitude can downgrade the work (and literary criticism) to the level of trashy pulp gossip. In order for literature to maintain its exalted position, it needs to discredit such readings and instead encourage readers to draw moral lessons or admire the prose. But literature can be useful and has been useful, and emphasizing the use value of literature may be crucial to ensure its survival in the twenty-first century. Literary scholars like Sasanuma Toshiaki lament that the unpopularity of literature today owes to its perceived lack of use value, and the current decline of literature departments at Japanese universities as its corollary comes as a disappointment but not a surprise: “to put it bluntly, according to the practical principles of present-day capitalism, ‘literature’ neither ‘sells’ nor is ‘useful.’ ”11 Other “milder” critics assess that literature at the beginning of the twenty-first century stands accused of being “useless” and literary studies as a major is losing its audience because of its seeming irrelevance to real life and its unclear benefit to employment.12 However, the events and episodes discussed in this book show that in the past the various proponents of literature successfully “used” literary works to meet various ends, and the by-products of their endeavors, both intended and fortuitous, have helped literature live on beyond their copyrighted years.13 It is possible for literature to achieve immortality, but this is a kind of immortality that requires constant upkeep. Readers have sought, or inadvertently encountered, in literature something else besides philosophical lessons, moral articulations, or pleasurable entertainment. After pointing out the past taboo against acknowledging the “use value” of literature, Eagleton continues: “every reading of a work is surely in some sense a use of it. We may not use Moby Dick to learn how to hunt whales, but we ‘get something out of it’ even so.”14 In their interpretive freedom, readers have been learning something besides lofty lessons from the literature they read, and what they found made them yearn to possess this something physically in the form of a book, to experience it in three dimensions by living the story, or to create their own versions of that story. When literature risks being perceived as an obsolete tool of self-improvement, social advancement, political ideology, or even entertainment, these agents perform the “upkeep” of relevant literary works: they blow away the dust that accumulates over time so that new audiences—who may be more familiar

Introduction

5

with different media, have different tastes, or are not necessarily looking for something from the past—can recognize the presence of use value.

Expanding the field of modern Japanese literature This book analyzes key instances between the Meiji period (1868–1912) and the present at which such agents have intervened in the literary field to show that literature has been a versatile source of use value for the publishing industry and beyond. This approach complements the scholarship on the history of modern Japanese literature, which has tended to examine the development of content in relation to other literary, historical, and sociopolitical contexts— for example, how the rise and fall of literary movements old and new shaped works of modern prose and poetry; how the “opening” of Japan to the West in the nineteenth century spurred literary figures to participate in the broader “modernization” project; how the articulation of a “national literature” was integral to the formation of the modern Japanese nation-state.15 These are prominent threads in most examinations of modern Japanese literature, but there are also many subtler strands that, when woven together, serve to expand, enhance, and enrich the scholarly tapestry of literary history. Introducing new ways of viewing familiar texts and understanding renowned authors can illuminate the intricate workings of the literary field, as Edward Mack asserts in his analysis of the modern Japanese publishing industry: Seeing literature as a contested field does more than help us to question ensconced conceptions of literary value, exposing what seems to be natural and inevitable as artificial and contingent; it helps us recognize the instruments that formed the field. … We cannot operate outside these mechanisms, but we can operate in fuller awareness of them. As we study the impact and relevance of texts in awareness of these mechanisms, we can also study the ways those texts and the concepts informing our thinking about those texts have been instrumentalized, either consciously or unconsciously, and the impact of that instrumentalization. In so doing, new groupings of literary works, new cultural entities, can be created in order to enlighten, to reveal, rather than to discipline or conceal.16

One such instrument, the present book will argue, is the idea of use value and how it is ascribed to literary works when they are reshaped, repackaged, and repurposed in their adaptations between, across, and beyond media.

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In his recent study on the role of inscriptive technologies in the articulation and formulation of literary realism—and, by extension, the development of modern Japanese literature—during the Meiji period, Seth Jacobowitz comments on the importance of viewing literary works from the broader vantage of media history: Until recently successive generations of scholars were taught to read authors and texts in an almost purely exegetic capacity that gave little consideration to the vast enterprise of excavating media history. Against the grain of canonical genealogy, the media-historical origins of Japanese literary, linguistic, and visual modernity not only demand their own archaeology; they also require that we resituate familiar authors and texts that have been thoroughly naturalized/ nationalized as relays in media concepts, practices, and processes.17

The present book takes a similar stance by resituating familiar authors and texts within the interpretative contexts of use value and adaptation, examining how key works—and the authorial “brands” of their creators—can be understood as constituted and reconstituted media content put into motion by (but not fully under the control of) authors, publishers, and readers. This analytical frame may seem to undermine the traditional view of canonicity as a static collection of texts and their creators grouped together because of their enduring literary and authorial “greatness” as representing the best of “national literature”; however, the spirit of the following chapters is rather to argue for the fluidity and flexibility of the literary canon in modern Japan, especially when taking into account the tastes, desires, expectations, and experiences of readerships—and the strategies employed by the publishing industry in catering to them. This echoes the view espoused by Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki in their volume on the “invention” of literary classics: Canon formation is thus concerned not only with the immediate producers of the work—the authors, the scribes, the printers, etc.—but also with those agents and institutions (such as commentators, patrons, temples, schools, museums, publishing houses) that produce or re-produce the value of the text and that create the consumers and audiences capable of recognizing and desiring that value.18

This idea of a text persisting in the canon through the “reproduction” of its value comes into clear focus through Michael Emmerich’s exploration of how Genji monogatari (The Tale of Genji) has been enshrined as a masterpiece of world literature through “translation” into different forms—with those forms coming to “replace” the original text while not just maintaining but also augmenting its canonical status. Emmerich describes the process as:

Introduction

7

the continual replacement of canonical texts by new, different versions of themselves that answer to the needs not only of authoritative institutions intent on preserving and propagating their own values and ideologies, but also of their consumers; the literary canon as an enormous gallery of look-alikes, a string of placeholders. Indeed, in the real world, replacements need not be word-for-word translations or even image-for-word translations at all: just about any text or object will do, so long as it enables its readers or consumers to participate in the communal act of valuing the story it was made to represent.19

As Emmerich demonstrates, Genji’s sustained following owes a great deal to the various modes of translation—textual to visual, original to parody, classical Japanese to modern Japanese, Japanese to other languages—that have propelled the story across formats, genres, media, and languages to reinforce the work as a “classic” of Japanese literature. A significant part of this ongoing veneration stems from Genji’s recognition (via translation) outside of Japan as a masterwork of “world literature,” and how that global reputation, in turn, has further elevated its place in the Japanese canon. This circuitous route to literary survival, in which translations from the Japanese venture into the world before circling back to Japan and enhancing the position of the original, serves as another pathway in which “use value” is exercised to export literary works and extend their reach and longevity well beyond their native borders and expected lifespans.20 Although specific translations from the Japanese and their influence on canonical status are relevant to the present book and deserve extended treatment, especially in the context of modern Japanese literature, a detailed examination (beyond a few examples) is outside the scope of the subsequent chapters.21 To borrow Emmerich’s language, this study will focus upon “communal acts of valuing the story” in the context of modern Japanese literature, considering how the use value of certain literary works has driven “translation” into a range of “lookalikes”—some textual, some visual, some intangible, some seemingly frivolous— that have cemented the status of these texts in the cultural canon.

Visual adaptations: More than free promotion The literary scholar Shindō Masahiro points out that many bestsellers of the Meiji period acquired this privileged status through their adaptations into such adjacent media as theater, yose storytelling, cinema, and music.22 Avatars in different media through adaptation ensure the survival—or at least longevity—

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of literary works in the popular consciousness. A notable example today of a vernacular literature gone global through translations and adaptations may be Victor Hugo’s (1802–85) Les Misérables (1862). It is undoubtedly a magnum opus not only of nineteenth-century French literature but also the genre of the novel in terms of scale, language, and political message, yet the work’s longevity into the twenty-first century has perhaps been sustained by the fact that it has been adapted into film nearly forty times since its original publication (including six times in Japan).23 It has also been popularized also by multiple internationally successful musical adaptations since 1985, and the most recent version in 2012 fused these forms into a musical film (dir. Tom Hooper).24 Through these adaptations, the work has been able to appeal to an audience that is not necessarily versed in nineteenth-century French literary, social, or political history, nor equipped with the critical tools to analyze the work from a scholarly perspective. In a similar vein, Jane Austen’s (1775–1817) works from the late eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries live on in the twenty-first century through visual adaptations as well as printed texts, while many works from the same period have been forgotten. On the role of film adaptations in Jane Austen’s contemporary reputation, Gina Macdonald and Andrew Macdonald argue: “Certainly, given modern proclivities, without the film as bait to attract more general readers and to help justify including the novels in school reading lists, Austen’s readership might well be a far more limited, esoteric group than that is today.”25 Sōseki’s works have definitely lent themselves to adaptation in visual media. As far as cinematic adaptations are concerned, his Botchan was adapted into film as early as 1935 (dir. Yamamoto Kajirō) and Yume jūya (Ten Nights’ Dream, 1908) as recently as 2007 (dir. various).26 In recent years, Sōseki’s works—as well as his life story—have also been adapted into manga numerous times.27 In a similar manner, Hayashi Fumiko (1903–51) and her bestseller Hōrōki (Diary of a Vagabond, 1930), an autobiographical account of her struggle as a young woman in the 1920s, has likely stayed accessible to contemporary audiences through multiple cinematic adaptations (1935, 1954, 1962) as well as a longrunning theatrical adaptation starring the actress Mori Mitsuko (1920–2012) from 1961 to 2009.28 Sometimes visual adaptations exert as much power as a Nobel Prize in anchoring a work or an author in the popular consciousness. The literary scholar Toeda Hirokazu contrasts the lasting success of Kawabata Yasunari (1899–1972) with the fainter legacies of his fellow authors in the so-called New Sensation School (Shin kankaku-ha), Yokomitsu Riichi (1898–1947), and Kataoka Teppei

Introduction

9

(1894–1944). Even though Yokomitsu and Kataoka enjoyed similar levels of fame to Kawabata during their prime years, today they only enjoy sporadic attention from the general population and perhaps also from critics. Certainly, Kawabata lived longer than his colleagues and was active well into the postwar period, but Toeda speculates that what decisively divided their fates was the extent to which their works were adapted. Although Kawabata’s works enjoyed a steady stream of adaptations across the prewar to postwar periods, neither Yokomitsu’s Shanghai (1931) nor Ryoshū (Loneliness on a Journey, 1937–46)— two important works in terms of theme, style, and historical significance—have ever been adapted into cinema. The trajectories of some of Kawabata’s own works suggest that literary achievement and adaptability are two different things. Toeda illustrates the process in which the story “Izu no odoriko” (Dancing Girl of Izu, 1926), a short piece Kawabata authored as a young man at the beginning of his writing career, becomes a more significant work in making Kawabata a national (and international) author than other more highly regarded works like Yukiguni (Snow Country, published in pieces between 1935 and 1948), Senbazuru (Thousand Cranes, 1949–51), and Koto (The Old Capital, 1961–62)—works for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize.29 Since its first publication, “Izu no odoriko” has been adapted into film six times; it also appeared many times on the small screen, most notably as the prestigious morning drama television serial on the national broadcaster NHK in the 1960s; it has also benefitted from constant promotion by the tourist industry of the Izu region through a dizzying variety of Odorikothemed travel packages.30 Since 1981, trains named after the story—the Odoriko limited express and now the Super View Odoriko—have carried passengers between Tokyo and the hot spring resorts of the Izu Peninsula. Aside from Kawabata’s virtuosity as an author, he may have enjoyed the good fortune of harmonious coexistence with adaptations precisely because he was the type of author who not only welcomed rearrangements of his stories at the hands of others but also considered such adaptations to be independent of his original works. Some authors and critics have considered visual narrative to be an “adversary” of literature that has made the printed word a less attractive creative medium. J. Hillis Miller reminds us that literature inherited the “responsibility for Bildung” from philosophy and “used to be a primary way in which citizens of a given nation state were inculcated with the ideals, ideologies, ways of behavior and judgment that made them good citizens.”31 However, he also points out that this role has since then been taken over by other media such as “radio, cinema, television, video, and the Internet, soon universal wireless

10

The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

video,” and this change is bringing about the “gradual death of literature in the modern sense of the word.”32 Precisely because of such a radical takeover, some authors had been vehemently against visual adaptation of their works. Kawabata commented with some surprise that the author of popular stories Shirai Kyōji (1889–1980), for one, had a strict policy against accepting visual adaptations his works.33 Dudley Andrew observes: “strident conservatives would rather see literature atrophy than to be travestied by the entertainment industry; equally strident radicals denounce the blunting of art’s critical edge by those pandering first to the tastes of a mass audience.”34 In contrast, Kawabata rejected the idea that an adapted film is supposed to be bound by an umbilical cord of sorts to the original text in the form of fidelity as well as the supposed hierarchy between the “original” and its “derivations.” Instead, as Kawabata observed: “It goes without saying that literature and film are different things. If an author insists on faithfulness [chūjitsu] to his original work and goes so far as to interfere with the adaptation or even the filming, then we often see such films invite unexpected failure.”35 Kawabata seems to have kept such an open attitude toward adaptation throughout his career.36 When his novel Asakusa kurenaidan (The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa, 1929–30) was quickly adapted in 1930, he reportedly asked the production team to forget the original and create their own version of the story: “I insisted that they should freely create their own film story for Asakusa kurenaidan, in which they forget the original work. If they wanted to change the plot or have new characters appear, that would be fine.”37 His attitude toward adaptation seems to have remained the same even a few decades later. Yoshinaga Sayuri (1945–), the actress who played the eponymous dancing girl in the 1963 film Izu no odoriko, reveals that Kawabata during their encounter urged her to act freely so that she can create her own odoriko.38 Kawabata’s egalitarian attitude regarding the relationship between an original and its adaptation extended even to unfinished works. When discussions arose about adapting Kawabata’s long novel Tōkyō no hito (People of Tokyo, 1954–55) into a film, the original serialization in newspapers had not yet finished. Because of that, the director of the adapted film Nishikawa Katsumi (1918–2010) and the producer visited the author at his home in Kamakura and asked out of sheer necessity how the author intended to end the novel so that they could write their adaptation accordingly. Kawabata reportedly replied: “Please create the screenplay as you would like. I will write as though to copy you—that is easier for me as well.”39 Kawabata’s comment implies that he was not only ready to let go of his work after completing it but also willing to be influenced by its adaptations

Introduction

11

during the original serialization. These episodes suggest that Kawabata did not consider his work as depicting a single “truth” through one version of a story; rather, he appears to be an author who creates in conversation and sometimes in collaboration with the outside world.40 Kawabata conceived his writing and its adaptations to be independent of one another, and that the author is but one agent in the conveyance of the story. The author does not enjoy any privilege over others: as Kawabata noted, “an author’s criticism [of adaptations]—take me, for example—seems plausible to readers simply because he wrote the original, even though his words are those of someone who does not know much about film. This is surely an inconvenience to the producers.”41 In denying the author a privileged position, Kawabata seems to naturally understand what George Bluestone argues is the essential difference between novel and film: With the abandonment of language as its sole and primary element, the film necessarily leaves behind those characteristic contents of thought which only language can approximate: tropes, dreams, memories, conceptual consciousness. In their stead, the film supplies endless spatial variations, photographic images of physical reality, and the principles of montage and editing. All these differences derive from the contrast between the novel as a conceptual and discursive form, the film as a perceptual and presentational form. In these terms, the film-maker merely treats the novel as raw material and ultimately creates his own unique structure. That is why a comparative study which begins by finding resemblances between novel and film ends by loudly proclaiming their differences.42

The original literary work and cinematic adaptations are bound to be different, and such an outcome is natural, acceptable, and should be considered a blessing. Kawabata agreed: “I believe that a film adaptation is a form of criticism of the original work. Taking this a step further, I would say that the original is nothing more than source material [sozai] for the film.”43 Kawabata’s conception of “source material” seems very close to Bluestone’s description of the novel as “raw material.” Bluestone also goes further to say: What happens, therefore, when the filmist undertakes the adaptation of a novel, given the inevitable mutation, is that he does not convert the novel at all. What he adapts is a kind of paraphrase of the novel—the novel viewed as raw material. He looks not to the organic novel, whose language is inseparable from its theme, but to characters and incidents which have somehow detached themselves from language and, like the heroes of folk legends, have achieved a mythic life of their own.44

Such “raw material” achieves a “mythic life of its own” through its avatars across other media. Kawabata similarly conceived the role of his work in a larger

12

The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

chain of artistic creation: “If it can inspire the production of a film, then this is sufficient. This is similar to a painting inspiring a poem, or a piece of music inspiring a novel.”45 The power of inspiration, when it prompts the adapter into action, becomes the artwork’s use value and a new role in the network of artistic creation. Kawabata’s collaborative idea of artistic creation fits the current model of longevity and immortality. As the subsequent chapters will argue, this “chain of artistic creation” for modern Japanese literature has required the participation of publishers, illustrators, advertisers, filmmakers, playwrights, as well as myriad anonymous lay fans who continue to think about, talk about, and experience the work. These creative agents are not simply appropriating the original story to their own benefit; rather, they are enhancing it by imbuing it with new uses and future potentials. Their seeming acts of “subtraction” or “derivation” are actually powerful forces of “multiplication” that create different forms of existence through which literary works can outlive their expected lifespans. Fiction does not survive simply because it is easy fodder for adaptation and reuse; on the contrary, it is nourished and nurtured into longevity through the care and creativity of its literary custodians who see new and different possibilities in “raw material.”

Mapping the histories and cultures of the modern Japanese book This study traces the ways in which literary works have morphed into different variants depending on the changing media preferences of audiences, ranging from textual (compilations, textbooks) and visual (film, manga, other media) to virtual and real world (literary tourism). Individual chapters are organized by overarching themes, with substantive examinations of works and their contexts often crossing chronological boundaries within each chapter. The first chapter discusses various aspects of the phenomenon of the so-called enpon boom, the craze for one-yen-per-volume book series in the late 1920s to early 1930s, perhaps the first instance at which literature was transformed into a mass-market commodity through effective repackaging of literary content that had already been published. The entire effort was supported by the notion that literature was a valid tool to achieve social advancement, cultural sophistication, and modern nationhood. In 1926, the struggling publisher Kaizōsha decided to take a gamble with their new publishing venture Gendai Nihon bungaku

Introduction

13

zenshū (Complete Works of Contemporary Japanese Literature) by selling each volume at the low subscription fee of one yen—an unprecedented price for a multivolume set with several hundred pages per volume. The remarkable success of this series encouraged many publishers to jump on the bandwagon and come up with their own inexpensive, mass-produced collections for popular consumption. Although the one-yen cost still made enpon relatively expensive commodities to the general population, the rhetoric of advertising and the competition to dump prices raised the perceived value of literature as well as private ownership of books. Considering that the late 1920s and early 1930s were also a time when smaller housing units were starting to be not only available but also even preferred especially in urban areas, effective packaging was the key to such enormous dissemination of literature in the physical form of multivolume series. Examination of contemporary cultural ideals and strategic developments suggests that this phenomenon was made possible—and sustained as long as it was—thanks largely to the tireless advertising campaigns of publishers who connected the idea of book ownership with other political, intellectual, and cultural fantasies that were prevalent at the time. These book-owning campaigns owed their success to a kind of “cultural inflation” in which publishers instilled in the minds of potential purchasers a sense of urgency to “own” kyōyō—cultural capital—in order to get ahead in modern Japanese society. Although no single publisher or author remained in total control of the widespread demand for enpon in general (or even one enpon series in particular), the various decisions of industry professionals, from seemingly inconsequential to overtly and immediately significant, can be considered expressions of their pursuit of cultivation and monopolization of new markets. In the process, enpon publishers astutely turned these mass-produced books, which clearly lacked any one-of-a-kind mystique, into “must-have” items for any cultured Japanese household. Chapter 2 examines another form of “use” in the form of propaganda by reconsidering the status of Japanese literature and the publishing industry during the Second World War. The artistic evaluation of works published in wartime and Occupation-era Japan is difficult because of the ever-present threat of censorship looming over the heads of authors and publishers—with the implication being that works published during the late 1930s to the end of the Second World War are all tainted or compromised. Publishers also had their own watchful eyes to deal with: as Jonathan Abel argues, “the high point for the explicit and visible work of state censors in Japan occurred between 1928 and 1936. After that peak, the offices did not have to work as diligently, because

14

The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

the mechanism had been internalized.”46 This internalized system, however, was no less “scary” or “convenient” than the externally imposed one: The publishing world was left to try to gauge the censor’s tastes, suppressing potentially objectionable passages before publication. If they failed, they would likely face postpublication bans, fines, seizures, and possible jail sentences. Though the responsibility for deciding when, where, and how often to use fuseji [blanked-out characters] had shifted from the Publishing Police to the editors, the new system was no less collusive with the state authorities.47

Because of this context, materials published during the war years are implicitly considered to possess little artistic merit as they have been viewed as simply designed to pass the stringent demands of wartime censorship. However, closer examination of individual literary texts from the early to mid-1940s that made it past the censors, as well as memoirs left by readers who consumed such works, provide a more nuanced look into the state of reading in wartime Japan. The creativity and independence of readers allowed ostensibly propagandistic works to be something more than ideological and political tools of persuasion. This study of the curious reception of what have generally been considered tools of political indoctrination forces us to look at works of wartime literature as fertile sources for the diverse cultural efforts of the postwar period. If Chapter 1’s discussion of the enpon boom provides an example of the most successful advertising campaign in mobilizing audiences to invest in literature, culture, and Japan as a modern nation, Chapter 2 counters with perhaps the least successful. Books were being bought and read even during the war, but often not for the reasons—the original “uses”—that their producers (or their authorizers) envisioned. Today, textbooks (kyōkasho) remain one of the few publication categories that undergo a rigorous approval process in Japan, but they also harbor possibilities for creative reading outside of their intended use. Chapter 3 discusses a pragmatic way in which a work can be “canonized” and ensure its presence in popular consciousness—notably through the inclusion in kokugo (literally “national language”) textbooks. Once recognized as worthy tools of education for the entire Japanese-speaking population, literary works can be excerpted in textbooks and enjoy steady exposure to new generations of readers. While literary content in kokugo textbooks is not as controversial as the treatment of historical events and figures in history textbooks, it can nonetheless undergo dilution and simplification when adapted as textbook material, as the context of classroom teaching often does not allow heterodoxy of interpretation or appreciation.

Introduction

15

However, this chapter examines how the pursuit of absolute orthodoxy in textbook excerpts of literary works can inadvertently generate unconventional and creative readings of established texts. Inspired by the supplementary material that such textbooks conventionally include precisely to disallow deviant readings, my analysis considers the excerption of Sōseki’s Kokoro in high-school kokugo textbooks, and revisits the love triangle between the three main characters in the novel—sensei, watakushi, and Shizu—to expose the crime behind it. By reading the entire text with additional materials provided alongside the excerpts in the textbooks, various preceding “deviant” readings, cinematic and manga adaptations of the novel, and applying Pierre Bayard’s notion of critique policière to my exploration, I suggest that K’s death, which has hitherto been unanimously ruled a suicide, was actually a murder committed by sensei. My analysis aims to show how cinematic frames and manga balloons can complement the missing, contradictory, and underexplored elements of the story and guide the viewer’s attention to new readings, even when the publisher’s intent in excerpting the original material seems to be prescriptive. This chapter offers an example of the surprising “use value” of reading material that is designed to generate one prescriptive reading but actually can be a starting point for diverse and innovative interpretations. The last two chapters examine cases in which literature is adapted beyond print into visual as well as three-dimensional spaces. The visual medium has long been a powerful ally to literature in disseminating itself to the widest possible audience and overcoming the changing tides against the printed word; since the prewar period, a number of literary works owed their bestseller status to illustrations that accompanied the text, especially in their original serializations, as well as through theatrical and cinematic adaptations. The coexistence of prose and visual image, however, often caused conflicts between the author and illustrator as well as other parties who wished to rearrange the original story to fit the conventions of their media. Chapter 4 takes two examples of authorial negotiations with such external forces. The often-radical nature of inter-media adaptations can create a canonical universe within which a literary work can undergo surprising variations. From early in the Meiji period, prose-centric authors like Ozaki Kōyō (1868–1903) needed to learn how to negotiate and ultimately enjoy collaborations with others creative professionals as the demand for his work expanded beyond print. However, the interplay between literature and visual media drew sharply closer when the publishing magnate Kadokawa Haruki (1942–) reissued old literary content but with the ultimate illustrations: movies. The shrewd head of Kadokawa

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The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

shoten promoted the detective fiction of Yokomizo Seishi (1902–81), an author whose works had been published decades earlier, by tying them into new cinema adaptations and cutting-edge television ads. The provocative invitation “Read then watch, or watch then read?” (yonde kara miru ka, mite kara yomu ka) became that year’s most famous catchphrase, and the fearless ad campaign elevated Yokomizo’s status from an “over-the-hill” hack to one of the highest-paid authors of the period. This attempt to maximize book sales and boost box office success created a new synergy between the film and publishing industries, revolutionized methods of bestseller promotion, and ultimately reshaped the image of pocket edition books among the Japanese reading public. Somewhat in contrast to Kōyō’s interventionist endeavor, the dealings between Yokomizo and Kadokawa Haruki suggest a new, fruitful collaboration between the author and the publisher, and a rare case in which the author of the original text was able to play other roles to ensure that his works could survive years after their original publication. Adaptations not only allow certain works to enter the “canon” but also to expand the story’s “canonical universe” by filling gaps in the original text, fleshing out minor but interesting characters, and even offering alternate storylines—creating variants that spur the growing ranks of creative readers to pursue their favorite stories and characters in other settings and situations. Chapter 5 examines the curious cultural endeavor of what I call hodoku (literally, “walking reading”) or “literary ambulation,” in which ardent aficionados of literature seek traces of their favorite stories and revered authors in the physical world. Visiting literary sites and viewing authorial relics are common activities among lovers of literature around the world, and such hodoku practitioners rely upon literary guidebooks to explore a site, city, and/or landscape to evoke the fictional and/or historical past. However, the dynamics and implications of the practice have not yet been fully explored—especially in the context of a city like Tokyo, where disasters (natural and manmade) and frequent rebuilding have dramatically altered the cultural terrain over the last two centuries. The chapter discusses the allure and challenges of hodoku for creative readers, and the potential for synergy between literature and tourism—including the role of literary museums—in enhancing the reading experience. The book concludes with a discussion of the idea of literary “use” in Japan through the prism of intellectual property and copyright, considering the history of the concept since the early waves of translation of Western texts in the late Meiji period and how the relaxation of usage restrictions may spark creative use of copyrighted materials through republication and adaptation, and allow literary works to survive in the popular imagination.

1

Mass-Produced Must-Haves: The Enpon Boom, Cultural Inflation, and Advertising Battles

Pricing, packaging, and promoting literature For many readers, the price of a book is one of the first indicators of the quality and value of its content. An ornately designed book with an embossed cover and edge-gilded pages tends to carry a hefty price tag, as though to advertise that its content is as august and desirable as its appearance. For such a book, its use value starts with its function as a decoration, with the power to make its owner appear to possess the knowledge in its pages as well as the cultural capital that it has accrued. In a more everyday setting, the savvy budget-conscious reader often compares the price with the content, and asks—is the content worth the price? But what happens when the decision to purchase occurs without or despite this consideration for its use value? What prompts some readers to buy books that they do not need or cannot actually afford? The episode of Ozaki Kōyō, one of the titans of Meiji-period literature, buying the expensive English dictionary Century even in light of his impending death is often cited as a laudatory anecdote of a man whose passion for literature outlived his physical body.1 However, the story is also noteworthy as an example of an “illogical” book-buying decision. The price and intrinsic worth of a book are extremely important factors for individual readers in deciding whether to purchase a book; but in prewar Japan during the enpon boom—the craze for mass-market edition books of a few hundred pages being sold for one yen per volume in the late 1920s—these considerations became secondary to less practical concerns. This was the eve of the Great Depression, when educational ideals such as kyōyō shugi (a cultural ideology of self-improvement) and the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake were losing potency, and the general economic malaise gave momentum to labor and social movements aligned with Marxism. This historical backdrop does not seem conducive to

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The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

a spike in consumption of a tangible good with intangible value; nonetheless, between 1926 and the early 1930s, a tremendous number of books were sold at rock-bottom prices to a wide range of readers in all walks of life.2 That cheap books were sold in large numbers is not a surprise in itself, but the phenomenon becomes curious when taking into account contemporary working and living conditions for many, in which wages were stagnant (low disposable income) and living space was limited (less room for possessions). The intentions of booksellers and publishers were straightforward: price dumping inevitably meant smaller margins, so profit had to come from higher volume of sales. For buyers, on the other hand, the economics were not that simple. In theory, if they wished simply to read books, shared collections in kashihon’ya (rental libraries) and public libraries were available for that purpose. For urban readers in particular, owning books would have been inconvenient, since smaller collective housing arrangements were becoming the norm. A typical enpon was larger and more expensive than the present-day bunko paperback. Most enpon were so-called chrysanthemum editions (kikuban), which were 50 percent larger than the present-day bunko paperbacks and not something city dwellers could easily store in their homes;3 Daimon Ichiju suggests that the average daily wage in 1930 was 2 yen 26 sen for male workers, and 85 sen for female workers.4 The material conditions of reading and book storage in the early twentieth century suggest that buying enpon, as cheap and convenient as they may have seemed, was an irrational decision for many consumers. Yet, the numbers suggest that they coveted private book ownership and subscribed to enpon series many times over. What can explain this illogical phenomenon? In one sense, the enpon boom was a result of historical circumstances, in that it filled the lacuna in book readership created by the massive destruction of shared collections, private and public, during the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923. The devastation of the earthquake was certainly a driving force behind the rage for cheap massmarket zenshū in the late 1920s—the physical eradication of book collections necessitated physical replacement. However, though their full recovery would have to wait until the late 1920s, public libraries reopened at least partially relatively quickly after the devastation. It is also true that kashihon’ya were already on decline from their heyday in the late Edo (1600–1868) and Meiji periods, well before the inauguration of the first enpon series in 1926. So it is likely that readers wanted their own personal copies of books even before publishers offered them. A latent desire for private book ownership is detectable in various accounts of avid readers from the period. Public

Mass-Produced Must-Haves

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libraries had their own problems prior to the earthquake and were unable to accommodate all of the needs of their patrons. Kashihon’ya were also less than ideal. The testimonials of patrons who frequented these establishments before 1923 indicate that the experience of using shared books, in public libraries or kashihon’ya, was not always convenient, pleasant, or even sanitary. The first section of this chapter examines the nature of shared collections in the 1920s and how the inconvenience and at times sheer difficulty of their use are likely to have aroused the desire for an easier and more pleasant reading experience through private book ownership. The physical devastation of the earthquake and the inconvenience of shared book collections, however, do not explain fully the extreme and widespread eagerness to acquire, collect, and store multiple volumes of multiple series rather than simply borrow or rent titles, or purchase individual volumes. The extreme—and in many ways irrational—success of enpon was made possible only by the effective packaging of literature at the hands of publishers and advertisers who were able to arouse in readers the desire not only to read but also own books. The rest of this chapter examines the strategies by which book promoters manipulated this latent mass desire, casting book ownership as a means of selfeducation as well as self-expression, and how these efforts resulted in a kind of “cultural inflation.” These campaigns included advertisements that featured metaphorical tie-ins with parliamentary elections, the active resurrection of kyōyō shugi ideals, and the progressive blurring of the boundary between real and fictional worlds, with the incorporation of actual historical events into literature and the adaptation of literary references to publishing and advertising campaigns in the real world. In the end, the hyperbolic rhetoric for ownership and self-enrichment created a situation in which the intangible value of literary content inflated while the price of its physical acquisition collapsed. With the widespread increase in literacy and the expansion of compulsory education in the early twentieth century, readers were developing more diverse tastes, and the earlier practice of reading texts aloud as part of a group was giving way to silent reading on an individual, private basis. The sites of such silent reading were also changing—readers perused their favorite books not only at home but also on the go, as their dominant mode of everyday transportation changed from rickshaw to commuter rail. In the wake of the earthquake, enterprising minds in the publishing industry exploited the unsatisfied demand for inexpensive and easy access to varied reading materials that fit their new lifestyles. The explosive boom was made possible—and lasted as long as it did— thanks largely to the tireless advertising campaigns of publishers who connected

20

The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

the idea of book ownership with other political, intellectual, and cultural fantasies that were prevalent at the time. They packaged literature as not only “must-read” but also “must-own” material. Although the price of physical books was obviously slashed, the supposed value of the knowledge contained in each volume was inflated through the revival and exaggeration of the ideology and rhetoric of kyōyō shugi that was supposed to have lost its allure with the advent of more immediate economic ideologies like communism and socialism. Publishers encouraged the practice of kyōyō shugi beyond its reasonable application—without which private book ownership would not have been preferred over book sharing. In the rhetorical wars between publishers for enpon supremacy, the value of cultural literacy grew into an overvalued bubble. As the following pages will show, enpon were often presented in advertisements as a commodity that could give consumers a certain intellectual insurance, preparation for when they are called upon to demonstrate their cultural literacy. The advertisements for enpon were so creative, adamant, and fierce that they successfully made the readers oblivious to the question of whether such an occasion was ever likely to arise.

Public libraries: Shared collection on the rise The damage to all industries in the Tokyo area caused by the Great Kantō Earthquake cannot be overstated. As Edward Mack has chronicled, the publishing industry, concentrated in the denser quarters of the capital, was hit especially hard.5 Public libraries, perhaps the most important common storage of knowledge at that point along with the libraries of the Imperial University system, sustained significant damage. During the earthquake and subsequent fire, twelve independent and metropolitan libraries in the Fukagawa and Kyōbashi districts were completely destroyed.6 Neither the Ōhashi Library nor the Tokyo Imperial University Library, the two most important specialized libraries in the capital, escaped total destruction.7 In addition, a vast number of books on loan were also destroyed in their respective destinations, as many private residences suffered massive fire damage. The Hibiya metropolitan library remained relatively intact, but since the outer walls and bookshelves inside suffered considerable damage, even they could not reopen at full capacity without extensive repairs. It is estimated that the Tokyo Metropolitan Library system altogether lost half of its collection during the earthquake.8

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21

In light of these numbers and historical facts, the explanation that the destruction of books during the Great Kantō Earthquake was the main cause for the enpon boom from 1926 onward seems logical: many books were destroyed, so they needed to be replaced. However, the public libraries reopened relatively quickly despite their losses (albeit with reduced capacity) well before the inauguration of the Kaizōsha’s series at the end of 1926. The Hibiya library reopened at least partially on September 20, and completely by October 5, 1923. The Tokyo Metropolitan Library system also opened twelve “provisional reading rooms” (rinji etsuranjo) and six “temporary libraries” (kasetsu toshokan) in various locations throughout the city within days of the disaster in order to comfort affected patrons who sought solace in reading. By the end of 1923, twelve branches within the Tokyo Metropolitan Library system were able to reopen either after some repairs and/or relocation.9 The new collections were undoubtedly smaller, but there were at least some books available to readers. The shift in book consumption from public collections to private ownership even after these libraries resumed their operations may have more to do with the actual experience of patronizing such institutions. Various accounts of public libraries report significant problems from their earliest days in the late nineteenth century to the eve of the earthquake, suggesting that as convenient and certainly economical as book sharing may have been in theory, the unpleasantness and inconvenience of the practice often outweighed the benefits. For one thing, because of budget constraints and bureaucratic processes, new titles by popular authors were hard to find on the stacks in public libraries— even if a particular library was able to overcome the traditional disapproval for circulating popular titles.10 Furthermore, public libraries did not necessarily provide their services for free. Among the metropolitan libraries in Tokyo, the Kyōbashi library did not charge a fee for using their facilities, but the Hibiya and Fukagawa libraries required payment to check out books, making them similar to kashihon’ya though perhaps less convenient.11 Physical space was also an issue: public libraries were often congested because of the sheer demand for their services. Even though some libraries endeavored to accommodate all patrons by extending their hours of operation and giving each library a specialized focus according to the tastes of the local population, most users were forced to wait for hours before they could even enter the facilities. The public libraries in Ueno and Hibiya were particularly notorious for their long lines that reached 1,500 people at peak hours.12 These reports point to the reality that patronage of public libraries required not only the passion to read but also enough time and patience to gain access to the building.

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The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan

Moreover, even after readers were able to enter the library after queuing patiently, most libraries in the pre-earthquake period still suffered from basic technical inconveniences such as insufficient lighting, so it was physically challenging to read there. Higuchi Ichiyō (1872–96) in her twenties diligently commuted to the Tokyo Library (the predecessor of today’s National Diet Library) in Ueno Park, stealing time between her lessons at the Haginoya school and menial work at home, in order to peruse the library’s holdings in Chinese and classical Japanese texts. However, despite her enthusiasm she reports the need to leave the library as soon as the weather outside became ill-suited for reading because the lighting in the library was less than ideal.13 It was only in the 1910s, long after Ichiyō’s premature death, when gas lamps were replaced by electric streetlights in urban Japan, that libraries could start holding evening hours.14 This meant that prior to the 1910s, reading conditions in public libraries were acceptable only during the daytime and in fair weather. Patrons of public libraries also complained about the generally frustrating and perhaps depressing atmosphere in such facilities. Already in the late 1890s, Ichiyō professed difficulties as one of the few female patrons in her library. She felt no sense of support from the library staff when she visited their facility during her hard-earned free time. She describes an occasion in which she incorrectly filled out a request form for a book: the librarian treated her with contempt and she suffered public humiliation among the many elite law students who were there to study for the equivalent of the bar exam.15 Male patrons did not necessarily receive better treatment. Kikuchi Kan (1888–1948) benefited greatly from the services of his local library during his days as an impoverished youth; however, he keenly portrays a library employee with a horrible attitude in his short story “Shusse” (Social Advancement, 1920). Around the same time as Kikuchi, poet Ishikawa Takuboku (1886–1912) frequently patronized the Ōhashi Library but decried the oppressive atmosphere at the facility in his diary in a manner similar to Ichiyō: “The air inside the library gave me a creepy feeling. The library! Not a fun place to visit.”16

Rental libraries: Shared collections in decline When patrons failed to locate popular titles at public libraries, they could still turn to their local kashihon’ya. While kashihon’ya were increasingly overshadowed by public libraries even before the earthquake, they would not be completely erased until well into the postwar era.17 They held an especially important role

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for readers in the Taishō period (1912–26) as repositories for popular titles from the Meiji period. They were hard to find in public libraries and were often out of print, so determined readers—especially young fans of “pulp” genres—had a better chance of finding them at kashihon’ya. The future detective fiction greats Edogawa Ranpo (1894–1965) and Yokomizo Seishi both frequented their own local kashihon’ya during adolescence and got their first exposure to the genre from the Meiji-period works that could only be found there.18 As a youth, Ranpo frequented kashihon’ya in the early 1900s and 1910s, as they were the most obvious places to find works by the pioneer of detective fiction Kuroiwa Ruikō (1862–1920) after their initial serializations in the 1880s and 1890s.19 In a similar manner, Yokomizo first encountered Ruikō’s works at a kashihon’ya in Kobe in 1914. A neighbor showed Yokomizo, then an elementary school student, a copy of Gankutsuō (The King of the Cave, originally serialized in 1901–2; later published as a book as early as 1905), Ruikō’s translation of The Count of Monte-Cristo, available for rent from a local kashihon’ya. Young Yokomizo was smitten with Ruikō’s style and wished to read more, particularly his detective fiction pieces that were translated earlier. These were the first of many mid-Meiji classics that he and his friend, with whom he shared a similar level of passion for the genre, would rent during subsequent years as they were unable to locate them elsewhere.20 Since most of Ruikō’s works were not reprinted until the early 1920s after their original printings in the 1880s and 1890s, they had become difficult to obtain in the 1900s and early 1910s, when these young readers were searching for them.21 Readers like them relied on rental libraries for access also because public libraries avoided using their funds to acquire popular titles for children even if they were available (as the prevalent mode of thinking in educational circles at the time was that free reading for children was actually harmful).22 Also, kashihon’ya tended to preserve the condition of old popular titles by reinforcing the physical copies on a regular basis, so as to squeeze as much profit as possible from each copy. However, the allure of kashihon’ya was noticeably fading in the 1910s, and kashihon’ya did not rate much higher than public libraries in terms of customer service. The rapid expansion of public libraries is likely to have played a role in speeding up the decline of kashihon’ya in prewar Japan.23 According to Andrew Markus, additional reasons for the decline of kashihon’ya already during the late Meiji period were “a precipitous decline of popular interest in gesaku fiction, the heart of the book-lender’s stock; the rise of inexpensive daily newspapers; demographic upheavals; and above all the advent of cheap, mechanically printed books.”24

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Perhaps as a reflection of their weakened status, kashihon’ya proprietors were known for their ornery and unhelpful manner during the early twentieth century. Yokomizo reports that bad customer service often spoiled a precious reading experience. In the aforementioned episode, he and his friend’s excitement was soon dampened by the old shopkeeper who gave them the creeps and treated the two boys as potential shoplifters. Given the poor condition of her wares, the unfriendly, witch-like proprietress probably had her reasons to be suspicious of the two boys, as the boys themselves report that most of the available books were “creepy” (usukimiwarui) and downright disgusting because of how the patrons treated them. Yokomizo recalls that the titles on display at his kashihon’ya were often tainted black with the sweat and grime of previous readers, and the edges of the pages were dog-eared and creased. He once found a copy filled with dandruff (apparently a past reader left his mark by deliberately scratching his head over the book) and another with apparent semen stains, yet such deteriorating copies remained unreplaced. The two boys complained to each other that they needed to wash hands after reading them.25 In the absence of a comprehensive survey on public libraries, kashihon’ya, and their customer satisfaction, these impressions are the best evidence available to reconstruct the experience of readers who relied on public libraries and kashihon’ya in pre-earthquake Japan.26 They suggest various factors, including the potential to avoid the inconveniences and indignities of borrowing books, that likely contributed to the popularity of cheap, massmarket editions for purchase. For those with experiences like Yokomizo and his friend, owning their own copy—a clean copy—could have meant a dream come true. Public libraries were trying to be more user-friendly by physical expansion, implementation of various services, and development of systems that afforded their patrons temporary ownership of the collection through circulation so that they would not physically be bound to the congested reading spaces; kashihon’ya, at the same time, may have been trying their best to survive in a battle against time that they were likely to lose. However, the surviving accounts of readers strongly suggest that these institutions of shared book ownership were not able to effectively “package” their collections, and so before readers could reach the printed word, their interest was derailed by the contorted journey. Not surprisingly, many publishers would attempt to transform this pent-up frustration against shared book collections into a strong fantasy for private book collections by presenting their enpon—cheap but potentially cumbersome possessions—as convenient “must-have” vessels of knowledge and entertainment.

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Kaizōsha: Advertising the first enpon The meteoric and widespread success of enpon in the late 1920s and early 1930s has made it difficult to trace the exact origins of the phenomenon, but most accounts give the credit to the efforts of the publisher Kaizōsha. With memories of the Great Kantō Earthquake and the inconvenience of libraries still fresh in the popular consciousness, Kaizōsha, a young press in Tokyo struggling to find its niche, decided to gamble with a new publishing venture in 1926. Before launching this new project, the company was in worse shape than any of the public libraries that had been destroyed by the earthquake. Kaizōsha’s offices had burned down, and just when the company looked like it had recovered from the physical devastation, it discovered that two potential blockbuster works, which were intended to appear in its flagship magazine Kaizō (and from which substantial sales were expected), had been banned by censors.27 By 1925, company president and owner Yamamoto Sanehiko (1885–1952) was at his wits’ end, and the situation seemed no better in 1926. Faced with the real prospect of bankruptcy, Yamamoto devised a plan to launch a cheap mass-market series of thirty-seven volumes that comprehensively surveyed contemporary Japanese literature.28 The result was the Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Contemporary Japanese Literature; henceforth Gendai), which was vaguely fashioned after such notable overseas series as the Harvard Classics and Everyman’s Library. The Gendai series would sell at the low subscription fee of one yen per volume—an unprecedented price for a book of several hundred pages.29 The preliminary response to the project was enormous, as evinced by the ranks of white-collar workers (sararīman) who queued outside the company offices in the cold November weather to subscribe to Gendai on the last day of signup, even before the first volume had been produced.30 Kaizōsha’s visible success encouraged many publishers to jump on the one-yen bandwagon and devise their own series of inexpensive, mass-produced zenshū, as well as sōsho (collected works), sensho (selected works), and kessakushū (greatest works). Such widespread price dumping, as well as the popular response to it, snowballed to become the phenomenon known later as the enpon boom. According to Kaizōsha’s company history, the development of the enpon idea appears to have multiple roots. In one account, Fujimori Seikichi (1892–1977), the proletarian writer whose play was one of the potential hits that had been banned earlier that year reportedly asked the company to publish books for 50 sen so that they could be accessible to the working classes; in another, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō (1886–1965) suggested to Yamamoto a one-yen book that would be as

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convenient as the one-yen taxi (affectionately called entaku) that took passengers anywhere in Tokyo for this fixed fare; in yet another account, the blueprint for an enpon series came from a Kaizōsha employee, Fujikawa Yasuo, in the fall of 1926.31 In hindsight, the success of enpon may have tempted publishers and authors only peripherally involved in the project to exaggerate or even fabricate their contributions to the unpatented but brilliant marketing scheme. Rather than weighing these accounts against each other in terms of their seeming and actual veracity, it may be more productive to assume that the truth of the enpon’s origins may be the amalgam of all these accounts. As Edward Mack points out, in the end it came down to Yamamoto, who reportedly had dictatorial tendencies, to move forward with the project.32 Yamamoto was a savvy (and, at that time, desperate) businessman constantly on the lookout for new moneymaking schemes, and in a pinch he was known to fuse his own ideas with those suggestions made by people around him.33 For a publisher that had recently been stung by the heavy hand of censorship, old works from the Meiji and early Taishō periods were safe and stable ground.34 Perhaps more than anything, these scenarios suggest the power of “word of mouth” (kuchikomi; literally, “mouth communication”) in the industry during this era, the openness and seriousness with which decision makers listened to the members of their literary entourages, and the unsystematic nature of some of their decision-making processes. Also, the smooth implementation of an outlandish but ultimately brilliant product idea first communicated through word of mouth may be a reflection both of the underdeveloped state of market research (without which a publisher could not get a clear sense of the likes and dislikes of readers in this period) and the exercise of managerial fiat (by a publishing executive known for top-down imposition of business decisions).

Now or never: Advertising wars As the publishing world devised new bookselling strategies, the demand for inexpensive access to literature was growing among members of the reading public. Middle-class workers were mired in difficult financial straits in the late 1920s and had little or no disposable income with which to buy luxury commodities such as books. The average salary across all industries from the mid-1920s to the early 1930s went down by approximately 30 percent.35 The post–First World War bubble was long gone, and the loss and confusion from

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the earthquake made people struggle to make ends meet. In such a climate, publishers toiled to convince the public to use their already limited resources to buy their books, even at the price of one yen per volume. With the radio industry still in its infancy, the newspaper presented the most effective venue for publishers to advertise their products.36 Kaizōsha’s marketing campaign for Gendai started with print advertisements featuring exaggerated slogans: “Read Good Books Cheaply! Under this motto our company has led a revolution in the publishing world, liberating the arts of the privileged classes before all the masses!”37 Such attempts to drum up popular interest were often couched in passionate language reminiscent of Marxist slogans calling for the eradication of the class system through acquisition of kyōyō by reading. Another strategy for promoting enpon series was to distribute naiyō mihon (sample booklets) to potential buyers through individual bookstores. Naiyō mihon had been in existence since the late Meiji period, when subscription publishing (yoyaku shuppan) first appeared, and the basic elements of such booklets—including publisher’s remarks, endorsements from notable figures, tables of contents, photos of the series design—had become standard during the Taishō period.38 During the enpon boom, however, the creation of naiyō mihon reached new heights. Inside the back cover of the naiyō mihon for Kaizōsha’s Gendai, an ad depicts a hand holding a one-yen bill, with a caption that reads: “Start by investing one yen!” (mazu ichien o tōzerareyo) (Figure 1.1). Accompanying the ad is a list of the “astounding special features” of the series 1. Owning this series makes any other literature books unnecessary 2. 1,000 yen worth of material each month for only 1 yen 3. Content so rich that a single volume is equivalent to 40,000 pages of a regular edition 4. A collection of every immortal work from the Meiji and Taishō periods 5. Chrysanthemum edition with glosses [furigana] for all text 6. Elegant, cutting-edge binding, a beautiful contribution to your study 7. Publishers throughout the country are wide-eyed at the low price 8. With this zenshū, you will never have another dull day for as long as you live39 As critic Kida Jun’ichirō asserts, the list contrasts the richness of content with the inexpensiveness of the physical product.40 The first and last items on this list are the most overdramatized and are difficult to take at face value, but they exemplify the vigor with which Kaizōsha marketed their make-or-break product, and the strong sense of urgency they created in the minds of potential

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Figure 1.1 “Start by investing one yen!” Reproduced from the naiyō mihon of Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū (Kaizōsha, 1927), unpaginated. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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buyers. The initial payment of one yen is portrayed not as a risky gamble but a legitimate investment that would pay tremendous dividends in the future. And the hand that holds the one-yen bill symbolizes the start of this exciting journey. Kaizōsha continued its call for blind faith in its product, even up to the subscription deadline. With a little more than a week to go before the cutoff date, Kaizōsha ran a series of newspaper ads aimed at mobilizing the masses. One ad that ran on November 22, 1926 was especially breathless in extolling the virtues of the series: Tears well up at the sight of these unfortunates, who gladly invest a yen earned with their blood and sweat! How austere they are, these ladies who earnestly economize their daily necessities! Long live the arts! All hail the great soul of Meiji literature! Meiji literature is the one true spirit of Oriental culture, on equal footing with the literature of the world! Our Meiji literature, notable for its revolutionary passion, is the pride of the Japanese people! The time draws near for the Complete Works of Contemporary Japanese Literature, a compendium of ageless classics that will last a thousand years!41

This ad valorizes those who make sacrifices to subscribe to the zenshū, since the cultural enrichment they receive from it will be greater than any creature comforts or even basic necessities for survival. The renowned works of Meiji literature have achieved exalted status, and it is not only the honor but also the duty of any patriotic Japanese to own the zenshū that brings them together. The reference to those “ladies” who scrimp and save to afford a subscription is an interesting detail and provides an opportunity to consider the relationship between the enpon boom and women, as both writers and readers. In terms of content, most enpon zenshū skewed toward male authors. For example, within the sixty-three volumes of Gendai, contributions by women authors are relatively sparse: volume 9 paired Higuchi Ichiyō with the male writer Kitamura Tōkoku (1868–94); volume 33 (shōnen or “boys’ ” literature) included a translation of Little Lord Fauntleroy by Wakamatsu Shizuko (1864–96); volumes 37 (modern Japanese and kanshi poetry) and 38 (modern tanka and haiku) included a smattering of works by women poets; and volume 56 collected works by Tamura Toshiko (1884–1945), Nogami Yaeko (1885–1985), and Chūjō (later Miyamoto) Yuriko (1899–1951).42 This lack of engagement with female authors may be evidence of the critical disregard with which the publishing industry viewed the substantial but largely unheralded writings of Japanese women from the Meiji period onward, but it may also reflect more straightforward problems of timing and availability. As Rebecca Copeland has argued, previous generations of female writers did not have access to the same networks or relationships—

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coteries, schools, journals, mentors—as male writers, and so when they did publish their works, they were “generally regarded, therefore, as decoration and not as legitimate members of any given literary coterie. They had few assurances that their literary efforts would be accepted with the regularity that their male peers enjoyed. Women lacked the network of fraternal bonds and were denied the authority to produce and control a journal of their own …”43 Without this infrastructure, women writers faced greater obstacles in building the same archive of published work as men and instead had to “reinvent themselves as writers with each new generation—as if they were the first to arrive on the scene. Whatever ground had been gained by earlier generations was lost as each new wave of women writers labored to carve out a space for themselves between gender-based expectation and authentic self-expression.”44 So when enpon publishers in the 1920s planned their various series, they likely operated under some prejudice, but at the same time they probably were limited by the shortage of readily available—and widely known—material produced by women writers in the preceding decades. The heavy emphasis on men’s writing in enpon is perhaps unsurprising given the male-dominated sphere of Japanese letters in this period, but the relative absence of female authors nonetheless stands in contrast with the thriving market in other publications, especially magazines, geared toward women.45 The proliferation and popularity of ladies’ magazines may have progressed on a separate track from the craze for enpon, with the former catering to female audiences as a niche market and the latter appealing to predominantly male readers seeking to grasp the literary “mainstream”; that said, women were no less avid readers of enpon volumes,46 and top-billed male authors frequently contributed to women’s magazines, so the lines between the two phenomena are blurry at best. Although the topic of women (both as authors and readers) and the enpon boom begs further investigation, it is reasonable to say that despite the dearth of female contributions to the major zenshū, women readers were not necessarily less interested than men in the discourses of book ownership and cultural edification that propelled the craze.47

The fantasy of the home library: Physical and psychological solutions The exaggerated rhetoric and stirring imagery of enpon advertisements were effective. When the first window of opportunity to subscribe to Gendai closed

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on November 30, 1926, a whopping total of 230,000 people had signed up.48 This initial wave of success by Kaizōsha encouraged other publishers to follow suit and develop their own inexpensive, mass-market series. Most notably, the venerable literary publisher Shun’yōdō decided to counter Kaizōsha’s Gendai with its own Meiji Taishō bungaku dai zenshū (Complete Works of the Meiji and Taishō Periods), which represented its first foray into the enpon fray.49 In addition, in response to the overwhelming response to its first call for subscription, Kaizōsha reopened the signup period for Gendai the following spring with the new deadline of May 31, 1927. As competition intensified, Kaizōsha and other enpon publishers went to greater lengths not only to recruit subscribers but also to retain them through publication of all series volumes to realize the full potential of their “narrow margins, high volume” (hakuri tabai) strategy. While the subscription-only policy for Gendai was implemented to raise advance capital for the project and to avoid overprinting books, the downside of this approach was that dissatisfied customers could cancel their subscriptions at any time (though in that case they would lose their initial investment of one yen). The over-the-top rhetoric may have piqued the interest of potential subscribers, but as soon as they actually started to receive their monthly installments, they would be reminded of the commanding physical presence of their purchases and hence might decide to cancel their subscriptions. Buying these volumes may have cost only one yen each; however, keeping them required more money and likely became a logistical burden. This meant that after convincing consumers to “Start by Investing One Yen First!” as their own slogan suggested, the publisher’s goal changed to the retention of as many subscribers as possible to the end of the series. As Ozaki Hotsuki points out, Kaizōsha’s ads frequently emphasized the importance of seeing the series through to completion: “the speedy creation of the best and most beautiful library of literature”; “the pleasure of possessing the full spectacle of the modern literary world in one place”; and “a great treasury, a great library of contemporary literature.”50 The storage of enpon was the most pertinent problem for urban readers. As Tokyo recovered from the earthquake, more and more buildings were built with smaller housing units to accommodate the city’s growing number of single-person households. The best examples are the various apartments built by the Dōjunkai, a public housing association, and other similar groups.51 The residents of these buildings may have had more privacy than those who lived in traditional tenements (nagaya), for instance, thus living in quarters that may

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have been conducive to the private, silent reading for which enpon were intended. However, the compartmentalized design forced the size of each resident’s living quarters to be relatively small, hence leaving very limited storage space for nonessential items such as books. Wealthier members of society had the luxury of accommodating their new zenshū purchases in their studies (shosai) or living rooms, so purchasing and storing their books may not have been significant hardships, but for the lower reading classes—those who earnestly sought to educate themselves through independent reading—the storage of books was a serious matter.52 As more and more publishers started to create their own enpon series, it meant that they would be competing not only for customers’ hard-earned money but also physical space in their homes. This would lead some publishers to come up with one of the most radical promotional extras to a zenshū during the enpon boom: a full bookcase designed to house the entire series. The idea of giving away a physical container for their purchases—and hence promoting ownership of the complete set—was first introduced by Kaizōsha’s rival publisher Shun’yōdō, which wished to compete against Gendai with its own Meiji Taishō series.53 Originally, Shun’yōdō planned to give away the bookcase to the first 50,000 subscribers at the completion of their subscription.54 Pressured by the emergence of a strong competitor, Kaizōsha declared a mere two days after Shun’yōdō’s ad appeared in the Asahi shinbun that it would be giving away the same sort of bookcase to all subscribers of Gendai who completed their subscriptions.55 A couple of weeks later, Shun’yōdō countered this challenge with a promise that they would also give away bookcases to all subscribers.56 While the bookcase promotion eventually became notorious because of the cost of actually implementing the offer, the willingness of Shun’yōdō and Kaizōsha to use dueling pieces of furniture as a marketing strategy attests to the tightness of competition, and the completeness of the experience that these publishers were willing to offer its customers.57 The details of the bookcase war also played out on the pages of the publishers’ naiyō mihon, where the pictures of the bookcases came to be featured (Figure 1.2). Not surprisingly, the promotional strategy of giving away bookcases for multiple purchases of narrow-margin products was not viable for the publishers. Though latecomers to the enpon campaign certainly wished to copy Kaizōsha’s seeming success, ideally they would do so without cutting into their slim profits by adopting an expensive promotional gimmick. They instead increased their emphasis on high rhetoric and preached the importance of “creating” space for books in the form of “home libraries” (katei toshokan), as

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Figure 1.2 “For the subscription fee of one yen, build the best and most beautiful home library.” Reproduced from the naiyō mihon of Meiji Taishō bungaku dai zenshū (Shun’yōdō, 1927), unpaginated. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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the Shun’yōdō’s naiyō mihon above illustrates. Various enpon series published in 1927 include the following slogans: “The emergence of the model library for children!!!”; “With only a little money you can have a complete literary library”; “We have condensed Ueno Library into a four-and-a-half tatamimat room”; “The pleasure of the home library—with this zenshū alone you can keep your family entertained”; “You can build a large library for your children for a mere 28 yen per family”; “Home libraries are starting to emerge across Japan with the introduction of our zenshū.”58 This last ad suggests that the home library is a widespread phenomenon and arouses anxiety in the reader that unless they act right away they will fall behind the times and their peers. Therein lies something of a threatening and contradictory message: that the lessons learned from reading the books have permanent value, but the opportunity to possess them may pass without the potential subscriber’s immediate action. Moreover, although never clearly stated, the reported inconvenience of using public libraries is implicitly evoked in the ads through the expression “home library”: enpon series can condense Ueno Library into the reader’s home, with no nasty librarians or long lines. The convenience and the fantasy are also conveyed visually; although publishers were no longer eager to give away actual bookcases, they made sure to include images of all their volumes neatly stored in bookcases (similar to those given away by Kaizōsha and Shun’yōdō). For instance, Kōbunsha did not give away bookcases to the subscribers of Shōgakusei zenshū (Complete Works for Elementary School Students), but they featured in their naiyō mihon a photo of their zenshū neatly encased in one. As if to keep up, the naiyō mihon of Arusu’s Nihon jidō bunko (Japanese Children’s Library) also featured a similar photo of their zenshū in a bookcase (Figures 1.3 and 1.4). The tone of these ads indicates that the Kaizōsha solution to the space problem—acknowledging the reality of scarce space for books in an average home and offering a temporary solution—was quickly replaced by a more radical marketing strategy that pushed readers to take initiative in creating book storage space for themselves. In this regard, enpon publishers were forcing their customers to invest more than one yen per volume to realize the dream of cultural literacy. The image of zenshū volumes neatly organized and displayed in a domestic setting—as depicted by various enpon ads—also appealed to those readers who had the financial means for self-realization through home furnishings. Just as the purveyors of enpon who played up the fantasy of owning “culture” (bunka) through exaggerated marketing slogans, the housing industry also promoted

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Figure 1.3 “A Shōgakusei zenshū for the child you love.” Reproduced from the naiyō mihon of Shōgakusei zenshū (Kōbunsha, 1927), unpaginated. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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Figure 1.4 “A model children’s library.” Reproduced from the naiyō mihon of Nihon jidō bunko (Arusu, 1927), unpaginated. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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their products—homes—to new owners by creating the hype for “culture.” As Jordan Sand astutely points out: In the 1920s, bunka seikatsu (culture life) left the hands of reformers and became the name for a dream of cosmopolitan modernity. This dream appealed especially to the new urban residents who entered the growing white-collar workforce during and after the [first world] war. Their desire for a life unencumbered by either local traditions or the established distinctions of native and foreign was met by a plethora of new publications and commodities purveyed under the name of bunka.59

Just as the publishers of enpon tied the purchase of books to the ideal of cultural enrichment, the “mass-marketers” of other domestic products “recognized the universality of the issue for the bourgeois public and used the idea of national style to habituate bourgeois men and women to displaying their own cultivation through new goods and ornament.”60 In the process, the term “culture” in “culture life” was played up as “an advertising tool, and one with the advantage of a European high-cultural source.”61 Both books and furnishings were products essential to the “culture life” promoted to consumers in the 1920s and 1930s, transforming the domestic space into a site of self-expression, where ornate enpon neatly displayed in a bookcase made one of the perfect decorations.

Kyōyō shugi, citizenship, and reading the vote In contrast to Kaizōsha’s ad campaign for Gendai—which, despite taking various forms, ultimately focused on the inexpensiveness of the volumes—publishers of later series tended to play up the philosophical and ideological meaning of their zenshū in addition to the low price. And nothing raised the symbolic value of book purchase and ownership like the rhetoric and ideals of kyōyō shugi, the aforementioned mode of thinking that sought to promote intellectual enrichment through reading classic works, most typically those in philosophy, history, and literature.62 Whereas shūyō shugi (moralism), the dominant philosophical ideal of the Meiji period, sought betterment in moral values and practical knowledge, kyōyō shugi sought broad and general learning, advocating knowledge for its own sake.63 Kyōyō shugi originally grew out of the elite culture of the Higher Schools under the prewar educational system, but readers outside the immediate circle of the Higher School elite also started to seek opportunities for self-enrichment.64 Although some have suggested that the popularization of Marxism drove kyōyō shugi out of fashion by the late 1920s, traces of its appeal

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continued to appear into the early 1930s behind the slogans of enpon ads and the robust sales of series volumes.65 The content of Gendai and other literary zenshū may not have been immediately useful for practical purposes, but it suited readers who wished to become well-rounded individuals familiar with their cultural heritage and “to discover their inner Higher School student.”66 Advertisements for zenshū eventually tied enpon ownership to discourses of civic duty and national pride, fostering a sort of “cultural inflation” in which cultural literacy became something so important that all Japanese needed to participate in order to keep up with the times and stand on equal footing with the West. The enpon became a “must-read”—and, according to publishers, “must-have”— vehicle through which readers were obligated not only to develop their cultural literacy but also to demonstrate political participation and national pride. The tendency to promote zenshū as a necessary tool for those with a latent desire for self-cultivation is already strong in Shinchōsha’s Sekai bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of World Literature, 1927), the third general literary zenshū after Gendai by Kaizōsha and Meiji Taishō by Shun’yōdō. According to the slogans on Shinchōsha’s two-page spread, their series was a necessity for readers who want to become familiar with “world literature”: “A copy for each person! An innovative major publication necessary for a person of the world [sekaijin]!” and “This is the great textbook of humanism that depicts all facets of life!”67 In a follow-up ad that ran two weeks later, the publisher further emphasized the cultural obligation of the newly emerging salaryman class to read the literary classics of the world: To become acquainted with world literature is the duty of those who take trains and trolleys in the morning and enjoy movies and the radio at night. It would be a source of shame for one’s roof to lack an antenna and one’s private book collection to lack this series. Therefore, the success of this series represents an accurate measure of the cultural level of the Japanese masses in relation to the world.68

One of the endorsers, the would-be socialist politician and educator Abe Isoo (1865–1949), describes this series as “a source of great nutritional value to those pure-hearted young men and women who seek nourishment of the spirit.”69 Such ideals of kyōyō shugi were also implicit in another similarly themed zenshū published around the same time, Gendai taishū bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Contemporary Popular Fiction, 1927) by the major publishing house Heibonsha, which sought to market its zenshū as a “textbook of common knowledge for the masses” (taishū jōshiki kyōkasho).70

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In the genre of nonliterary zenshū, the publisher Shunjūsha presented the philosophically oriented series Sekai dai shisō zenshū (Complete Works of Major World Ideologies, 1927–37; some of the later volumes in the series were published by Shōhakukan shoten) as required reading. Although Shunjūsha was aware of the importance of “thinking globally” in a similar way to Shinchōsha, the former pushed harder in its campaign to arouse in readers a sense of national pride and international competition, employing nationalistic rhetoric: “Unless you digest and absorb comprehensively the philosophy of the world, neither Japan nor the Japanese will be above the world intellectual average”71 and contrasted Japan’s supposed current cultural immaturity with the maturity of Western European countries. Home libraries were conveniently chosen as an indicator of cultural maturity: Reclam in Germany and Everyman’s Library in England can be found in all households of respective countries. They make up a sort of home library. However, in Japan we do not yet have such a series and neither homes nor schools feature such a library. Is this not an embarrassment to Japan, a country of culture in the Far East? … Our company does not mean to simply profit from this zenshū. We all wish to disseminate among the general public the best cultural fruits the world has to offer, the branches of art and philosophy that humankind cannot do without.72

The simple economic and personal decision of whether to subscribe to a particular book series is now equated with an expression of national pride and even becomes a basic requirement to qualify as a fully educated Japanese citizen, whose cultural literacy compares favorably to the Germans and the English. In the advertising wars that reached a fever pitch during the enpon boom, the value of zenshū purchase was eventually inflated to the point of absurdity and contradiction. One good example is the advertising campaign of March 1927, just before the subscription deadline for Shunjūsha’s Sekai dai shisō zenshū. On March 12, Shunjūsha ran an ad declaring the superiority of its zenshū over its competitors: “Unlike other zenshū of novels and stories, this zenshū is not to be discarded after one reading because of its ephemeral intellectual appeal.” Rather, it possessed “eternal value” (eien no kachi) and “whether one keeps this [zenshū] around oneself will undoubtedly affect one’s intellectual life.”73 On March 15, Shunjūsha further upped the stakes: “We Japanese can be proud of the fact that so many readers have decided to subscribe to this erudite zenshū, despite the trend [toward market saturation]. We believe that it is not an exaggeration to predict that the new Japan will be born out of our zenshū. … The most meaningful and systematic anthology of world philosophy—the

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highest in quality, the lowest in price—is today closing its subscription window for good.”74 This overblown rhetoric displays the same sort of contradiction as Kaizōsha’s ad mentioned earlier: the intellectual value of this zenshū is eternal, but the window of opportunity to obtain it is closing quickly. The cost of gaining cultural capital—whether in literature or philosophy—went down during the enpon boom at least on the surface, but the supposed value of that culture was pushed up tremendously as these ads created hype for kyōyō and national pride. Just as Sekai dai shisō zenshū connected the act of purchasing their zenshū with an expression of national pride, advertisements for later zenshū increasingly cast the decision to buy a book not as the simple purchase of reading material but as a symbolic assertion of individuality and opinion. In some cases, publishers tried to combine the act of consumption and the act of dutiful self-expression by associating zenshū subscription with the privileges and responsibilities of the franchise. Critic Nagamine Shigetoshi points out that the enpon boom as a social phenomenon had much in common with the implementation of general elections (futsū senkyo).75 The enpon and general elections share the “utmost mission to gain the maximum number of (mass) supporters. Their goal is to win as many people as possible from all social classes through all advertising means possible, such as newspapers, flyers, banners, public lectures, and on-the-street campaigning. The efforts [of booksellers and candidates] both peak during the last days before the deadline.”76 Some of the slogans that the publishers used to evoke the implicit connection between the two affirm the appropriateness of this analogy: “Here comes the general election of literature! And the one with the most votes is the Gendai chōhen shōsetsu zenshū” and “One vote per household, one set per household” (both for Shinchōsha’s Gendai chōhen shōsetsu zenshū); “The general election made politics relevant to the masses; our Sekai bijutsu zenshū [Complete Works of World Art] will make the arts accessible to the masses” (Sekai bijutsu zenshū, Heibonsha); “Choosing the best plays—the general election of theater” (Nihon gikyoku zenshū [Complete Works of Japanese Theater], Shun’yōdō).77 Moreover, one could often find the enpon ads side by side on the same page within newspaper articles on the general election.78 Subscription to a zenshū series is thus conflated with exercising the franchise, an act to be carried out by an informed citizenry with a sense of civic duty. When the historical event of the general election and the idea of “massification” (taishūka)—making something take root among the general public—are combined in these slogans, to zenshū buyers, this started to mean not only inexpensive exposure to good literature but also active involvement in deciding what should be worthy of purchase and glorification in the form of a permanent

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collection. In many ways, an election through enpon purchase could also have appeared more “democratic” than the actual political process, because the people who were excluded from the latter—including women and children—were not barred from the former.

Agencies with agency: Hakuhōdō and Dentsū Lurking behind the marketing hype that escalated between enpon publishers were advertising agencies that had their own stake in the matter. Early zenshū did not necessarily rely upon the celebrity and credibility of prominent editors and illustrious endorsers in selling the product, but the competition only got increasingly fierce as the enpon boom continued, so ad agencies played an important role in shaping both the dissemination and reception of various series. The influence of advertising agencies is already apparent in the promotion of the first enpon series, Kaizōsha’s Gendai. Backing Yamamoto and Kaizōsha in the ad campaign was Nihon denpō tsūshinsha (literally, the Japan Telegram Communication Company; more commonly called Dentsū), a new advertising agency on the rise. Coinciding with Kaizōsha’s enpon project, Dentsū was competing for supremacy in its own industry with Hakuhōdō, the other major agency that had been the long-standing king of the advertising world, whose clients included most of the major publishers in Tokyo.79 Dentsū aimed to challenge Hakuhōdō’s domination in the publishing industry after the earthquake, and was waiting for an opportunity to shake up this status quo. This chance came when Kaizōsha passed over Hakuhōdō to lead the enpon campaign and instead chose Dentsū, which responded by agreeing to render their services at a deeply discounted rate. The gamble paid off for both sides: Kaizōsha was able to get a successful ad campaign on a small budget, and with that success, Dentsū was able to break Hakuhōdō’s virtual monopoly on the publishing industry and garner new business from other publishers. Threatened, Hakuhōdō subsequently tried to win back former clients by investing in them and encouraging them to come up with their own enpon series.80 As much as the publishers, these ad agencies measured their success by the sales figures of their advertised enpon. The struggle between Dentsū and Hakuhōdō is a salient example of how the interests of parties without any connection to literature or even book production could sometimes intervene and inadvertently affect the direction of literary developments. Their rivalry had nothing to do with prioritization or even canonization of certain literary works or enhancing the overall value of literature,

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but they became relevant forces when they chose enpon as their battleground. Critic Yamamoto Taketoshi describes those employees at ad agencies as “not equipped with enough cultural literacy to pitch detailed projects for enpon” but also admits that the financial support offered to individual publishers, in such forms as delayed payments for advertisements, unsecured loans, and acceptance of payment by draft, had definitely shaped the outlook of the publishing industry while the agencies themselves were fighting for their own survival in a difficult business climate.81 The greater the stake the ad agencies placed in the success of enpon, the more provocative the language of their ads became. Throughout the early twentieth century, book production became increasingly a collaborative commercial effort, and a growing number of hidden agendas and happenstances came to affect the encounter between the reader and the printed product. The more inflated the language of their ads became, the cheaper enpon and more important its content would seem—hence furthering the cultural inflation of literature. Throughout the rest of the enpon boom, Hakuhōdō and Dentsū fought a proxy war through their clients. At times, conflicts between clients in turn enhanced their own competition. An instructive example is the fierce competition between the publishers Arusu and Kōbunsha in the arena of children’s literature zenshū. In 1927, Arusu (from the Japanese pronunciation of the Latin word Ars) and Kōbunsha vied to monopolize the yet untapped readership of school-aged children. Arusu, headed by Kitahara Tetsuo (1887–1957), the younger brother of the poet Kitahara Hakushū (1885–1942), was a relative newcomer to the publishing scene. Their competitor Kōbunsha specialized in reading material for children and had built a reputation as an established publisher of school textbooks. With the advent of the enpon craze, both presses developed plans to publish enpon for children: Arusu launched Nihon jidō bunko and Kōbunsha produced Shōgakusei zenshū. From the early stages of their respective promotions, the two companies were influenced by the priorities and concerns of their ad agencies. Though originally both companies wished to hire Hakuhōdō to lead the advertising campaigns for their series, they were soon forced to reconsider their decision when ads for the two competing series appeared not only in the same newspaper on the same day but also on the same page.82 They soon realized that a Hakuhōdō employee servicing both companies was, in effect, working as a double agent, and because of this discovery Kōbunsha moved its account to Dentsū.83 In addition to the unprofessionalism of the Hakuhōdō employee, the similarity of their zenshū content and the proximity of their release dates (both in 1927) caused intense friction between the two companies, with Arusu eventually suing Kōbunsha

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and its co-publisher Bungei shunjūsha for allegedly stealing the original idea. These hostilities spread to outside supporters: Tetsuo’s famous brother Hakushū issued a statement in a newspaper accusing Ishikawa Torakichi (1894–1942) and Kikuchi Kan, the presidents of Kōbunsha and Bungei shunjūsha, respectively, of immorality and excessive commercialism in Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, May 25, 1927. Kikuchi countered three days later by pointing out the hypocrisy in Hakushū and Tetsuo’s confusion of normal business competition with moral turpitude and called Tetsuo “a mere merchant.”84 As part of each publisher’s attempt to get the upper hand over its competitor, the two companies had secured endorsements from high-profile figures in children’s education. The Kōbunsha–Bungei shunjūsha group obtained statements of praise from Minister of Education Mitsuchi Chūzō (1871–1948) and boasted of subscriptions from members of the imperial family.85 Arusu followed suit with an ad on June 2 announcing imperial subscriptions that overlapped with Kōbunsha.86 Responding to this, Bungei shunjūsha assured that the minister indeed expressed his preference and had granted them permission via his subordinate to use his words for promotional purposes.87 In yet another response to this rebuttal, the woodblock printer and Kitahara supporter (and Tetsuo’s brother-in-law) Yamamoto Kanae (1882–1946) issued a statement personally addressed to Kikuchi, in which he accused the latter of falsely citing the words of Prime Minister Tanaka Giichi (1864–1929) in the Kōbunsha ad.88 Yamamoto’s ad included the official notice that was distributed by the Ministry of Education to each elementary school to remind stakeholders that Mitsuchi’s endorsement for Bungei shunjūsha was neither his official position nor that of the Ministry. This mudslinging started because Hakushū suspected that someone on Kikuchi’s camp stole the zenshū idea from Arusu. However, even without a double agent playing both sides, the more likely truth was that both companies had been planning zenshū for children independently, as most other organizing themes for zenshū were being snapped up by other publishers, and things got out of hand only when someone in one of the advertising agencies leaked the status of their projects.89 This duel over commercialism and exclusive rights was not the first literary firefight to take place on the pages of a major newspaper, but it was unique in its unfolding within the parameters of an advertising campaign. It is remarkable that multiple rounds of these dueling accusations and explanations all took place in the highly visible—and, therefore, expensive—context of newspaper advertising. The two companies eventually settled out of court in July 1927, and Tetsuo withdrew his complaint in the following month. However, another difference

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between this advertising battle and previous “literary” debates is that both sides seem to have implicitly acknowledged that ultimately victory would be decided by sales figures. The simple rivalry between two publishers of children’s literature zenshū became a cutthroat race between competing advertising agencies and then escalated into a personal feud between a titan of modern Japanese poetry (Hakushū) and the new king of the print media (Kikuchi). In the end, however, the winner would be the party who sold more books. Just as other ads connected the idea of general elections and zenshū purchase, the victor of this conflict would be settled by the “popular vote” of enpon subscription. Despite the nastiness, this competition bore positive results to the overall field of children’s literature, as both publishing teams produced two highly regarded series with respectable sales numbers—an outcome that came to represent a high point in children’s literature in the 1920s and 1930s. The state of children’s literature would deteriorate in the 1940s, when its producers (authors and publishers) and consumers (children) became entangled in the larger enterprises of nationalism and militarism—however, as we shall see in the next chapter, young readers evacuated from urban areas during the Second World War would encounter these old enpon volumes preserved in their relocation destinations and be mesmerized by the richness of prewar youth culture. In terms of pure profit, the winners of the zenshū wars were undoubtedly the advertising agencies and newspapers that ran their ads. In the particular rivalry between Arusu and Kōbunsha, the presses spent a whopping 30,000 to 40,000 yen and 50,000 yen, respectively.90 Such high advertising expenses devoured the proceeds realized from the sale of their books, and this kind of spending later caused both Arusu and Kōbunsha to go bankrupt. Hakuhōdō and Dentsū, however, continued to fight their battles in another arena: they added fuel to the fiery rivalry between Kaizōsha and Chūō kōronsha in 1928, when their namesake magazines squared off to vie for supremacy in the monthly magazine market.91 Both companies would radically expand their business and remained successful in subsequent years until the militarist government interrupted their “organic” development in the early 1940s.92

Legacy of the enpon boom Although the publication of mass-market editions of various zenshū would continue into the years leading up to the Second World War, the enpon boom showed significant signs of market oversaturation by the early 1930s. Although

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it is difficult to confirm the details, the ebbing of the enpon boom appears to coincide with the full revitalization of public libraries, which had been working to restore and extend capacity since the Great Kantō Earthquake. The Fukagawa Library reopened earliest (September 1928), and the Kyōbashi and Surugadai (formerly Hitotsubashi) Libraries followed in 1929 and 1930, respectively.93 What is even more noteworthy may be that public libraries not only reopened but also vastly improved their facilities and services. The Fukagawa Library was redesigned to accommodate children and boasted a rooftop terrace so that patrons could view the nearby Kiyosumi Gardens between reading sessions.94 The Kyōbashi Library newly featured spacious reading rooms, including one exclusively for female users. The Surugadai Library was reconceived with a largely student clientele in mind and provided a balcony for students to rest between study sessions.95 Considering some of the very public expressions of dissatisfaction that appeared in accounts predating the earthquake—such as Kikuchi Kan’s story “Shusse”—it may not be surprising that the redesign paid increased attention to the satisfaction of library patrons. Congestion at public libraries is not likely to have eased completely, particularly during peak hours, but at least the reading experience seems to have become more patron-friendly. How enthusiastically the working classes, the original target audience of enpon, embraced various cheap editions is less obvious because of a lack of reliable information. As Nagamine suggests, the price of one yen per volume would have been a great economic and psychological burden for those who lacked steady cash income, like rural farmers and urban laborers, so the true economic underclass may not have been able to own their own zenshū no matter how text-hungry they had been.96 However, it is reasonable to assume that the creation of enpon zenshū still had an intellectual impact on the readers from this particular class, as these volumes became available through shared collections and reading groups.97 The fierce competition between publishers at the height of the enpon boom depressed prices even further—a series priced at 50 sen per volume eventually appeared—bringing the pleasure of book ownership within reach for more readers. Furthermore, ads by Kaizōsha and other publishers repeatedly used terminology like “the masses” (minshū) to evoke a certain kind of collectivity among their audiences. The glossed texts (with furigana for all kanji) that Kaizōsha and other publishers produced certainly would have appealed to those who enjoyed reading but lacked the education to seek out what they should read and comprehend. At the time, all major contemporary newspapers were glossed, so it could be said that the publication and success of Gendai reflects the

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extension of this trend to books. The insertion in enpon anthologies of glosses— which were not necessarily included in the original works when they were first published—was certainly not without controversy in the case of literary texts, for which the incorporation of glosses could be seen as a kind of prescriptive interpretation.98 However, it may have been a welcome gesture for novice readers who required initiation into reading and literature. The combination of low price, convenience, as well as the sense of fulfilling civic and patriotic duty and possessing a home library, appealed to the more affluent classes as well. According to a survey from 1927, a typical reader from these classes subscribed to between two and three series at one time. Of the 300 respondents to this questionnaire put forth by the magazine Aisho shumi (Bibliophilia) in the same year, nearly 90 percent responded that they had already signed up for some kind of complete works series.99 The enpon boom transformed not only the tastes and expectations of a mass readership but also the overall outlook of the publishing industry. Kaizōsha’s successful marketing strategy of “narrow margins, high volume” spawned imitators and drove into bankruptcy other smaller companies such as Puratonsha, an Osaka-based company known for its beautifully designed magazines.100 The fierce ad wars of the enpon boom also changed the way that the industry viewed bestsellers. Instead of sifting through piles of manuscripts to discover potential blockbusters, or gambling that a title would take off spontaneously among readers, publishers began to plan and generate bestsellers through promotion and advertising.101 Since the enpon boom, the common goal of almost all publishers became to engineer success, not only by creating a high-quality product but also by packaging that product in a way that appealed intensely to its core readership. This shift suggests that publishers and editors became more influential in shaping the broader literary field as their readers succumbed (willingly or not) to the rhetorical seduction of hyperbolic advertising. As discussed later in Chapter 4, the culmination of this phenomenon is the producer-orchestrated wide-scale media mix that situates a literary work squarely in the consciousness of potential consumers as part of an interlinked network of must-buy merchandise. The enpon boom also made an impact on how literary authors understood what they could do with literature—and what literature could do for them. At the most practical level, authors found that writing could bring them quick (but often temporary) wealth. As early as 1928, observers had commented on some of the common ways in which authors, for many of whom the sums they made through enpon were more money than they had ever seen, spent their newly acquired fortunes. Many invested in real estate: literary superstars such as

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Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, Kōda Rohan (1867–1947), Satō Haruo (1892–1964), Satomi Ton (1888–1983), Shiga Naoya (1883–1971), and Kikuchi Kan made enough money to build new principal residences, buy vacation homes, and/or acquire parcels of land for future use. Shimazaki Tōson (1872–1943) distributed his earnings among his children and used the experience as fodder for the short story “Bunpai” (Distribution, 1927). Others traveled the world: Kimura Ki (1894–1979), the editor of Gendai for Kaizōsha, visited Europe.102 The enpon bubble also supported editors and translators who were otherwise engaged in culturally important but financially unviable endeavors: Yanagida Izumi (1894– 1969) received enough money from his translations that appeared in various enpon series to work unpaid for Miyatake Gaikotsu (1867–1955) in the archive of Meiji periodicals and newspapers at the Tokyo Imperial University.103 Although women writers were not well represented among enpon authors, those who were included could share in the riches: Yoshiya Nobuko (1896–1973) reportedly earned 20,000 yen from the inclusion of her works in Shinchōsha’s Gendai chōhen shōsetsu zenshū published in 1929.104 While not all authors admitted it, the fruits of the enpon boom were indeed irresistible. As the contemporary critic Yamamura Miyoshi observed: “People may cynically mock and despise other enpon parvenu, but who does not want to be one himself?”105 For some authors, inclusion in an enpon series meant something more than financial gain. The allure of “canonization” that enpon implied—to be selected and promoted as one of the best among the best—lingered into the 1930s. To explain the seemingly irrational popularity of zenshū in this period, Nagamine Shigetoshi argues that the zenshū as an apparatus stimulated the yearning of general readers for comprehensive literacy in the cultural canon, for encyclopedic knowledge that they could not acquire by reading fragments of the whole. Nagamine goes so far as to say: The criticism that enpon forces readers to buy even the volumes they do not want [a claim made by Iwanami Shigeo (1881–1946), who created Iwanami bunko to counter the inflexibility of enpon] was completely beside the point. … Readers in this era did not have enough knowledge to freely select what they should read. Only zenshū—not shōsho or senshū [both selected works]—satisfied the popular craving for complete, exhaustive knowledge.106

For readers, the craze for enpon was an opportunity—an inexpensive, essential, but time-sensitive proposition, according to hyperbolic advertisements—to claim cultural literacy and comprehensive knowledge through book ownership. For publishers, the zenshū wars were the product of a new low-margin, highvolume business model in the ever-escalating struggle with competitors to gain

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an advantage in the expanding market for books. This inflated the perceived use value of literature among the reading public, as the hyperbole of the ads constantly presented books as essential tools in the pursuit of self-improvement, social advancement, and mature national identity. Even as this enthusiasm for enpon-driven edification surged in the late 1920s, there were ideological currents gaining momentum that by the late 1930s would attempt to restrict the creation and consumption of literature to a sole purpose: to serve the state. However, as the next chapter will argue, such attempts to prescribe use value among wartime writers and readers did not necessarily have the intended effect.

2

Reading Beyond the Lines: Young Readers and Wartime Reading Practices

When literature becomes propaganda As described in the previous chapter, literary publishing in Japan flourished from the late Meiji to the early Shōwa period thanks in part to the revitalization of public libraries as viable institutions of reading, and lower book prices with the advent of the enpon boom. An entrenched cohort of popular and prolific authors made books and magazines—both for perusal and for purchase—legitimate outlets for whatever disposable income readers could afford. Responding to these changes, the individual editorial, production, and marketing functions within the publishing industry also developed by leaps and bounds, and the publication of books became an increasingly capitalist operation. However, the goals of efficiency, profit, and artistic merit were pushed aside under the changing political climate of the late 1930s. As Japan’s military involvement on the Asian continent escalated in the 1930s and led to full participation in the Second World War by the 1940s, the government sought to tighten its ideological grip on its subjects, with the goal of mobilizing the masses and winning the war. These efforts at total control included close regulation of the entertainment and publishing industries. All materials to be published were subject to intensive censorship by the state, which employed methods ranging from general surveillance of the media to targeted persecution of individual authors.1 As Jonathan Abel argues, in the wake of the publishing boom that followed the Great Kantō Earthquake, “the censorship office doubled in size and budget in an attempt to keep pace with both the burgeoning publishing world and the narrowing political landscape. By 1927, the censors could no longer keep pace with the increased volume of published material and canceled the consultation system, leaving publishers on their own to anticipate potential bans. In this new environment between 1927 and 1936, more books were banned by censors and more passages were redacted by editors than in any other period

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before or after”; and, as a result, “during the height of the Asia-Pacific War, censorship and redaction happened less frequently due to both a chilling effect on writers left over from this earlier period and a publishing downturn in the mid-1940s stemming from paper shortages.”2 At times, works were banned outright; in other instances, the published texts barely resembled their original manuscripts, with so many omissions that even their authors would be unable to restore the deleted passages.3 As censorship became more systematic and persistent, many authors and publishers came to internalize the standards of the censors and refrained from publishing anything that even remotely risked offense.4 At the same time, the wartime government promoted literary works that seemed to further Japan’s political and military causes. In some cases authors willingly contributed to the production of such literature: the Nihon bungaku hōkoku kai (Association of Japanese Writers in the Service of the Nation) was established in 1942 with the goal of disseminating progovernment ideology through literary works.5 Given these circumstances, many postwar literary critics have decried the writings of this period as propaganda tainted by the sinister influences of censorship and ideology and lacking the richness and variety of literary works published in the previous decade.6 As such, many wartime texts have not enjoyed the same rigorous scholarly attention as interwar or postwar literatures.7 In light of the government’s pervasive ideological intervention in literary production, the apparent collusion (both active and passive) of many prominent writers, and the postwar atonement of those writers for any propaganda that they published during the war, the wartime period often appears as a glaring void or an aberration in many of the notable tsūshi (historical surveys) of modern Japanese literature published after the war. According to the critic Hirano Ken in Shōwa bungakushi (Literary History of the Shōwa Period, 1963; a collection of previously published essays), the years between the outbreak of the SinoJapanese conflict in 1937 and the end of the Second World War were a time of “regression and setback” (kōtai to zasetsu),8 when the “anti-conventional literary spirit” (hanzokuteki na bungaku seishin) that had been growing since the beginning of the Meiji period (1868–1912) was crushed and replaced by “a period of unprecedented unliterariness” (kūzen no hi bungakuteki jidai).9 Hirano quotes the writer Shimazaki Tōson in stating that publishing ceased to be “a private enterprise unassisted by the state,” and only government-approved authors and genres—such as nōmin bungaku (farmers’ literature)—flourished.10 Odagiri Hideo makes similar arguments in the final volume of Kōza Nihon kindai bungakushi (Lectures on Modern Japanese Literary History, 1957).

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Acknowledging that some authors did not embrace mainstream “national policy” literature (kokusaku bungaku), he describes their stance as “literary resistance from a step back” (ippo kōtai shita tokoro deno bungakuteki teikō) in which they resisted the booming of propaganda literature only from a distance.11 Moreover, he argues that traces of such resistance faded with the start of the Pacific War in 1941, and this marked the completion of the “corruption and degeneration” (fuhai daraku) of the authors of Japanese literature in the face of total war.12 Odagiri blames the oppressive political and social atmosphere for the result: “Under the systems of speech control and ideological war, it was obviously impossible to create anything that could be called literature.”13 Okuno Takeo, in his Nihon bungakushi: Kindai kara gendai e (Japanese Literary History: From Modern to Contemporary, 1970), treats the wartime years as a complicated and confused time when authors wavered between binjō bungaku (usurper’s literature) and their own, purer works. Okuno suggests that, especially toward the end of the Second World War, “many authors were forced into silence, and on the surface Japanese literature died out and entered a blank era,” which was important only because the inactivity provided writers a rare opportunity to “quietly reflect and deepen their thoughts.”14 The omission of wartime literature from Katō Shūichi’s Nihon bungakushi josetsu (A Preliminary History of Modern Japanese Literature, 1980) is telling because its comprehensive critical investigation of the Japanese literary tradition halts on the eve of the political upheaval of the late 1930s. Katō gives only passing references to the wartime works of a few authors—such as Hayashi Tatsuo (1896–1984), Kobayashi Hideo (1902–83), and Ishikawa Jun (1899–1987), given as examples of relative independence from contemporary political and social trends—and does not provide the same general overviews that he gives for other periods and cultural phenomena.15 As Katō ends his investigation with some observations on postwar developments, he cites the extreme historical proximity to the era (although he is writing in 1980) and the yet undetermined nature of various authors’ postwar activities to explain his inability to write the “final word” on the topic. It is probable that he would refer to the same set of factors in explaining the omission of wartime literature, but the vacuum nonetheless is notable and implies that it is a period that commands a different treatment from others, even if it means giving minimal information or skipping it altogether. The few times that critics have paid attention to wartime texts, their main focus has been to assign blame for complicity and responsibility for wrongdoing. However, the project to identify sensō sekininsha (responsible parties for the war) among the bundan (literary circle)—as declared by Odagiri Hideo in what was

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to be his monumental manifesto “Bungaku ni okeru sensō sekinin no tsuikyū” (The Pursuit of War Responsibility in Literature, 1946)—halted soon after the war as the critical focus shifted from the original mission of identifying wartime literary wrongdoing to the larger issue of the relationship between politics and literature.16 Hence, as the drive waned to reexamine wartime literature and reflect on the supposed mistakes of the past, so did interest in revisiting the exceptional period in the otherwise “natural” development of modern Japanese literature. The current dearth of critical engagement with wartime literature grows out of several plausible but ultimately incomplete assumptions about wartime literary production and consumption: that art and entertainment took a backseat to political utility, that literature was reduced to a governing tool for the state, that authorial creativity was stifled by the presence of authoritarian censorship, and that audiences could only indulge their literary tastes in the works that made it past the censors. However, the memoirs of young readers, the so-called shōkokumin (little national subjects) who consumed such literary works, attest that more diverse reading material that stimulated their interest during times of general material scarcity was indeed available. As most literary works produced in the era seemed to repeat the mantra of militarism and the unrelenting Japanese spirit, the desire among young readers for other kinds of literature—real entertainment that could show them what day-to-day life can be in peacetime—was realized when they discovered old magazine issues and enpon volumes for children (discussed in Chapter 1) from the previous decade, very often tucked away in basements or storerooms, while on gakudō sokai (wartime relocation of urban schoolchildren) in the countryside. The accounts of young readers suggest that they exercised everyday savvy and devised ways to access and circulate such engaging and less ideological works among themselves through unofficial means. This allowed a new style of reading—what I call repetitive and nostalgic reading—a revisiting of older but richer pre–Second World War culture enabled by the deep literary repository created by the enpon boom. The production of frivolous interwar entertainment may have slowed down or even halted by the late 1930s, but consumption of these works continued throughout the war years.17 While the sources available for this investigation come largely from young male readers, there is some evidence that female readers were equally creative in interpreting such texts and obtaining the physical copies. Moreover, a comparison of individual works of popular literature from the early to mid-1940s with memoirs left by young readers casts new light onto

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the nature of use value in an environment of extreme ideological restriction. The glorified descriptions of one-dimensional war heroes lend momentum to the view that the only creative works allowed by the censors were propaganda possessing little literary merit. Such accounts include the governmentcommissioned song about the horrendous death of Hirose Takeo (1868–1904), a soldier who was killed while searching for his missing subordinate during the Russo-Japanese War; the suicide of Inoue Chiyoko, a young woman who killed herself the night before her husband left for war in 1931 so that he would not have to worry about her while fighting; and the story of the “Kugunshin” (Nine Gods of War), a posthumous name given to the soldiers who died in the attack on Pearl Harbor.18 But the actual accounts of the young readers attest that they detected multiple layers of meaning even in the contemporary material. These sources provide the basis for a “history of audiences” (to borrow the language of Jonathan Rose) and allow for a more nuanced look into the state of reading for even the most propagandistic material in wartime Japan.19 These young readers responded to the most prescriptive texts in unexpected and illuminating ways—often recognizing a different kind of use value from that intended by authors, publishers, parents, and the government—and the possibility of such unprescribed readings suggests that wartime writings as a whole can benefit from the same degree of critical attention. In particular, the works of the popular author Unno Jūza (1897–1949) and their reception offer fertile critical ground. After starting off as a governmentemployed engineer who moonlighted as a detective fiction writer in the 1920s, Unno returned to his main and original interest in science fiction in the late 1930s. On their surface, Unno’s works from this later period appear to be simple propaganda, with repeated references to the bravery of Japanese soldiers and the greatness of the Japanese nation. However, those readers who looked behind the hollow, jingoistic rhetoric that framed his stories of fantastic weapons and intergalactic wars could discern Unno’s repeated warnings to cultivate scientific power (kagakuryoku) in order not only to win wars but also sustain peace. While other wartime authors exalted the spiritual superiority of Japan over its enemies and colonial subjects and urged blind faith in Japanese spiritualism as the key to victory, Unno steadfastly adhered to the conventions of a preexisting popular genre—as exemplified by such works as Miyazaki Ichiu’s Nichibei miraisen (Future War Between Japan and the United States, 1923)—that warned against military and technological unpreparedness by depicting realistic battles and fictional defeat. His works give the impression of a veiled political critique

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of the wartime Japanese government, often in the form of contradictions, inconsistencies, and outlandish storylines.20 Such counterintuitive elements in Unno’s works escaped the attention of the censors, but do not appear to have eluded the inquisitive minds of his young readers, the primary audience of his wartime works. Unno’s case attests that although propagandistic works may have been disseminated with the purpose of mobilizing the masses, they were not necessarily consumed as such by sensitive and imaginative audiences. Relying upon postwar recollections of wartime thoughts and actions may be problematic because of the widespread tendency of memoir writers—in Japan and anywhere else—to revise the historical truth of militarism and defeat in an attempt to cast themselves in a better light. As Jonathan Rose cautions: “Although autobiographies will probably prove to be the richest sources for a history of audiences, they must be used with caution and balanced against other materials …. We must also bear in mind that an autobiographer (like any other ‘nonfiction’ writer) is liable to forget, misremember, remember selectively, embellish, invent, and rearrange events in the interest of creating an engaging story.”21 Nonetheless, I consider the memoirs of the shōkokumin to be relatively reliable—if not entirely authoritative—sources of reading conditions during the war years. Unno’s young readers typically acquired a level of literacy that allowed them to read without adult assistance or supervision works of popular literature during the late 1930s and 1940s. This period coincides with the time when the reach of censorship extended dramatically, to the point of selfcensorship on the part of authors and publishers. Based on their chronological age, such readers were just old enough to understand the realities of the national crisis under which they lived but also young enough to be honest with their personal childhood desires that were not always in accordance with the national interest. The problem of postwar construction (both willful and unintentional) of emotions and allegiances perhaps plagues even these accounts. However, I suspect that the relative innocence of these readers as minors—exempt from most, if not all, of wartime responsibilities and postwar assignment of blame— gives them relatively little motivation to embellish their memories, especially of such seemingly mundane details as the kinds of adventure stories they enjoyed or disliked as young readers. While Sakuramoto Tomio argues that everyone is responsible for his or her actions during the war, it is fair to say that some if not most remember wartime experience as something neither entirely tragic nor entirely bucolic.22 Their accounts are often politically neutral, neither hollowly preaching peace nor denouncing wartime actions, theirs or others. Although this ambivalence might be an attempt to defuse controversy or deflect criticism, it

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suggests at the very least that the characterization of wartime literary production as pure propaganda needs to take into account whether readers recognized these works as such and whether their actions and reading practices were influenced by this recognition. Roger Chartier reminds us that time and time again, readers are capricious and certainly imaginative in their job of reading, rarely following the course the author charts for them and plotting their own itineraries instead: We must recognize … a major tension between the explicit or implicit intentions a text proposes to a wide audience and the variety of possible reading responses. The printed works designed for “popular” consumption in early modern Europe reveal a broad range of intentions: Christianizing, as in the texts of CounterReformation devotion that entered into the French Bibliothèque bleue; reformist, as in the almanacs of the German Volksauglärung; didactic, as in material printed for scholarly use and manuals of practical instruction; parodic, as in texts in the picaresque and burlesque traditions; poetic, as in the romances published in the Castilian pliegos. But in their reception (certainly difficult for the historian to decipher) these texts were often understood and handled by their “popular” readers without regard for the intentions that governed their production or distribution.23

I therefore glean from the retrospective accounts of such readers examples of the maturity and caution with which they were able to detect and discuss contradictions and inconsistencies in these works. Their stories provide us with a unique window of opportunity to break free from the critical dichotomy of resistance and complicity that dominates the interpretation of wartime literature.24 These voices, however unexpected, illustrate the validity of Michel de Certeau’s famous statement about readers as poachers who “move across lands belonging to someone else, like nomads poaching their ways across fields they did not write, despoiling the wealth of Egypt to enjoy it themselves.”25 Some reader responses during the war suggest that this view of readers as poachers holds true even within the most oppressive reading environments and the most prescriptive writings—like wartime Japan and the fiction it produced. Chartier also summarizes the extreme difficulty, if not impossibility, of giving a cogent and complete account of any readership: the act of reading “rarely leaves traces, is scattered into an infinity of singular acts, and purposely frees itself from all the constraints seeking to subdue it.”26 My present work on wartime literature, young readers, and reading practices shares both the hopelessness and excitement of Chartier’s endeavor. Since not all readers leave behind their impressions, to capture an entire picture of the state of reading may indeed be hopeless and

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impossible. In addition, the literary aftermath of the war—especially the effort among critics to uncover complicity and resistance—makes it extremely difficult to revisit the period under investigation without encountering bias. At the same time, the creativity and independence of readers allowed propaganda literature to be something more than a tool of ideological and political conformity. For this reason alone, wartime literature can be reconsidered as a source for the diverse cultural efforts of the postwar period including literature, theater, and cinema. Reconstructing a history of young audiences during wartime Japan, using their retrospective recollections, can change our perception of modern Japanese literature.27

Repetitive and nostalgic reading The practice of repetitive and nostalgic reading reflects the persistence of individual taste and the desire to consume frivolous entertainment even during a time of national crisis. This reading style was prevalent during the last days of the war among young readers who relocated to the provinces in order to avoid air raids on the cities, as part of the gakudō sokai program. With an acute shortage of new apolitical publications, readers everywhere in the Japanese empire devised ways to circulate and exchange prewar texts with other aficionados, including past issues of popular magazines, enpon, and other random books that individual readers collected in their home libraries during the previous decade. Young readers traveled back in time through such “reading wormholes” and discovered the exciting literary world of the prewar period, when monthly magazines were a few hundred pages thick and featured color illustrations. The continued consumption of prewar literature during the war helps us dismantle the prevalent but ungrounded myth that entertainment was stifled and frivolous elements of prewar culture were completely suppressed or forgotten, and it compels us to reassess the legacy of supposedly ephemeral texts beyond their first audiences. Making possible this nostalgic and repetitive reading is one of the most important legacies of the enpon boom: the cheap mass-market editions described in the previous chapter traveled far and wide and offered unexpected joy to the young audiences who treasured them upon discovery. As urged by the profit-driven enpon advertisements, readers faithfully created home libraries, often nothing more than a basement or makeshift storage space, where young readers could indulge in the comprehensive content and high production values of another time. The long-term desirability of these “timeless” texts may have

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been exaggerated by enpon publishers to enhance their hyperbolic advertising slogans, but ultimately this longevity became real thanks to these young readers who ascribed fresh and unanticipated use value to old books. Without recognizing the determination, shrewdness, and resourcefulness of young readers throughout Japan as well as the colonies, it is impossible to explain their strategies for pursuing good entertainment during the war. While the ideologically saturated entertainment endorsed by the wartime government had little appeal, lost treasures of prewar literature could be found in the Japanese countryside. Yamamoto Akira (1932–99) was one reader who relocated to the countryside and turned to stories from the previous decade for diversion. He stumbled upon a whole new world when he discovered a private library in the basement of a friend’s home. Kept there were the moldy books my friend’s brothers used to read. They even had thick issues of Shōnen kurabu [Boys’ Club, 1914–46; title in different kanji, 1946–62] from around 1935, books by Unno Jūza, Yamanaka Minetarō (1885–1966), as well as the Edogawa Ranpo zenshū [Complete Works of Edogawa Ranpo; 1931 Heibonsha edition], and a two-volume set of Yoshikawa Eiji’s Shinshū tenmakyō [The Divine Land between Heaven and Hell]. [My friend’s] mother with her traditional Japanese hair-do left us alone, even if we turned over boxes of mandarin oranges [to sit upon] or laughed really loud [while reading]. Because of that, I used to go to this basement library a lot.28

During the decade before the war, many families in rural Japan took advantage of both cheap mass edition series and abundant storage space in their homes to create their own private libraries—although they may not have been the elegant shosai or even the bookcases depicted in the enpon ads. Regardless of whether they were regularly read or simply collected dust prior to this, these hoarded works were rediscovered and enjoyed anew when waves of entertainmentdeprived readers were pushed out of the cities by constant aerial bombing and into the literary wonderland of rural Japan. Elements of mainstream print culture from the 1920s and 1930s did not disappear with the advent of war, but survived the censors and the general sentiment against frivolity during the 1940s by finding new (albeit clandestine) audiences. Despite the generally chaotic state of affairs in urban Japan during the last days of war, the writer Nosaka Akiyuki (1930–2015) remembers his friends’ families keeping copies of the Kyōka zenshū (Complete Works of Izumi Kyōka, Shun’yōdō, 1925–27) close at hand in their sitting rooms just before their town was bombed. Nosaka’s own home had the Sōseki zenshū (Complete Works of Natsume Sōseki, Iwanami shoten, 1920 or 1927), Meiji Taishō bungaku dai zenshū

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(Complete Works of the Meiji and Taishō Periods, 1927–28), [Gendai] Taishū bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Popular Literature, Heibonsha, 1927), and Sekai bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of World Literature, Shinchōsha, 1927). Nosaka regarded these zenshū as status symbols that reflected the cultural tastes of their owners.29 During the enpon boom, publishers tried to make individual volumes as substantial as possible to make their commodity seem like a bargain. As a result, each enpon volume often had a few hundred pages packed with two or even three rows of text on a page. Such dense volumes were still quite hefty but nonetheless helped to conserve storage space. Another ardent reader and postwar author, Kida Jun’ichirō (1935–), remembers taking a volume of his beloved Shōgakusei zenshū (Complete Works for Elementary School Students) on his relocation trip with his schoolmates when he was allowed to carry only a few books. Because of this restriction, Kida chose one of the thickest books in his collection. When he rediscovered the same zenshū—all eighty-eight volumes—in prime condition shortly after the war in a friend’s home that had escaped damage, he was reminded of the richness of interwar culture once again: “These volumes were from twenty years ago and smelled musty, but in contrast to shabby wartime books they looked gorgeously designed and contained incomparably rich material.”30 Although Kida was not part of the target audience when Shōgakusei zenshū first came out in the late 1920s (because he had yet to be born), the lasting appeal of the series touched him when he came of reading age in the 1940s: “I recall reading most of Shōgakusei zenshū. I also took the volume on children’s manga [Jidō manga shū] edited by Okamoto Ippei [1886–1948] with me during sokai, and came to know about Arsène Lupin through the volume on ‘boy detective’ stories [Shōnen tantei tan] edited by Kikuchi Kan. These are all fond memories to me still today.”31 Many other gakudō sokai children commonly had to endure harsh living conditions away from home, and many found solace in old magazines and books from the prewar period. Ushijima Hidehiko (1935–99), a postwar critic of the same generation as Kida, relocated to Saga in Kyushu and made the acquaintance of a slightly older boy from a navy officer’s family who had an impressive collection of deluxe cloth-bound books as well as past issues of Shōnen kurabu from the 1930s. In his friend’s library, Ushijima realized that the older issues of Shōnen kurabu were more substantial in volume than the current ones and featured colorful advertisements for toys and sweets that had since disappeared from everyday life. “I was enthralled and jealous at the same time,” recalls Ushijima.32 Yamamoto and Ushijima belonged to the generation that

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was reading—for the first time since the Meiji period—materials that were less extravagant than those of previous generations. The family was generous enough to let Ushijima read items from their collection, so he came to know some of the best works that had graced the pages of Shōnen kurabu in years past.33 As mentioned earlier in this chapter, there are relatively few extant sources that allow for a thorough examination of how young female readers engaged in repetitive and nostalgic reading in wartime Japan. An invaluable example is the writer Tanabe Seiko (1928–), who describes a sentiment similar to Yamamoto and Ushijima when she sought out the girls’ stories of Yoshiya Nobuko that had been published in the magazine Shōjo no tomo (Girls’ Friend, 1908–55) before the war: The illustrations for Yoshiya Nobuko’s girls’ stories were almost always done by Nakahara Jun’ichi [1913–1983], who was popular for drawing lovely girls with large eyes and long limbs. But such illustrations were considered unsuitable for a nation at war and were suppressed by the military for being decadent and unwholesome. From the July 1940 issue of Shōjo no tomo, Nakahara’s illustrations no longer appeared on the cover or inside the pages of the magazine. Schoolgirls like us were disappointed and so we hunted for old issues of Shōjo no tomo from years past that had made their way into used bookstores. When we found copies with Nakahara’s cover illustrations, no matter how old they were, we felt like we had discovered treasures. We felt like we had been born too late.34

Given the allure of prewar books and magazines among wartime boys and girls, private collections of such publications were a source of pride, and some enthusiasts even went to the trouble of recording evidence of their comprehensive holdings. The “Shiyū kurabu” (Friends of the Magazine) section of Shōnen kurabu in the 1930s often included submissions from such proud collectors, such as two boys from Ibaragi Prefecture, seemingly of elementary school age (see Figure 2.1). These kinds of submissions from readers may have been constructed to some degree by the editors, who likely selected letters to print to give the impression of nationwide as well as empire-wide coverage, but they probably did not go as far as to fake these submissions (complete with photographs). In 1935, when the popularity and quality of the magazine were at their peak (according to the wartime readers), quite a few boys wrote in to report the completeness of their Shōnen kurabu collections. In the February issue, a boy from Saitama Prefecture shared some exciting news: “I have been reading Shōnen kurabu since 1931, so with the February issue there will be fifty issues in my bookcase. I plan to have a party on January 12, the publication date of

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Figure 2.1 “A mountain of Shōnen kurabu,” with two brothers and their pile of back issues. Reproduced from Shōnen kurabu (October 1935): 353. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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the February issue. Mr. Reporter [the respondent of this column], please come join us!”35 In the July issue, a boy from Hamamatsu in Shizuoka Prefecture, wrote about the magazine’s lasting appeal even to those who had supposedly “graduated” from Shōnen kurabu: “My two bookcases are filled with Shōnen kurabu, and with the May issue my collection will be fifty volumes. My older brother collected the first thirty-six. He is in the fourth year of middle school, but he still fights with me over who reads the new issue every time it comes out.”36 In the August issue, a boy from Fukushima Prefecture, reported that his collection had reached one hundred volumes: “To commemorate this, I lent out the majority of my collection to my friends who have not read these volumes and urged them to become regular subscribers.”37 To top all this in drama and authenticity, another boy from Ibaragi Prefecture appears in the December issue in a photo of himself standing next to a pile of forty volumes of Shōnen kurabu (see Figure 2.2). The caption reads that he is looking forward to collecting enough volumes so that the pile will be as tall as he is.38 Many Shōnen kurabu collectors kept the old furoku supplements to the magazines, just as the Ibaragi boys in the illustrations. Wartime readers who saw these past treasures would have found present-day offerings pale in comparison. Such furoku included “Portraits of World Heroes” (“Sekai eiketsu shōzōgashū,” February 1930), “Great Portraits of Napoleon” (“Dai Naporeon meigashū,” September 1931), and “The Model of the Empire State Building, the Tallest Building in the World” (“Sekai ichi takai Enpaiya birudingu no dai mokei,” February 1932).39 Napoleon seems to have been a popular subject in furoku: his crossing of the Alps (“Naporeon no Arupusu goe”) was also depicted in the supplement to the February 1936 issue. Sometimes literary works were included as furoku: a booklet supplementing the April 1936 issue featured Kuore monogatari shōnen damashii (A Story of Kuore: The Spirited Boy), a translation of the children’s novel Cuore by Edmondo di Amicis (1846–1908). The elaborate furoku was a luxury that wartime publishers simply could no longer afford, so the prewar years became a target of yearning. Ushijima bemoaned the present shortage: “The thick volumes of Shōnen kurabu [from the previous decade] seem like gifts left behind from ‘the world of dreams’ [yume no sekai no otoshimono]— the prewar world when things were abundant.”40 While young readers throughout Japan were collecting, preserving, and circulating issues of Shōnen kurabu, those overseas were also engaged in similar activities. Ozaki Hotsuki (1928–99) was having a similar encounter with the same set of stories in Taiwan. Ozaki was initiated to Shōnen kurabu in 1937 at the age of nine and continued to follow the magazine until 1941. Submissions

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Figure 2.2 “A mountain of Shōnen kurabu.” Reproduced from Shōnen kurabu (December 1935): 340. From the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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from overseas readers such as Ozaki were a fixture in Shōnen kurabu, and it is reasonable to assume that some of them collected Shōnen kurabu as eagerly as readers in the homeland—if not more eagerly because of the likely scarcity of Japanese reading materials. Shōnen kurabu was relatively expensive, so one copy was often circulated among several readers. In Ozaki’s case, his friend’s older brother was the official subscriber. After him, his little brother would read it, and then turn the magazine over to Ozaki and other friends. The circle of readers adhered to strict rules of circulation: “I could have the copy for no longer than three days—there were others waiting in the wings,” Ozaki recalls. They often read these issues a few months after their initial publication (tsuki okure zasshi), as they were cheaper than the current issue. As was the case with Ushijima’s neighbor back in Japan, many readers of Shōnen kurabu in the colonies and overseas Japanese settlements not only kept the past issues of the magazine but also bought their favorite stories in book form once the initial serializations were complete. Thus, Ozaki was able to read stories dating back as far as the early 1930s.41 If we take the “Friends of the Magazine” column in Shōnen kurabu as a reasonably accurate index of the magazine’s readership, we can find ardent fans of the publication in nearly all areas of the Japanese empire. Judging from the photos that accompanied the letters, most if not all of these readers were elementary and middle school students. In the July 1935 issue, a reader with a Korean-sounding name wrote from a village in Korea to thank the magazine for including in its previous issues two (very imperialist) furoku: the “Geographical Handbook of Manchuria” (“Nihon Manshū kengaku chiri”) and the “Biography of Toyotomi Hideyoshi” (the medieval warlord who had invaded Korea in the sixteenth century).42 The reader was so impressed with the furoku that he convinced a few friends to subscribe as well. These two furoku supported Japan’s foreign policy of expansionism, but they were also sophisticated sources of entertainment that could please these discerning bicultural readers. Similarly, a Japanese boy born in Mexico who had yet to set foot on the soil of his home country wrote that he finds extremely useful their previous furoku, a mnemonic primer on how to pronounce English and French words.43 These boys confirm that they very often held on to copies of Shōnen kurabu (and probably other magazines) well after first reading them and formed private collections wherever the space for storage was available. There was more space for books in the countryside, and since there was little danger of destructive air raids, these private collections remained intact—and served as a means of book sharing that recalls the heyday of the Meiji-period kashihon’ya. The high

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price of such magazines was also an incentive to preserve back issues. Shōnen kurabu averaged about 50 sen per copy until its publisher Kōdansha significantly cut its content and volume during the war and subsequently slashed the price. (In 1940, a box of caramels cost about 10 sen and viewing a movie about 60 to 80 sen.)44 These letters also illuminate counterintuitive reading practices for periodicals among the general public. As examined by scholar Nagamine Shigetoshi, working-class readers often consumed texts intended for those with ample disposable income and leisure time, while preserving the otherwise ephemeral volumes as if they were hardcover books.45 Young readers seem to have done the same.

Censorship, propaganda, and poaching In light of this repetitive and nostalgic reading, how did these resourceful young readers read contemporary works? Given the ideologically charged political climate of the late 1930s and early 1940s, most liberal publishers—those who yearned to publish freely in the stifling wartime environment—hoped to find intelligent, discerning, and creative audiences capable of reading between and beyond the printed lines. Reflecting their awareness of the constant presence of the censorial whip, some writers describe the language that they employed as the “words of slaves” (dorei no kotoba). Hatanaka Shigeo (1908–97), a wartime editor of the magazine Chūō kōron (Central Review), recalled his wish to communicate his intentions to his readers even in the face of intense censorship: “With all speech [genron] under strict control, if one still wanted one’s writings to make sense to oneself and one’s audiences, all one could do was to hide one’s true intention behind the prose and rely on the ‘words of slaves.’ This is also to hope that the readers will be kind enough to ‘read behind the lines’ [kotoba no uragawa o yonde morau].” Hatanaka’s testimony suggests that some writers opted to obscure their intentions under layers of meaning, and it implies a tacit understanding between authors and readers during the war years: “I am unsure to what extent this worked, but because of the strictness of censorship and oppression, I often thought that wartime readers had developed a greater sense of an author’s true intentions than audiences [of the 1980s].”46 Many elements of Unno Jūza’s wartime works suggest that he had similar hopes for his audience to read between the lines and recognize his criticisms of the Japanese government for underestimating the value of scientific education. The intended message of his Kasei heidan (Martian Army, 1939), published

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in Shōkokumin shinbun (Little National Subject Newspaper), appears to have been something else besides glorification of Japanese military strength.47 Kasei heidan depicts an intergalactic war in which Earth faces two dire threats: a Martian invasion and an approaching comet. In his preface to the work, Unno states his wish for his readers to become interested in the topic of science and to pursue careers in the field when they grow up. In explaining his reasons, he engages in some scathing criticism of Japanese culture: “The scientific power [kagakuryoku] of our nation, honestly speaking, is utterly poor …. Among the general population, it is nothing like that of a first-world country, and I suspect it to be below that of even a third-world country.”48 Unno’s preface does not express satisfaction with the current status of Japanese technology or blindly praise the Japanese spirit just to please the censors; rather, it beguiles his readers with extreme yet conceivable plotlines so that their interest in science and its possibilities will continue long after they leave the story. Moreover, Unno acknowledges that not all readers will take away the same meaning: “I don’t think all of you who are kind enough to read this story will share my opinion. Some of you will say, ‘Oh no, I am going to be a great scientist and save my country!’ … while others of you will simply say ‘Oh, that was close. But it’s good [that it all worked out in the end]. This story was fun.’ ”49 Given the surprisingly blunt language in his preface—couched in terms that could be construed as critical of the government—Unno’s preferred outcome is clear. Kasei heidan and Unno’s other stories in a similar vein indeed generated varied reactions among his readers. For the most part, Unno was able to enthrall readers with engrossing narratives of scientific and technological wonders. Tezuka Osamu (1928–89), the renowned manga author famous for such hits as Tetsuwan Atomu (Astro Boy, 1951–68) and Burakku Jakku (Black Jack, 1973–83), was an ardent fan of Unno Jūza as a child. The future titan of Japanese manga recalled that Unno’s works had a profound impact on his creative development: I loved the imaginary science stories of Unno Jūza. Ukabu hikōtō (The Floating Airfield, 1938), Taiheiyō majō (Magic Castle in the Pacific Ocean, 1939), Kasei heidan—I especially liked Kasei heidan. While it was serialized in Mainichi shōgakusei shinbun [Mainichi Newspaper for Elementary School Students; published as Shōkokumin shinbun at the time], I forgot to eat or go to school. This is the work that gave me ideas and prompted me to write imaginary scientific manga. … Tagawa Suihō [1899–1989, the author of the Norakuro comic strip] and Unno Jūza gave me direction in my life. If I didn’t encounter their works, I might have ended up with a boring life working in the Ministry of Agriculture and not have become a manga author.50

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In addition to being inspired by Unno’s stories as a boy, Tezuka’s upbringing in a family of doctors led him to pursue a career in medicine. Although Tezuka never became a scientist per se, he answered Unno’s call for scientific mobilization by becoming an author of manga informed by science—not by nationalism or militarism. The novelist Kita Morio (1926–2011), Tezuka’s contemporary, also shares Tezuka’s love for Unno’s stories and his excitement about science. The son of poetpsychologist Saitō Mokichi (1882–1953) and later an author and psychologist in his own right, Kita recalls that the most popular title at his middle school library was Kasei heidan and confesses to having checked it out repeatedly to bar others from reading it.51 Kita’s interest in psychology may simply mean that he followed in his father’s footsteps; however, it is also likely that Kita’s resolve to pursue medicine (like Tezuka’s) was made stronger by Unno’s call for scientific education. Other young readers who were mesmerized by Unno’s writings later also aspired to careers related to science. This tendency is difficult to gauge, since scientists are less likely than writers to discuss in detail their first encounter with the wonders of science. One notable exception is Tasaka Ichirō (1929–), an amateur astronomer and later a pioneering astronomical optician. In 1940, the eleven-year-old Tasaka read Unno’s Kasei heidan, which aroused in the imaginative boy a strong interest in outer space: “But even when I looked up in the sky, it was filled with B-29s and not stars. [I thought to myself] what a time to be born into. I always thought, I live only once, I want to see the stars with a larger telescope.” Years after the Second World War, he bought a telescope so that he could observe Mars, but he was disappointed in the instrument’s quality. He ended up making his own—his first step in becoming one of world’s most prominent crafters of precision telescope mirrors.52 Another contemporary reader for whom Unno’s stories had a significant impact was Satō Tadashi (1932–), a civil servant and amateur inventor who was diagnosed in the early postwar period with Ménière’s disease, a disorder of the inner ear affecting hearing and balance. As his symptoms worsened, he longed for a better hearing aid and recalled a book he cherished in his childhood—Unno’s Ohanashi denkigaku (Fun Stories of Electronics, 1935). Encouraged by the curiosity and do-it-yourself spirit of Unno’s book, Satō worked to improve existing models of hearing aids and became a noted technician.53 Satō’s passion led him not to war technology but to scientific innovations that improved everyday life in peacetime. None of these readers discuss the propagandistic effects of Unno’s works on them or any of their friends, perhaps because of the dominance of judgmental

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criticism on wartime literature. It is already known that people indulged in extreme imperialist, militarist, and nationalist passions, so there is no point in belaboring the obvious. However, the political aspects of these works may simply have had minimal importance for these readers—less than postwar readers and critics might think. This challenges the automatic equation of these works with propaganda, and suggests the range of interpretations possible from a single work. As their accounts show, Tezuka and Kita were less interested by the technical details in Unno’s works than by their overall flashiness, but other readers found intriguing lapses and differences between Unno’s works and those by other, more straightforwardly nationalist authors. The noted historian of Japanese cinema Satō Tadao (1930–) was also an avid reader of Unno in his youth. Enjoying works such as Kasei heidan, Ukabu hikōtō, and Taiheiyō majō, his readings were more attuned to political nuances—he recalls, for instance, that “these books aroused my antagonism toward England, the Soviet Union [and other nations].”54 However, when thinking about Unno’s wartime responsibility for writing militarist stories, Satō takes a markedly lenient position based on his original reading as an adolescent: When these works by Unno were published, many other militarist stories such as Yamanaka Minetarō’s Tekichū ōdan sanbyakuri (300 Miles into Enemy Territory, 1931) and Ajia no akebono (Dawn of Asia, 1922), or Hirata Shinsaku’s (1904–36) Shōwa yūgekitai (Flying Squadron Shōwa, 1934) were serialized in the same magazine. In contrast to these authors, who promulgated anti-AngloAmericanism and anti-Sovietism by positioning Japan as the leader of Asia, Unno focused on his science fiction interests. Even as a child, I could tell that he assigned the role of the enemy with scary secret weapons to England and the Soviet Union simply because there was [an actual] war against them. Yamanaka Minetarō and Hirata Shinsaku genuinely held the [militarist-nationalist] ideology, but [I could tell that] for Unno the enemy could have been anyone who could embody the sinister magnitude of the potential crisis.55

Although postwar literary scholars might group the works of Yamanaka, Hirata, and Unno together under the rubric of propaganda literature, Satō claims that he could distinguish the difference in intent between Unno and other prominent writers in this category. He also recalls that when he read about the impending Martian attack in Kasei heidan, he felt that Unno was trying to assert something other than Japan’s superiority—that it was “no time for the inhabitants of Earth to fight each other. We must unite ourselves to oppose a [greater] enemy from space.”56 This would make the ultimate message of Unno’s story not a glorification of military expansion but a call for world peace and cooperation in the face of greater threats.

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Such a nuanced approach on the part of his readers—reading between and beyond the lines—coincides with what Unno hoped to accomplish by publishing during the war. Later, Unno reinforced his desired effect by evoking another kind of reader who intervenes in the text after it leaves the hands of the author: the censor. Unno took preemptive steps to appease the censors to ensure publication and did so in a way that would be readily apparent to his young readers. For instance, in Uchū senpei (Space Troopers, 1943), Unno opens his preface with a line about “being encouraged by the successes of the Imperial Army in recent times,” but soon switches the subject to why he is writing a tale about space battles while Japan fights a real war: “The Japanese [today] must first and foremost have dreams of science and adventure,” even though such an emphasis might mean that he will “end up being attacked by stray bullets from the camp that says that such a scenario is nonsense.”57 This was not an entirely ungrounded concern. Unno’s works that featured air raids upon the city of Tokyo—such as “Kūshū sōsō kyoku” (Air Raid Funeral March, 1932), “Kūshūka no Nihon” (Japan Under Air Attack, 1933), “Kūshū keihō” (Air Raid Siren, 1936), and “Tōkyō kūbaku” (Aerial Bombardment of Tokyo, 1938)—aroused the antagonism of the military, who deemed outrageous and possibly traitorous any suggestion that an attack on the mainland was even possible.58 When “Tōkyō kūbaku” was serialized in the magazine Kingu in 1938, the editors had to change the title to “Tekki dai shūrai” (Enemy Planes Attack) because the military would have found it disrespectful even to conceive of the imperial capital coming under attack and to insinuate that air raids could happen at any time. The censorial bullet took direct aim at the author and his work, but Unno dodged it by overtly acknowledging its presence. Unno again broke from the hollow wartime practice of praising the emperor and the Japanese spirit in the preface of Uchū sentai (Space Squadron, 1944–45), avoiding such clichés as “for the sake of the emperor,” “eradicate American and British forces,” and “never stop fighting” (uchiteshi yaman). Instead, he urged Japan to control outer space by establishing a space army in the near future. This unusual preface captivated the attention of the aforementioned young reader Yamamoto Akira who actually disliked Unno’s works generally because of what he saw as their cursory knowledge of military technology and their superficial treatment of children. However, the absence of the usual mantras of wartime nationalism and the nuanced plotline intrigued him.59 If the omission of typical propagandistic language caught the attention of a young antagonistic reader, it should have been able to inspire curiosity among Unno’s more sympathetic readers. His creative decision was even more curious

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and risky considering that Uchū sentai was serialized in Kaigun (The Navy, 1944–45), an overtly militarist magazine designed for the recruitment of young soldiers (shōnen chōbō senden zasshi)—and the last site where one would expect to find even remotely ambiguous or antagonistic messages about the ongoing war. Unno’s writings may seem propagandistic to us, but to contemporary discerning audiences who read them alongside more straightforwardly ideological stories, they conveyed more complex messages. The curiosity Unno was able to evoke by not writing meaningless praises of the Japanese empire begs more questions. If propagandistic comments, characters, and storylines were so ubiquitous that they became clichés, how effectively did they inspire nationalism and militarism in the minds of audiences? How long were they taken seriously, and when did they become meaningless “pillow words” (makurakotoba) of highly stylized word play?60 How long do jingoistic but tired slogans—like Carthago delenda est—retain currency and rhetorical force before people start examining their validity? Just as a departure from convention in a formulaic genre is a sign of originality, the absence of sloganeering praise for the Japanese spirit could also be taken as a trace of bold creativity. The retrospective impressions of young readers reveal that the seemingly propagandistic aspects of Unno’s works were signs of contradiction and inconsistency, secondary to the mesmerizing images of science and technology featured in the stories. These readers did not always like what they were told to like, even if it was presented to them with the most sincere intentions. Satō Tadao preferred the stories in the magazine Shōnen kurabu to those written by children’s authors Ogawa Mimei (1882–1961) and Tsubota Jōji (1890–1982), two frequent contributors to the magazine Akai tori (Red Bird, 1919–36). Unlike adventure stories by Yamanaka Minetarō, anti-American stories by Hirata Shinsaku, “self-made man” (risshin shusse) tales by Satō Kōroku (1874–1949), and Bōken Dankichi (Adventures of Dankichi) stories about expansion in the South Seas by Shimada Keizō (1900–73), “the stories by Ogawa Mimei or Tsubota Jōji never evoked much passion in me. … I read them because my parents and my older brother bought them for me, but even when I revisit them now, I have no nostalgic feelings about them. It is as if I didn’t experience these stories at all.” Akai tori was considered the bastion of “pure” children’s literature, and (perhaps for that reason) it failed to generate genuine excitement among its readers. Satō explains why Tsubota Jōji’s “Zenta to kasha” (Zenta and the Train), which appeared in Akai tori in 1927, did not capture young peoples’ imagination: “No matter how far into the story you read, all you got were unnecessary details one after the other. In the end, there were no ideas

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to which children could actively relate.” Satō’s verdict is a tough one: “In other words, much of this kind of children’s literature was written in such a way that a child would be made to read it, a literature with a sort of ‘elderly’ quality that a child’s parents or older siblings would buy.”61 If the savviest and most mature of the young readers of this generation had shared this sentiment, it is possible that they found the same “elderly” quality in propagandistic works. In the eyes of some discerning readers, even Shōnen kurabu sometimes was not the “coolest” magazine. Critic Ozaki Hotsuki, who spent most of the war in colonial Taiwan, recalls a saying popular among young readers deciding what to read: “Get your parents to buy the Shōgakukan grade-level magazines, use your allowance to buy Shōnen kurabu, and sneak out in secret to buy Tankai [Sea of Stories, 1920–44].”62 This advice suggests that young readers knew that some forms of entertainment were considered more acceptable than others by grown-ups, and they knew how to use their limited resources to get as much as possible out of multiple kinds of reading. Hakubunkan, the publisher of Tankai, intended it to be the Shinseinen (New Youth, the most popular and fashionable magazine of interwar urban culture) of the younger generation, and published stories that were overtly focused on entertainment value rather than preachy moral lessons. Their hunch about creative freedom was right. Contributing authors to Shōnen kurabu testify that the magazine did make a point of avoiding ideological confrontation with the state. They recall that while the editors of Shōnen sekai (Boys’ World, 1895–1934), another magazine by the same publisher, allowed authors to write what they wanted, the editors of Shōnen kurabu heavily scrutinized the texts, and made sure that “no matter what, the stories had to be entertaining and had to draw in young readers.”63 But as circumstances changed this scrutiny became more ideological, and eventually even Shōnen kurabu would give in to the political expectations of the state.64 Jingoistic parents may have then agreed to buy the ideologically appropriate Shōnen kurabu and other nationalist magazines to encourage the patriotism of their shōkokumin, but magazine publishers knew that they also had to make their products attractive enough to ensure good sales and earn their readers’ approval. They resorted to furoku (supplemental giveaways) such as models and games. Shōnen kurabu was famous for its extravagant furoku, but even such freebies were by no means omnipotent marketing tools for young picky readers. Matsushita Yoshiyuki, an editor with Kōdansha who came up with numerous ideas for furoku in Shōnen kurabu during the prewar period, was aware of the selectiveness of the young readers: “It was no good when the educational intention became too obvious. Clearly the didactic ones were all failures. People

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often thought that any kind of furoku would ensure success [to the magazine], but based on my experience, the item had to be both entertaining and useful [omoshirokute tameninaru].”65 Some autobiographies suggest that even when readers read works approved by grown-ups, they did not always interpret them in ways intended by the disseminators. An attractive furoku may have convinced a reader to pick up a particular issue, but it did not necessarily draw him or her into the magazine’s political agenda. A telling example is the favorite childhood story of postwar critic Takasaki Ryūji (1925–2013), “Gōyū arawashi kanchō” (The Brave and Wild Eagle Captain), featuring a German aristocrat–turned–naval officer named Rukkuneru (presumably referring to the German war hero Felix Graf von Luckner [1881–1966]). The story came as a furoku to the July 1937 issue of Shōnen kurabu. As a twist on the risshin shusse genre common in preteen literature, “Gōyū,” by Minami Yōichirō (1893–1980), tells the story of Rukkuneru’s choice of a life of service and hard work in the German navy despite his high birth. One of the turning points of the story is when Rukkuneru becomes a lieutenant commander in the navy, but not through the regular route of training at the prestigious naval academy. Giving up his privileged blue-blooded background when he leaves home at the age of fourteen, Rukkuneru only becomes a naval officer after some twists and turns as well as a few dramatic life-altering experiences. What allows him to persevere through various hardships is his tremendous discipline and his love for his country. The uniqueness of Rukkuneru’s career fascinated young Takasaki, who grew up in the port city of Yokohama: “[Rukkuneru] always had luck on his side. More than once he escaped death while surrounded by the rough men of the sea, and at times his solitude pushed him into despair. But I was struck by his unrelenting spirit, and I had the feeling that I too might someday tread a similar path.”66 One might assume that Takasaki read the story as the nationalists envisioned and pursued a career in the Japanese navy with the same passion, but in fact he was repelled by the prospect of actual sea battles and possible injury and death. “To say that I was enamored with Rukkuneru, who is unmistakably a military man, and did not want to become one myself sounds like a contradiction, but there was no way for me to make combat my trade [shōbai] unless it was absolutely necessary.”67 As a child, Takasaki thought that war was an “anomaly” (ijō jitai), and could not conceive of making a career out of being a soldier. In the end, Takasaki believed in the reality of his everyday life more than in “Gōyū.” Even though cultural and racial differences caused conflict for Rukkuneru in the story, Takasaki thought otherwise: “The port of Yokohama I saw was always peaceful. There were many people from

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many different places speaking many different languages.”68 The glorified account of a foreign officer who thrives on pain and character-building hardship fell short of what the reader actually knew as reality in his own life, no matter how much the heroism of Rukkuneru excited him. Even as a preteen, Takasaki reserved a healthy skepticism for some aspects of the story—for example, the framing device: Rukkuneru narrates the tale to a Japanese naval officer, who swears to disseminate it to the children of Japan. Though Takasaki was so enamored with the story that he memorized it in its entirety, he always skipped the aforementioned scene because he could never believe that such an encounter actually took place.69 Takasaki was not the only reader who had counterintuitive reactions to overtly didactic and propagandistic literature. Adachi Ken’ichi (1913–85), a postwar critic and an ardent reader of Shōnen kurabu, nurtured a taste for proletarian literature only after reading Satō Kōroku’s right-wing risshin shusse epic Aa gyokuhai ni hana ukete (Ah! Flowers in the Jewel Encrusted Cup, 1927– 28), in which the protagonist perseveres in the face of the harshest poverty and injustice to serve the emperor and the state.70 Postwar biologist Shimizu Seki (1932–2015) also responded to wartime nationalist fiction by becoming antiauthoritarian.71 Young readers were savvy consumers, always seeking out “better” amusements to suit their tastes. Postwar science fiction writer Komatsu Sakyō (1931–2011) recalls that, despite the constant everyday repetition of such slogans as “We Shall Not Want Until We Win” (hoshigarimasen katsumadewa) and “Indulgence Is Our Enemy” (zeitaku wa tekida), he enjoyed reading manga and the slapstick of Asakusa comedians during the war: “[Whenever I indulged in these entertainments,] I’d be afraid of teachers, the association of schools (kyōgo renmei), my parents, and in the midst of air raids, I would think ‘Oh my goodness, what an disloyal national subject (hikokumin) I am,’ and still watch [the hilarious comedies of] Entatsu and Achako [Yokoyama Entatsu, 1896–1971 and Hanabishi Achako, 1897–1974], and Enoken [Enomoto Ken’ichi, 1904–70].”72 Although concrete numbers do not exist, it is likely that Komatsu represents a sizable audience of consumers who valued entertainment over ideology. For him, the difference between consuming comedy during and after the war was surveillance: “After the war, I felt happiest about not being watched over.”73 Feeling like a hikokumin did not prevent Komatsu from seeking and enjoying the forms of entertainment he liked. Such accounts of young readers reveal the persistence of individual taste during the war years and suggest that overt propaganda in contemporary literature and in other media was not always popular with Japanese audiences.

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Historian Furukawa Takahisa demonstrates that wartime Japanese propaganda films, known as kokusaku eiga (national policy films), were noticeably less popular than mainstream movies. New government regulations on film rationing forced the major studios to reduce movie production, and as a result the number of films shown (including both new and rereleases) in 1941 was halved from the previous year. Most of the films produced by the Cabinet Propaganda Office (Naikaku jōhōkyoku) had disappointing box office returns even when they featured contemporary stars.74 Although the war years were plagued by widespread scarcity of food and other basic necessities, the general public wanted the same kind of entertainment that they indulged in before the war. Komatsu’s recollections suggest that movies with popular contemporary comedians offered the Japanese people the emotional escape they needed when their lives had been saturated with preachy lessons of nationalism and militarism—and they also remind us that the use value of such films allowed them to be shown even during the darkest days of total war.

Beyond war stories: Battleship boys, militarist boys, and adventures in the jungle The practice of repetitive and nostalgic reading, the extended consumption of interwar publications, and the evidence of persistence of individual taste during total war tell us that texts can have “afterlives” or “double lives”—especially if they have use value that resonates with their readership. Such texts travel the reading world and find new owners, often in the least expected places and at the least expected moments. Granted, audiences read beyond the lines to different extents—or not at all. Some readers, like Satō Tadao, ignored ideological frames: “Reading his early works [alongside his the wartime works] will make it clear that Unno Jūza was a proponent of the dream that science fiction would take root in Japan, and he was probably indifferent about politics or social science.”75 On the other hand, Ushijima read Unno’s works literally, as nothing more than propaganda: when a Japanese soldier holds a bomb and jumps into the heart of the ammunition storage area of the Floating Airfield screaming “Long Live the Emperor!” at the end of Ukabu hikōtō, Ushijima assumed that Unno ceased to be a scientist (kagakusha) and became “nothing more than an imperialist author who collaborates with the national policy” (kokusaku ni kyōryoku suru kōgun sakka).76 And still other readers were skeptical, as postwar critic Yamamoto Akira attests: “We were

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reading most of Unno’s works, but only because there was little else to read. I can’t think of any other reason.”77 Interestingly, Yamamoto explains this unpopularity by pointing to Unno’s ignorance of military science rather than the monotonous mantra of nationalism and militarism. For example, Yamamoto recalls that he and many of his fellow young readers noticed in Ukabu hikōtō that Unno mistakenly describes the caliber of the main cannons on the floating airfield as “twenty inches” when it should be “twenty centimeters” and that he neglects to mention the displacement tonnage of the ship. Moreover, he remembers that Unno often portrayed children in his works as witless or clumsy. Yamamoto suggests that he and his peers often knew more about military science and technology than their elders, and that they were turned off by Unno’s seemingly condescending attitude toward young characters.78 Shimizu Seki likewise dismisses Unno’s 1940 work Ōzora makan (Enchanted Battleship in the Sky) as having “neither exciting drama nor any wondrous new weapons”: it was memorable only for the “superb illustrations by Yamakawa Sōji (1908–92).”79 When they discuss the propaganda war stories of their youth, Yamanaka Hisashi (1931–) and Yamamoto Akira also eagerly reminisce about not only their content but also the charm of the illustrations by Kabashima Katsuichi (1888–1965), which were famous for their “photograph-like” (shashin mitai na) quality and the realism that they brought to the stories. The boys were terribly disappointed when Unno Jūza’s Kaichōtei (Mysterious Bird Ship) was republished as a book because Kabashima’s illustrations, which had accompanied the original serialization, were replaced with works by another artist.80 These readers’ accounts bring a new dimension—visuality—to the study of wartime fiction, and indicate that a text’s use value in its primary market can be a function of the quality of its visual components. They suggest opportunities for investigation into the production side of propaganda, and how government officials assessed, underestimated, and misinterpreted the tastes, expectations, and intelligence of their intended audience. In the presence of many voices that praise the works of Unno, Yamamoto and Shimizu seem like outliers, but they may represent a considerable number of readers from whom critics have yet to hear, whose recollections can lend valuable insight into our understanding of wartime fiction. Yamamoto presents an interesting example of gunkan shōnen (battleship boys) as opposed to gunkoku shōnen (militarist boys): the former avidly followed the developments in the latest military technology without totally buying into the militarist ideology espoused by the latter. An instructive parallel might be the British youths who read the late nineteenth-century adventure stories of G. A. Henty (1832–1902) but did not

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necessarily subscribe to the imperialist dogma conveyed by them. As Jonathan Rose observed, “Many autobiographers, including several future socialists, do recall that they enjoyed reading Hentyesque stories; but they did not therefore become imperialists. Apparently they did not even notice the ideological freight carried by these tales, which were read purely as adventure stories, in which India or Africa was simply an exotic backdrop, not a territory the reader wanted to spend his life policing.”81 When studying wartime propaganda, we should also take into account its effects not only on popular attitudes toward war but also on larger literary trends. Militarism and colonial expansionism certainly renewed general interest in bōken shōsetsu (adventure stories), another subgenre of popular literature for young readers. Typical bōken shōsetsu feature excursions into the wild to hunt for treasure, subdue wild man-eating beasts, encounter “native savages,” and confront ferocious pirates and various secret societies with colonialist missions. The author of “Gōyū arawashi kanchō,” Minami Yōichirō, was one of the most prolific and popular authors in this genre, with such works as Kaiyō bōken monogatari (Tale of Adventures at Sea, 1935), Midori no mujintō (Green Deserted Island, 1938), and Mitsurin no ōja (King of the Impenetrable Jungle, 1940). Reflecting the geopolitical interests of the time, most of these stories take place wherever the Japanese government sought to expand its territory: the Philippines, the South Seas, and the South Pacific. Just as the battle tales did not turn all their readers into militarists, these stories did not necessarily create “colonialist boys.” Instead, they seem to have nurtured a generation of “explorer boys” with a more general fascination for the ostensibly uncivilized world and for the adventure of exploration without any aspirations for political or economic gain. The continuity of this genre after the war suggests that there was something else besides their colonial mission that propelled these stories. It is difficult if not impossible to know which types of boys were more numerous. But the postwar years saw continued production of bōken shōsetsu—stories such as Minami Yōichirō’s Barūba series (Barūba is the name of his protagonist, much like Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Tarzan), and Yamakawa Sōji Shōnen Keniya (A Boy from Kenya, 1951–55). Their ongoing popularity suggests a large audience of “explorer boys” whose interest in the wild did not dissipate when the Japanese government’s dream of conquering the Asian jungles was smashed to pieces in 1945. Stories of wondrous weapons, intergalactic war, and strange subterranean and submarine worlds continued to be widely read after the war. There may have no longer been stories for colonialist boys, but entertainment for explorer boys continued to flourish.

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Two wartime fascinations—with science and the wild—came together in the postwar release of the film Gojira (Godzilla, 1954), featuring the now-iconic monster born from nuclear radiation in the South Pacific. Initially the movie met with harsh criticism as well as praise. One defense for Gojira came from none other than Mishima Yukio (1925–70), then the newly anointed leader of the postwar literary scene known for his sparkling prose. Mishima’s support for pulp science fiction can be explained by his childhood reading habits. He devoured prewar and wartime adventure stories just like many other boys of his generation: “The mysterious underground kingdom, the ritual they hold there to worship the strange creature, the immortal queen, caves filled with gems, I forever cherish these things. When I was a child, I used to play with my cousins, drawing treasure maps, putting them in bamboo cases, and burying them in our garden.”82 Given his age and his precocious tendencies, Mishima belonged to the first generation of readers—rather than those who engaged in repetitive and nostalgic reading during the war—for whom these stories were first written. Mishima’s fond recollection of prewar adventure stories returns us to the question of what readers actually took away from so-called propaganda fiction. Despite strict and systematic censorship, both implemented by the government and self-imposed by publishers and authors, many of these works communicated subtle criticisms (covert and overt) of the current state of affairs. Nothing reveals this more than accounts by younger readers. They were perhaps more attuned to the shortcomings of wartime ideological stories because they were more literary-minded and critical than their elders. What they recognized in texts, other readers may not have recognized: thus they highlight the limits and the potential of “reading beyond the lines” during the 1940s. It is possible that the stark differences between older interwar and current wartime magazines suggested to these young minds that the best days of print entertainment were behind them, and nurtured a skepticism toward propaganda—the only official “use” for literature sanctioned by the state—that allowed them to spot the inconsistencies and contradictions in newly published works. In order to understand the wartime history of the book and of reading, one needs to read beyond the lines of sociopolitical chronology that are the conventional signposts of modern Japanese literary history and consider how contemporary readers assessed use value in deciding what, why, and how to read. One must take into account the traces of continuity and remnants of conservation marked by individual taste and personal recollection that point to how and why readers treasured texts—or discarded them.

3

Murder He Wrote: Textbooks, Visual Adaptations, and Critique Policière in Natsume Sōseki’s Kokoro Uncovering Sensei’s crime Natsume Sōseki’s novel Kokoro has lived many lives among its readers and critics after it was first printed on the pages of Tōkyō Asahi shinbun in 1914. More than a century after the novel was published, it remains one of the most popular— or, at least, visible—works of modern Japanese literature: in a 2003 poll by the publisher Iwanami shoten, it finished first among readers’ favorite works from the company’s backlist;1 and in 2013, it was voted the “longest seller” among the literature-heavy mass-market paperbacks published by Shinchōsha.2 As discussed at the beginning of this book, Kokoro was one of three works by Sōseki selected in 2014 for serialization again in the Asahi shinbun to commemorate the novel’s 100th anniversary.3 In combination with the successful cohabitation of the novel alongside the various “parodies” and “pastiches” that many of Sōseki’s works have enjoyed, such republication attests to the use value of Kokoro and the stature of its author that have allowed them to remain at the forefront of the Japanese literary field. The regular inclusion of Kokoro in “contemporary national language” (gendai kokugo) textbooks in the postwar period has undoubtedly played a significant role in cementing the work’s canonical status.4 However, the novel has also supposedly paid a price for being the most “read” work in the classroom, where one prescriptive reading tends to dominate all others. In this sense, textbooks may appear to be the most “orthodox” texts geared to a young audience—not unlike the propagandistic works discussed in the previous chapter. According to a typical textbook summary of Kokoro, the supposed main plot revolves around the mentor-disciple relationship between a young man (watakushi) and his older reclusive friend, whom the young man calls sensei.

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To watakushi, sensei is a “mysterious man” (fushigi na hito),5 whose “words and actions brood a certain darkness” (sono gendō ni hisomu in’ei).6 Sensei’s general gloom makes watakushi wonder about sensei’s past and spurs him to investigate his background. Current textbooks almost invariably excerpt from the third part of Kokoro, where the events in sensei’s youth are revealed through his confession letter to watakushi, the anonymous narrator of the first two parts.7 There, watakushi learns that sensei betrayed his best friend K in order to win Shizu, the woman seemingly coveted by both. As sensei questioned the meaning and consequences of his own actions, K committed suicide, thereby sealing sensei in ethical limbo, until he writes his confession to watakushi and prepares to take his own life. In this reading, then, sensei kills himself for betraying his friend—end of story. Despite the enigmatic ambiguity that runs throughout the novel, this is the one and only interpretation the textbooks prescribe to their audience through carefully selected excerpts, truncated summaries, and seemingly innocuous leading questions. Though there are reports of creative readings offered by students even on the extracted passages, such readings are almost always discouraged or even rejected as anomalous in the classroom where there are strict “right” and “wrong” answers. Komori Yōichi, perhaps to date the most important literary critic to have discussed Kokoro, recalls reading the text in his high school Japanese class and feeling frustrated with the teacher’s unimaginative and prescriptive explanations.8 Komori’s dissatisfaction seems legitimate since the assumption of such a clear-cut interpretation definitely betrays what Sōseki’s literature represents. Ihara Mitsuo, a critic otherwise not disinclined to author worship, points to Sōseki as a writer in the habit of “writing especially something important and crucial only casually, and not elaborating on it or making it obvious.”9 This tendency is particularly prominent in Kokoro, and the vagueness of his prose has certainly opened the story to a slew of creative interpretations despite the strong critical orthodoxy imposed by textbooks.10 Although Kokoro enjoys solid recognition and frequent opportunities to be read, critics still debate today not only its significance in Japanese literary history but also its central plot—what truly happens in the story.11 In some ways, the vagueness in Sōseki’s prose could be considered a source of use value, one that gives readers and critics the opportunity to exploit plot holes and narrative inconsistencies and construct new readings—some of which could even upend traditional interpretations of the story. The extremely unsatisfactory treatment of the text in his own high school classroom lead Komori Yōichi to

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unleash his frustration by offering one of the most “radical” readings of Kokoro, in which watakushi and sensei’s widow Shizu have had a child (or children) after sensei’s suicide.12 Komori’s creative reading reminds us that even if Kokoro’s “life” as a text is restricted to one dominant interpretation in textbooks intended for a particular audience, it is allowed to have other hidden, alternate—and perhaps more exciting—lives if reexamined through different critical lenses. Another prominent “deviant” reading of Kokoro argues that what sensei calls “my secret” (watakushi no himitsu) in his long confessional letter is not his betrayal of K and subsequent “theft” of Shizu, but something else that remains unrevealed. Critic Imanishi Junkichi subscribes to this interpretation, and attributes this cover-up to watakushi’s tacit agreement with sensei to maintain complete confidentiality.13 In the story, sensei confesses his tainted victory over K and eventually opts for the ultimate self-punishment for his covetousness. His intense sense of guilt for what some might consider a trivial romantic conflict between rivals casts him as a sensitive man.14 However, the presence of another unwritten and possibly graver secret would destabilize such a “textbook” reading from its foundations and cast new light on the entire novel. What was sensei’s real secret? The authorial account of his behavior—and, more importantly, gaps in his narrative—suggests his ultimate transgression is much more grave than a man stealing a woman in a romantic competition while pushing his friend into despair. The lapses in his narrative indicate that K’s death, which has hitherto been unanimously ruled a suicide, was actually a murder committed by sensei. It is not that sensei’s betrayal drove K to suicide; rather, sensei is the one who actually delivered the final blow by slashing his neck with a knife. As some critics have already noted, K’s suicide feels incomprehensible and unnatural.15 The strange circumstances of K’s death certainly legitimize this suspicion. This analysis aims to revisit one of the most famous love triangles in modern Japanese literature and expose the lethal crime behind it. Once the pressure for a “right-or-wrong answer” is removed, textbook versions of Kokoro, supposedly offering the most prescriptive, exclusive, and unimaginative readings of all, offer us a first clue and can serve as the starting point to substantiate this outlandish interpretation. While textbooks attempt to establish only one reading, they also offer valuable extra-textual information and visual aids that no mass-market editions of the text, undoubtedly the most accessible format for inspired high school students as well as the general public, can provide.16 One such example is a diagram of the house in which sensei and K lived at the time of K’s supposed suicide (see Figure 3.1).

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Although such diagrams did not appear originally in Sōseki’s published works, they have been included in numerous textbooks to help contemporary high-school students understand the layout of a typical residence at the turn of the twentieth century.17 Figure 3.1 is a typical example in which legends or captions are used to indicate those parts of the diagram that are derived from descriptions in the text and those that are speculation (suitei)—suggesting that there is creative interpretative freedom within the original text, and that informed speculation is not only allowable but also can enrich study of the work. While such floor plans are likely included to prevent unfounded interpretations, they ironically remind a more seasoned reader of literature that such visual aids are most often seen in “fair play” murder mysteries in which readers are encouraged to play “whodunit” using elements laid out in the text. S. S. Van Dine (1887–1937)

Figure 3.1 Floor plan of sensei’s boarding house in Kokoro. Misumi Yōichi et al., Seisen gendaibun B (Tōkyō shoseki, 2014), 105. The title describes the diagram as “Watakushi and K’s Boarding House”; however, in this case watakushi refers to sensei, as the excerpt is taken from the third section of Kokoro, where sensei narrates these events from his past in the first person.

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explains the function of the floor plans and diagrams in detective fiction: “The setting of a detective story, however, is of cardinal importance. The plot must appear to be an actual record of events springing from the terrain of its operations; and the plans and diagrams so often encountered in detective fiction stories aid considerably in the achievement of this effect. A familiarity with the terrain and a belief in its existence are what give the reader his feeling of ease and freedom in manipulating the factors of the plot to his own (which are also the author’s) ends.”18 Some of the key works of Golden Age detective fiction do include diagrams, such as Agatha Christie’s (1890–1976) The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) and S. S. Van Dine’s The Greene Murder Case (1928).19 One of the oldest examples of detective fiction including such “plans and diagrams” may be the French work Le mystère de la chambre jaune (The Mystery of the Yellow Room) by Gaston Leroux (1868–1927), which was serialized in the magazine L’Illustration in 1907 and published in book form in 1908 (Figure 3.2). As textbooks package Kokoro in an attempt to establish one reading as the most valid over all others, it inadvertently approximates it to a fair play mystery and encourages the reader-detective to investigate the plot and characters, detect textual and subtextual clues, and ratiocinate new readings of the case at hand.

Figure 3.2 Floor plan of the Château du Glandier, as drawn by the journalist/ detective Joseph Rouletabille. Gaston Leroux, Le mystère de la chambre jaune (Paris: Éditions Pierre Lafitte, 1908), 94.

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Forensic tools of literary investigation But what is the purpose of revisiting a seemingly open-and-shut case, when the accused (sensei) is dead and critical judgment has already been passed in the form of general consensus? Still, a conscientious literary critic would argue that there should be no statute of limitations for literary forensics if such an investigation serves to breathe new life into the text. And, as we shall see, we indeed have a client—Shizu—who enlists the help of a prosecutor who will identify the real crime but who ultimately hides the guilty party. Several tools aid in arguing the case against sensei: first, methods that derive from what Pierre Bayard calls critique policière (or “detective criticism”), an interpretive approach that can challenge the veracity of the most conventional of all possible readings whenever there is a seed of doubt; second, visual representations of the text that necessarily fill gaps and resolve contradictions in the textual narrative; and third, events contemporaneous to the time of the novel that help us understand how K’s death might have been investigated had it occurred in the real world. To date, Bayard has challenged some of the most dominant readings— interpretations that are so hegemonic that they have been taken as “fact”—of various canonical texts, such as Oedipus Rex (that Oedipus did not kill his father Laius), Hamlet (that Claudius did not kill King Hamlet), Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (that the real killer is not Dr. Shepherd, the one implicated in the narrative), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story The Hound of the Baskervilles (that the real killer is not Dr. Stapleton, who is implicated by Sherlock Holmes).20 Following Bayard’s lead, I have argued elsewhere that the feline narrator in Sōseki’s Wagahai wa neko de aru did not drown accidentally but was actually killed, not by the author Sōseki in the sense that he as an overseer of all acts and events in the text decided to terminate the cat’s life at the end of the novel, but by a character within the story who had the motive and means to carry out the deadly deed.21 Bayard’s criticism reminds readers that their information about the world of the text is fragmentary by nature: the “apparent barrier against delirium, textual closure— the notion that a text includes only a limited number of readings—is a material closure, but not necessarily a subjective closure.”22 Readers consider K’s death a suicide not because they have unmediated access to the actual moment of K slicing his carotid artery, but because they learn of the event through their main informant, sensei. When an account is subjective, critics have the right to, in Bayard’s words, “intervene”: The main difference that separates detective criticism not only from other studies based on investigation, but also from the rest of criticism, is its interventionism. While other methods are usually content to comment on texts in a passive way,

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whatever scandals those texts might present, detective criticism intervenes in an active way, refusing to go along. It is not content with pointing out the weakness in texts and casting doubt on presumptive murderers; it boldly risks any number of consequences by actually looking for the true criminals.23

The seemingly preposterous scenario of K’s murder is the outcome of such intervention; indeed, the lacunae and inconsistencies in the text start to make more sense if the reader rethinks K’s sudden death as the result of foul play and treats sensei as the prime suspect. In uncovering important subplots, the structure of the text—that the story starts with the account of sensei and watakushi’s interactions and relationship, progresses to watakushi’s story, and concludes with sensei’s confessional letter— also merits some investigation. Although readers might expect certain gestures toward narrative closure at the end of a typical novel, they are left with unanswered questions in Kokoro. Above all, watakushi does not reappear after sensei’s confessional letter to tie up all loose ends, such as the important but unmentioned events that transpire for him and Shizu between sensei’s suicide and the creation of watakushi’s account. Critics who view the circumstances of a text’s production as dictating its form and content would readily attribute this abrupt ending to Sōseki’s suddenly altered schedule—he was asked to prolong the story since the next author, Shiga Naoya, suddenly became unavailable—as his own serialization in the Asahi shinbun was drawing to an end.24 However, the seeming disappearance of watakushi could also be a necessity demanded by the characters and events in the narrative. Unless such a scenario can completely be dismissed, the reason for watakushi’s absence from the end needs to be examined more closely. Another approach that provides critical insight into the world of Kokoro is an examination of its visual representations. Perhaps because of Kokoro’s narrative vagueness—and its fragmentary presentation in widely circulated materials like textbooks—its cinematic and manga adaptations take ample creative license in recreating the story. As the work is transformed from a literary text to a visual one, it undergoes some seemingly smooth but important changes that help the reader identify narrative gaps that critique policière can exploit. For instance, the limited perspective and subjective nature of first-person narration are necessarily brought to the fore in visual adaptation. A first-person narrative like Kokoro is commonplace in the novel, but a rarity in cinema or manga adaptations since purely point-of-view visual representation is difficult to maintain without making the viewer feel frustrated and claustrophobic.25 Visual adaptations warrant the use of a second “camera” to film the story, including the embodiment of the first “camera,” and relativize the recording of the first (and often the only)

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“camera” in the literary version. This inevitable shift of perspective in visual representations of Kokoro, or the presence of multiple points of view, certainly reminds the reader of the subjective and incomplete nature of sensei’s account— as well as that of watakushi. Bayard comments: Every story, furthermore, leaves to the reader’s imagination vast spaces of narrative, in the form of direct or indirect ellipses. In principle the reader does not have to worry about what is going on in these virgin spaces of the story. But just as with descriptions, it is hardly likely that he won’t be tempted to fill them, especially when the text mysteriously alludes to absent events.26

Visual representations (by nature) are obliged to fill these gaps, and in doing so bring forth illuminating interpretations about the original texts. The third critical tool is a consideration of actual historical events around the time of the story and contemporary criminal investigative conventions. Though essentially a piece of fiction, Kokoro incorporates various elements of contemporary society and history to drive the plot and to root the story in reality: for example, the passing of Emperor Meiji (1852–1912) and the subsequent suicide of General Nogi Maresuke (1849–1912) and his wife Shizuko (1859–1912) supposedly prompt important thoughts and actions in the story. Contemporary values and customs, such as the general respect for university students during sensei’s student days and its subsequent decline, are also important elements that make the story—and his account of what happened—credible. As long as these contemporary historical events and customs are acknowledged as present in the story’s fictional world, critics should also be allowed to refer to them to dissect elements of narrative. Contemporary accounts suggest that geshuku (student boarding houses) were common sites for romance, crime, and other entanglements.27 The details of the so-called Kofue Incident of 1926, a contemporary case involving an elite student, romantic conflict, and murder, shed light in speculating how K’s suicide would have been treated by the authorities if it had indeed taken place in the real Meiji Japan—and what danger someone in sensei’s situation could have expected and how he could have preempted it.

Sensei and K: Homoerotic ties How might the detective-critic build a case against sensei? If he had indeed killed K, his best friend and geshuku cohabitor, what would have been the reason? Sensei admits that they were rivals in love. However, K’s death comes after

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sensei has already won Shizu’s hand in marriage and the approval of her mother okusan, in whose home both resided; therefore, it would no longer have been necessary for sensei to “eliminate” his opponent. Though they were definitely best friends, they were not an exclusive pairing. Although sensei’s solitary nature is emphasized throughout the first and last sections of the novel, the presence of several “friends” for each of them can be inferred from both watakushi and sensei’s narratives: the Westerner friend to whom sensei feels close enough to visit Kamakura together (part 1 sections 1–3); the friend who leaves from Yokohama to travel overseas whom sensei sees off and thereby creates a chance for watakushi and Shizu to have some time to discuss past events in his absence (part 1 section 10); another friend from his hometown who works at a local hospital and visits Tokyo (part 1 section 15); and the friend back home to whom sensei appears close, since this friend was the one who first alerted him about his uncle’s keeping a mistress in town and trying to usurp his inheritance (part 3 section 8). Even K, who seems to have had even less time for friendship, has some friends other than sensei who rush to his funeral (part 3 section 51).28 If sensei and K did have other friends, what made their friendship with each other stand above all others? A number of critics have pointed out the distinctiveness of sensei and K’s relationship—in particular, its homoerotic nature.29 What J. Keith Vincent describes as the “paternalistic homosocial reading” that discards all homoerotic elements of the text has largely been reconsidered, and the underlying homoerotic as well as homosocial tensions have been observed and analyzed.30 In sensei’s memoirs, his emotional and possibly sexual ties with K appear as something he wished to terminate but could not, at least not easily. Though he never states his reasons explicitly, he moves out of his student dorm into okusan’s boarding house so as to start his life anew, since the discussion of leaving his “noisy” (sōzōshii) student dorm and searching for a new place comes right after his departure from his native town (part 3 sections 9–10)—and his idea of a fresh start may have included a reorientation of his sexuality. In the late Meiji period, the nature of male-male friendship at elite schools could be intense: it was not uncommon for classmates at such exclusive institutions to develop deep emotional attachments with each other as they breathed the same air and (as the idiom goes) “ate rice from the same pot.” One such elite student was the educator Abe Yoshishige (1883–1966), who wrote of a classmate who committed suicide: “It’s been a year since I lost you; yet never a day passes when I am not thinking of you. When I am close to nature, I think of you; when I am happy with people, I think of you; when I am alone, I think of you. Your voice should not be heard by anyone, yet my ears

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often hear you. Your face should never be seen, yet I see your image everywhere …. Oh, why do I long for you so?”31 Such strong feelings of longing, and the knowledge that this yearning was common among elite students at the time, are indeed what justifies sensei’s excessive remorse for K’s “suicide” on a superficial level of the story. At the same time, such male-male longing was something from which one eventually “graduates” as a rite of passage—in much the same way that elite students from the prestigious numbered schools completed their studies and advanced into the real world.32 Though sensei never admits it, it is likely that when he looked for new housing, he was seeking a place operated by a landlord with a daughter of marriageable age. And it was common in Japan at that time for such lodgers and daughters to get married. The journalist Ubukata Toshirō (1883–1969) attests that until around the time of the Russo-Japanese War (1904–5) many small families, especially widows and daughters, opted to let students board in order to utilize their resources and for male protection, and that such living arrangements often led to marriage between the student and daughter.33 From the beginning, sensei’s transitional program from malemale longing to heterosexuality may have been designed with marriage as the outcome. However, two things complicated his plan for a new emotional and sexual start. One was his own lingering attachment to K despite his desire to move on. While the original text only drops hints of this dilemma, the notable movie adaptation Kokoro (dir. Ichikawa Kon [1915–2008], 1955) exploits sensei’s oscillation between K and Shizu, homosexuality and heterosexuality, most notably by inserting an episode during K and sensei’s trip to the Bōsō Peninsula, thereby supplementing sensei’s narrative. In the original text, the dramatic climax of this trip is the moment at which sensei grabs K’s neck and pretends to push him off the cliff to his certain death. However, the movie places an extra scene before this, in which they are also standing on a cliff, and as sensei is startled that K might fall, he grabs—or embraces—him. After the danger passes, K gives sensei a knowing smile; at first, sensei is visibly awkward and embarrassed, but when he sees the smile he seems offended at K’s suggestive look (Figure 3.3). In this scene, K appears more comfortable with such bodily contact than sensei. Moreover, as the two start walking away from the cliff, K reaches for sensei’s hand, and the two walk hand in hand for a few steps until sensei lets go (Figure 3.4). In general, Sensei seems awkward at such (continued) physical contact, and the aforementioned violent scene on top of the cliff is explained as the outburst of his frustration with K and possibly himself.

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Figure 3.3 K smiles at sensei, Kokoro (dir. Ichikawa Kon, 1955). © Nikkatsu.

Figure 3.4 K and sensei holding hands, Kokoro (dir. Ichikawa Kon, 1955). © Nikkatsu.

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The movie also depicts other moments when sensei still appears very emotionally intimate and attached to K. Later on in the story, when sensei runs into K and Shizu coming home together in the rain, sensei becomes upset enough to ask them individually what happened. Although it would make more sense for him to be frustrated by Shizu’s flirtations with another man, the movie makes it discernable that he was relieved to hear from her that they were walking together only at her suggestion. In the original text, Shizu plays coquette and toys with sensei’s jealousy (part 3 section 34). The movie, however, makes it clear that the object of his jealousy is not her but K. Such a change in Shizu’s behavior and sensei’s reaction may be considered a deviation from the original text, but it has an important function, since without such scenes sensei’s obsession with K after winning Shizu’s hand would remain inexplicable. Another factor that derailed sensei’s supposedly “smooth” departure from male-male friendship to heterosexuality is his wish for K to also move on. In thinking this way, sensei seems to think that not only is it necessary for him to advance to heterosexuality, but also K needs to move on so that they will both get away from each other. But this only comes out as a bizarre suggestion for cohabitation that will result in a classic love triangle with Shizu. On the surface, he explains that he invites K to live with him in order to “make him [more] human”: My most important task, I felt, was somehow to make him more human. Filing his own head with the examples of impressive men was pointless, I decided, if it did not make him impressive himself. As a first step in the task of humanizing him, I would introduce him to the company of the opposite sex. Letting the fair winds of that gentle realm blow upon him would [be an attempt to renew his rust-stained blood]. (213; McKinney, 271)

Sensei’s reference to “more human” may be read as “heterosexual.” Ishihara Chiaki suggests that sensei invited K to join him in the same boarding house knowing what would occur: a heterosexual romantic competition that he is bound to win because of his financial superiority and Shizu’s existent affection for him (signs of which he had already witnessed prior to K’s arrival).34 Sensei has always been intimidated by K’s academic and human achievements, so it is not surprising even if sensei wished to fix this new game of heterosexual romantic competition. But his plan is wrecked as his speculation fails, with Shizu preferring K to sensei, and sensei still feeling emotionally attached to K more than Shizu. In this context, when K learns about sensei and Shizu’s engagement and chooses not to interfere, sensei is an abandoned “lover” twice over—he is

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abandoned first when K declares his love for Shizu, and then again when K does not stop sensei from his impending heterosexual union.

Sensei’s neurosis: Overreliance on visual clues As a motive for murder, jealousy is common enough in both fiction and fact, but aside from the humiliation of losing to a rival in love, what might have driven sensei to take the life of his friend? Evidence in Kokoro suggests that sensei suffered from some type of neurosis, most likely paranoia. In fact, sensei’s own confession reports that both he and K suffered from some sort of neurotic disorder or neurasthenia (shinkeishō or shinkei suijaku; part 3 sections 22–24). The only difference was that around the time of their aforementioned Bōsō trip, K’s condition was reportedly improving while sensei’s was worsening.35 In the narrative, the most significant symptom of sensei’s neurosis appears to be an obsessive tendency to overanalyze his surroundings through their outward visual signs. Such an obsession undoubtedly had origins in sensei’s first experience with deceit. As with the “Rat Man” in Sigmund Freud’s case study, sensei’s innocence was broken in his adolescence, when his uncle usurped his inheritance while pretending to be a good-faith guardian.36 After realizing that even a relative like his uncle, of whom his parents spoke so highly, could con him of his inheritance, he desperately avoids being fooled ever again by trying to observe outward, superficial signs of a person’s deeper—and truer—personality and intentions.37 Since people do not always wear their feelings on their sleeves or sport concrete signs of their identity, such heavy reliance on visual clues can easily lead to erroneous judgment. But importantly, sensei believed in the omnipotence of visuality, and he even considered himself to be no exception to the rule. At numerous instances, sensei notes the feeling of being cornered and, more importantly, observed—and how oppressive it felt. In his interactions with sensei, watakushi observes that sensei was always afraid of “being studied with cold eyes” (tsumetai manako de kenkyū sareru; part 1 section 7). Watakushi comments on sensei’s weird mannerisms, describing him: “as if he is a criminal with a prior record” (zenka no aru hanzaisha mitai), and as though he is “a criminal rather than the sensei whom I respect” (hitori no zainin de atte sensei dewa nai; part 1 section 31). The more sensei values visually discernable signs, the less he seeks to gain information by direct verbal communication. He ends up leaving what cannot be visually deciphered simply as an enigma, and his former best friend K

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becomes a threat when he gains a certain unknowable depth with his new heterosexual desire for Shizu. In the process, sensei starts to feel cornered by K in his own imagination. After K confides in sensei his feelings for Shizu, sensei wonders what K’s next move would be as K’s unexpected confession made him visually indecipherable: “Above all, he puzzled me (kare ga geshigatai otoko no yōni miemashita). Why should he have unburdened himself to me out of the blue like that? Why had his passion reached such a pitch that he felt he must confess it to me? And where had his normal self disappeared to? I could find no answers (subete watashi niwa geshinikui mondai deshita)” (part 3 section 37; McKinney, 195). They are old friends who now live together. Such intimacy makes K confide his romantic dilemma, yet this act throws sensei into a pit of uncertainty and paranoia. This impossibility in figuring out his opponent pressures sensei to take some kind of drastic action, but he is at a loss. To justify the unnecessary stroll that he took immediately after K’s aforementioned romantic confession, sensei states: [I felt unsettled about] having anything more to do with him. As I strode about the town [as though in a dream, I kept picturing before my eyes K sitting quietly in his room. I heard a voice from somewhere telling me that no matter how much I walked, I would be unable to move him. In other words, I had probably begun to think of him as a kind of monster. I even found myself believing that he may have cursed me for eternity]. (Part 3 section 37; McKinney, 195)

Hearing imaginary voices is, of course, a classic symptom of paranoia and schizophrenia. The inscrutability of K alienated sensei so much from his former best friend that he becomes “a kind of monster” (isshu no mamono), but this is puzzling, since sensei still has the upper hand in the situation as the independently wealthy presumed suitor. It is also curious that he feels cursed (tatarareta) by K already, as at this point his rival is still alive and available for reconciliation. The voice in sensei’s mind announcing the “immovability” of K and the persistent image of K sitting in his room like a mountain are telling signs of sensei’s psychological imbalance. In this upset state, sensei makes an exceptional but ultimately feeble attempt at further open discussion with K about Shizu, only to be quickly discouraged by K’s refusal to chat late at night (part 3 section 38). Seeing that exhaustive visual analysis is not an option and that K is unwilling to take up the matter again for days, sensei requests one thing: to let there be no secrets between them: “[I asked him to keep nothing from me, to tell me everything that he was thinking.] He declared [clearly] that he had no need to hide anything” (part 3 section 39; McKinney, 199). However, K still remained reluctant to take up the matter again.

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Throughout the ordeal, K’s visual inscrutability and verbal unavailability torment sensei. The quieter K is, the worse the oppression. At one point, sensei gazes at the closed fusuma sliding door between their rooms in an attempt to figure out what K is thinking: “[Before long, my mind grew more and more disturbed by the silence. When I thought about what he was thinking on the other side of the sliding door, I could not contain my worries.] It was perfectly normal for us to maintain separate silences on either side of the doors, and usually the quieter K was, the more likely I was to forget he was there. In my present state, however, I was clearly a bit mad” (part 3 section 37; McKinney, 194). The closed fusuma shuts off not only all possible visual clues but also verbal communication, and sensei is left to wonder about K’s next move. Here, the complicated layout of the boarding house becomes significant—and the aforementioned floor plans of their lodging appear in textbooks in order to aid students understand such scenes. As the textbook diagrams suggest, in order for sensei to go from his main eight-tatami-mat room to okusan and Shizu’s living area, he has to pass through a connecting room between the main room and the hallway, where K has taken up quarters rather than being in the main room with sensei. Sensei has the option of exiting to the garden and reaching the main part of the house, but this route would force him to pass through the unroofed, “outside” area. In sensei’s mind, K stands in his room—a symbolic transitional space between homosexuality and heterosexuality—as a guard who refuses to let him leave. Adding to sensei’s dismay, the guard now pursues the same object of heterosexual conquest. For someone in sensei’s state of mind, only the erasure of his competitor can ensure complete victory and eliminate his untoward urges.

Driven to murder This intensification of sensei’s paranoia can explain why he started to brood violent thoughts—and develop even aggressive actions—prior to K’s confession. The first instance at which sensei’s frustration with his homosexual-heterosexual bind burst out as actual violence is the aforementioned scene during their trip to Bōsō, when sensei grabs K’s neck from behind and attempts (supposedly in jest) to push him off the cliff. Sensei is visibly annoyed by K and his own inability to shake off his friend as well as the homosexual past and present that he represents. With no witnesses, sensei could have killed K and claimed that it was an accident or suicide. He obviously does not carry out the killing of K here, but impulsively comes very close—like a rehearsal to the real performance.

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Sensei’s excessive references to blood and necks throughout his retrospective account suggest a morbid fixation on them as particular targets. In the previously examined passage in which sensei explains his rationale for inviting K to live with him, he uses blood as a metaphor: as cited above, he aims to “renew” K’s “rust-stained blood.” It is significant that sensei speaks of K’s renewal in bodily terms, as K will meet his demise in the bloodiest possible way. There are other allusions in the text to sensei’s inner violence. As sensei taunts K for straying from his former spiritual path after the latter admits his romantic attraction to Shizu, sensei takes figurative aim at K’s neck, where he would ultimately sustain his fatal wound. When K asks sensei to stop talking about Shizu as it torments him, sensei insists on discussing it during their tense stroll. He compares his own actions to a wolf biting the throat of its prey: “My answer was cruel. I leaped like a wolf [at the chance to tear at the lamb’s throat]” (part 3 section 42; McKinney, 204). In visualizing the story, the manga version published by EastPress emphasizes the image of sensei “tearing at” K’s throat by having multiple frames that focus on sensei’s mouth as he utters cruel words at K, and calls the attention of the reader to the peculiarity of the expression (see Figure 3.5). The use of such jugular metaphors foreshadows K’s violent end, and it seems no coincidence that sensei grabs K by the neck in Bōsō, that he compares his most significant verbal assault on K to a wolf tearing at a sheep’s throat, and that K’s fatal wound is on his neck. We can interpret these metaphorical attacks as gradually building up to the actual act of murder: the first was tentative, the second verbal, and the last actual—and fatal. While sensei is capable of violent thoughts and even actions, in his mind he seems to be constantly on the defensive. Some suggest that in the senseiShizu-K love triangle K is actually the first offender for having been so clueless about sensei and Shizu’s ongoing romance.38 If sensei shares such sentiment, he would have felt justified in getting rid of his impudent opponent. Sensei also appears threatened by K’s physical presence. He writes that though he had more stamina than K (part 3 section 31), K was physically bigger (part 3 section 42). While there is no mention of K actively trying to take advantage of his physical superiority by being on the offensive, sensei appears paranoid that his inferior strength could be tested at any time. Sensei also finds his adversary formidable because he is “heavy” and “unmovable” in both physique and stubbornness during K’s romantic confession: “His confession never varied in tone. [Its heavy dullness gave me the feeling that he would not be easily moved.]” (part 3 section 36; McKinney, 193) The feeling that he cannot be persuaded leads sensei to overtly fear him: “What should I do, oh, what should I do? so that I

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Figure 3.5 Sensei’s cruel words to K. Over these two pages, close-ups of sensei’s mouth appear four times. Variety Artworks, Manga de dokuha: “Kokoro” (EastPress, 2007), 153–54. Kokoro © Kazuki 2007.

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Figure 3.5 (Continued)

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scarcely comprehended the details of what K was saying. The overall tone of his words, however, struck me to the core. So my pain was now mixed with a kind of terror—the beginning of a horrified recognition that he was stronger than I” (part 3 section 36; McKinney, 193). This terror would not be completely dispelled even after his successful marriage proposal to Shizu via okusan. Sensei tries to avoid direct confrontation with K despite numerous opportunities to discuss the matter with him. In the end, he decides to ignore the issue as long as possible—and thereby refuses responsibility forever: “I was haunted with worry over how to deal with K. I prepared an arsenal of justifications for my defense, but none would hold up when I was face-to-face with him. [In my cowardice, I had now come to loathe the prospect of explaining myself to him]” (part 3 section 46; McKinney, 213). However, after sensei realizes that K already knows of the engagement between sensei and Shizu through okusan, he is horrified at the prospect of being derided by K for playing dirty: “Though I’ve won through cunning, the real victory is his was the thought that spun in my head. How he must despise me! I said to myself, and I blushed with shame. Yet it mortified [my sense of self-esteem] to imagine going to K after all this and submitting to the inevitable humiliation” (part 3 section 48; McKinney, 216). Obviously, sensei could have told his best friend the truth no matter how “clueless” K might have been—that he had also been keen on Shizu long before K came to live with them, and decided to formally propose to her via her mother. But he admits that he was too proud to accept that his behavior was underhanded. He could have been avoiding a “face-to-face” encounter with a morally superior man as it might have led to a “hand-to-hand” scuffle with a physically superior opponent. As K was now aware of the impending union between his best friend and the object of his affection, the eventual confrontation was only a matter of time. He decides to sleep on it one more night and talk to K the next day. However, he was still the wolf targeting the sheep’s throat, since it is in the midst of this dilemma that something seems to have happened that night—he either made the active decision of killing K, or lost his conscience, patience, health, sanity, or whatever quality that prevented him from doing so before. Violent thoughts become actions once it is no longer possible to contain them. When sensei was unable to approach K after the latter’s original romantic confession, he found himself extremely restless: “At length I could stay still no more. The longer I forced myself to remain motionless, the more urgently I longed to leap up and burst into K’s room” (part 3 section 37; McKinney, 195). Sensei eventually removes himself from the room and takes a stroll; what was making

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him restless was the dilemma of whether to tell K about his own affection for Shizu. At this time, he still had the option of explaining the situation to him face to face. However, after creating the opportunity for the secret marriage proposal by feigning sickness, K’s presence behind their shared sliding door becomes the inevitable shame sensei has to confront. The moment he is no longer able to stop himself from bursting into K’s room is when the murder is likely to have taken place. Was K ever aware of the imminent danger? We get a glimpse into his understanding of sensei’s condition when K comes to sensei’s room the evening of their aforementioned stroll to ask if he’s asleep. After engaging in some harmless small talk in K’s room, sensei retreats to his quarters to sleep: Soon I drifted into a calm sleep. But I was awakened by the sudden sound of my name. Turning to look, I saw that the sliding doors were partly open, and K’s dark [shadow] was standing there. The desk lamp still glowed in the room and beyond. By the sudden change in my world, for a long moment I could only lie there, speechless and staring. “Are you [still up]?” K asked. He always stayed up late. “What is it?” I said, addressing K’s shadowy phantom shape. “Nothing really,” he replied. “[I was on my way back from the bathroom and thought to see if you were still awake or already asleep.]” With the lamplight behind him, I could make out nothing of his [face or eyes]. His voice, however, was if anything calmer than usual. After a moment he slid the doors carefully closed. Darkness instantly returned to my room. I closed my eyes again, to shut out the blackness and dream in peace. I remember nothing more. But the next morning when I recalled the incident, it struck me as somehow strange. Had I perhaps dreamed of it? I wondered. (Part 3 section 43; McKinney, 207)

But the whole thing was not a dream, as sensei and K refer to it the following morning: “Over the breakfast I asked him about it. Yes, he said, he had opened the doors and called my name. ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked, but he gave only a vague reply. We lapsed into silence. Then he abruptly asked if I was sleeping well lately. The question struck me as rather odd” (part 3 section 43; McKinney, 207). It remains unclear why K opened the sliding door to check on sensei, as K never gave a definite answer. Since K very decidedly refused to discuss with sensei matters concerning Shizu, and appeared bothered by sensei’s persistent attempts at intimate chats earlier, it is unlikely that K wanted to talk to sensei about anything meaningful at that point. It is more likely, therefore, that K called sensei not because he wanted to talk to him but because he sensed something from sensei’s room. It could have been sensei twisting and turning or talking about Shizu in his sleep. As K asks sensei if he has been sleeping through the night—and

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does so after what could be taken as a meaningful pause—it is possible K knows from previous firsthand experience that sensei suffers from sleep disturbances and that he might regularly talk or even walk in his sleep—that he is not himself when the unconscious takes over. Such knowledge ultimately failed to protect K, but allows us to know that sensei could act in an unusual manner at night. The murder may not have been fully deliberate, but it is possible—even very likely— that sensei killed K in a fit of paranoiac self-defense. Sensei himself seems uncertain of his own state of mind at the crucial moment, and insinuates in his comment to watakushi that he can veer “out of control”: “I don’t even trust myself. It’s because I can’t trust myself that I can’t trust others. I can only curse myself for it” (part 1 section 14; McKinney, 30). In more orthodox readings, this lack of trust refers to his cheating of K to win Shizu’s hand—deceiving his best friend just as his uncle conned his nephew. However, it could also refer to his murder: the statement could mean that he know he did it, and “can’t trust himself ” because of its monstrosity; or that he was non compos mentis at the time, and has no recollection of the actual act, hence “can’t trust himself ” and “can’t help but curse himself.” Regardless, all of sensei’s actions after the fact are cunningly designed to cover up the crime. It is easy to imagine that the scene of the murder would have been extremely bloody. About the suicide of novelist Kawakami Bizan (1869–1908), a real-world contemporary to sensei and K whose death is said to have been a source of inspiration for Sōseki, an article in Kokumin shinbun described the scene using expressions like: “the study was a sea of blood” (shosai wa chi no umi), “the carotid artery was flawlessly severed” (migoto ni keidōmyaku o setsudan), “the sight of the blood-spattered corpse shocked his wife into a dreamlike daze” (chishio ni shimite koto kireiru ni zo fujin wa yume kato bakari ooi ni odoroku).39 Kokumin shinbun may have been using sensational rhetoric to sell more papers, but it is easy to imagine the gory scene as the victim died from the loss of blood. Considering his allusion of renewing K’s “rusty” blood by inviting him to live together, it is no surprise that sensei would later be struck by the image of the blood on the wall at the scene of K’s death, since it is physical evidence of how vividly and violently his blood was “renewed.” However, the shock of the scene’s bloodiness only comes to sensei in stages. For instance, he reports noticing the blood running down the sliding door only after carefully examining the suicide note: “[It was only then that I turned around and saw] the blood that had spurted over the sliding doors” (part 3 section 48; McKinney, 217). There are some additional suspicious details in sensei’s account on how he found K’s already lifeless body. According to sensei, the sliding door to sensei’s

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room was about two shaku (60 cm) ajar when he discovered the body, the same as the earlier night when K supposedly stood there and asked sensei if he was up. Keeping the door slightly open is a curious thing to do for a suicidal person determined to end his life. Sensei’s testimony at face value suggests that K wrote his suicide note, put it on the desk, sat on his unfolded futon, and slashed his carotid with a small knife, all the while keeping open the fusuma to the room of his light-sleeping friend. It is odd to think that he allowed the possibility of interruption during such a drastic, irreversible action by leaving open the door. It does not make sense for him to leave it ajar so that sensei would discover his body, since sensei would have opened it anyway to access the other parts of the house upon getting up. If K had checked on sensei that night, he also would have noticed that he is sleeping in a different direction from usual (his head pointing west instead of east)—a possible sign that he is more likely to wake up than sleep through the night.40 If K intended to take his own life without being interrupted, it would make more sense for him to leave the fusuma closed. The only likely reason for K to leave it open is to shock sensei, but because of the dramatic nature of the act the ultimate shock effect would be intense regardless of the state of the fusuma. And, perhaps most importantly, since sensei is supposed to have noticed the bloody fusuma as he turned around after reading the suicide note, the fusuma in question must have been the one separating his room from K’s room. But there is no such report. If the fusuma was indeed left ajar, some blood would likely have spewed into sensei’s room. It is therefore unlikely that the fusuma was open, or left open by K—either sensei’s testimony is false, or he is the one who opened it. The condition of K’s bedding that sensei reports is equally curious: “the quilt was folded over, as though it had been kicked away” (part 3 section 48). If the bedding was indeed kicked away by K, it would have been prior to all the above steps, and we have to consider that K was first asleep or at least lying down, and then impulsively decided to take his own life. But he would still have needed the composure to write his suicide note, seal it in an envelope, and place it on the desk, while forgetting to close the fusuma or unintentionally keeping it open. Therefore, it appears more likely that the bedding was removed by sensei at the beginning of his attack on the sleeping K.

Suicide note: Sensei’s cover-up starts The preceding pages have suggested that there was something complicated between K and sensei beside their competition over Shizu, that sensei suffered

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from paranoid delusions, and that the circumstances of K’s death are extremely suspicious. However, the possibility of foul play has never been investigated because of the presence of K’s suicide note. Puzzlingly, the note’s authenticity has never been questioned by readers or critics, even though sensei is the primary and seemingly the sole source of this “evidence.” It is fruitful to consider here some contemporary context, namely the standards of criminal investigation, the status of forensic science, and the public image of imperial university graduates in the late Meiji to early Taishō periods. Was it possible that investigators would not have considered the possibility of a forged suicide note? Handwritten documents constituted a problematic form of evidence for the police in the early twentieth century. Nagayama Chōzaburō, a former chief inspector (keiji buchō), provocatively begins his essay on the difficulty of relying upon handwritten notes to determine whether a death under suspicious circumstances is suicide or homicide: “A situation has arisen that requires me to kill myself, please forgive me for preceding you in death Praise to Amida Buddha … ditto ditto ditto ditto To my dear parents” If a person was found hanging with this kind of note in his pocket, most people would think that this was an intentional suicide. There would hardly even be an objection if the note was in the person’s own handwriting. But the truth cannot be tidily dismissed this way, for what if this note were written by someone else ….41

The quoted suicide note was supposedly written by a man who disappeared with a huge sum of cash he was carrying for his employer. However, in Nagayama’s essay, it is revealed that the victim was forced to write these words by a robber who stole the money from him. The police found the letter suspicious enough to conduct a criminal investigation and the perpetrator was eventually caught, found guilty, and hanged a year later. But what about sensei—is it possible that he forged K’s note? The reported brevity of K’s suicide note creates a stark contrast with the length and detail of sensei’s note. Furthermore, despite such succinctness, K’s suicide note is not cited directly—the reader only gets a summary from sensei, who also mentions that the final line appeared to have been written in a hurry. This is the only description of the note sensei provides to the reader. It could be because there was nothing out of the ordinary; or, it could be because he forged the note and wished to divert readers’ attention from his crime. Other parts of the text draw attention to the distinctive penmanship of both sensei

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and K. For example, sensei describes K’s usual handwriting as messy. During their trip to Bōsō, they encounter a Nichiren-sect monk, with whom K tries to strike up a philosophical conversation on the meaning of Nichiren’s teachings on contemporary society, but the monk only discusses superficial things, including Nichiren’s neat handwriting.42 Sensei explains K’s disappointment at the comment: “I remember the dismissive look on his [K’s] face when the priest remarked that Nichiren was renowned for his excellent cursive writing style—K’s own writing was [messy]” (part 3 section 30; McKinney, 181). Sensei, on the other hand, had very neat handwriting. Upon seeing the last letter from sensei, watakushi reports that “I flipped abstractedly through the pages, my eyes taking in the [methodical] script that filled the little squares of the manuscript paper” (part 2 section 18; McKinney, 115). The text establishes that K and sensei had distinct handwriting—and that it is not impossible, especially for the person with neater handwriting, to imitate the other. Although sensei never emphasizes it, some of the other characters within the story appear to have been suspicious of the letter. For instance, one of K’s friends who attended the funeral asks sensei why exactly K committed suicide. According to sensei, he is not the only one who asked him this question: “Okusan, Ojōsan, K’s father and brother, acquaintances whom I had informed, even newspaper reporters [who were unknown to him]” reportedly asked him the same (part 3 section 51; McKinney, 222). Sensei sidesteps such “interrogation” by referring to K’s suicide note, but never says that he actually showed the letter to them: “My answer to everyone was the same. I simply repeated the words of his final letter to me and made no further statement” (part 3 section 51; McKinney, 222). Since the letter was addressed to sensei, in the absence of an official criminal investigation by the police, he has the primary right to determine the confidentiality of it, and he seems to have willingly exercised that right. However, the aforementioned anonymous friend curiously goes a step further and shows sensei two newspaper articles that discuss K’s death. We learn from the scene that for the reason for his suicide, one newspaper pointed to the financial hardship K experienced after he was disowned by his adoptive family, while the other claimed that K killed himself “in a fit of madness” (ki ga kurutte jisatsu shita). In reality, the suicide of an elite student like K would have garnered much more popular attention in 1900, especially because it predates the famous suicide of Sōseki’s former student Fujimura Misao (1886–1903) in 1903.43 Fujimura’s suicide, reportedly motivated by philosophical aporia, caused a sensation and prompted widespread speculation. So it is natural to assume that K’s suicide would have been the object of intense popular interest, and

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like Fujimura’s death may have even produced some sort of “copycat suicide” (the so-called Werther Effect) afterward. As Kokoro was serialized in 1914 and published as a book in the same year, contemporary readers lived in a world where it was an established fact that imperial university students can indeed commit suicide even when there is no pressing financial reason. However, it is important to remember that the characters in Kokoro had not experienced the Fujimura Misao incident at the time of K’s death, so the suicide of an elite student would have been unheard of and should have been received with more shock and sensation than sensei describes. While Fujimura’s suicide note (chiseled on a nearby tree) was photographed, printed, and disseminated in an attempt to decode its meaning, K’s suicide note remained private correspondence. Sensei exercises his right as the “best friend” and keeps the note away from prying eyes. Although handwriting analysis is one of the more controversial areas of forensic science, there are some points of reference. According to handwriting expert Nemoto Hiroshi, assessing a document’s authenticity entails identification of certain checkpoints—like numbers and punctuation. While these elements are often difficult to forge, kanji characters are not.44 Mistakes are also strong evidence for or against authenticity.45 The case would have merited a close examination of the note not necessarily by experts but by the reader, who is deprived of the opportunity because of sensei’s narrative mediation. In the absence of a suicide note, or when the note is not made public, a close friend’s testimony became even more important in determining the treatment of the suicide. When Kawakami Bizan took his own life without a suicide note in 1908, his friends and family were perplexed. Newspapers speculated that it was because of financial difficulty (he was to move to his wife’s brother’s home that morning as he was unable to pay the rent for his current residence), but his author friends suggested that his family members (who would have also suffered such financial difficulties) never noticed any significant signs of distress that would lead to suicide. Providing such testimony may have been a calculated move on the part of his friends: if the financial difficulty was indeed the reason, then his closest acquaintances would be faulted for not chipping in to help him. Critic Arashiyama Kōzaburō detects in the writings of seven obituary writers both pure confusion and a certain intention to cover up his suicide: they are likely to have considered Bizan’s suicide “too close for comfort” and tried to suppress the negative popular response by ascribing a sympathetic “narrative” to his suicide, to make his death appear not as the result of a literary failure but as the extension of his literature to its logical conclusion.46 In doing so, his friends also dispelled any possibility that Bizan’s death was the result of foul play and the

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need for a criminal investigation—which would have sought to make someone responsible for his death. His friends insisted that Bizan’s wife was wonderful and his family got along well, while it is more reasonable to believe otherwise, as Arashiyama says: “It is difficult to consider someone who impulsively commits suicide to be a good family man.” But Arashiyama also admits: “Since his friends say that ‘his was a good family’ then we have no choice but to believe them.”47 In the world of Kokoro, there were some who could not believe that K committed suicide, but they too eventually abandoned their doubts as sensei repeated the content of the brief letter. A reasonable assumption is sidelined because of an unreasonable but persistent insistence. Sensei took advantage of the fact that it was common in prewar Japan for soft evidence (like close friends’ testimony and the victim’s reputation) to overshadow hard evidence (like irregularities in a suicide note).

The Kofue Incident Another real-life incident strongly suggests that sensei may have gotten away with murder, even if an official criminal investigation for K’s death had been opened. In the so-called Kofue Incident of 1926, an imperial university graduate and white-collar worker in Kyoto named Hirokawa Jōtarō stood accused of murdering an older woman named Kofue, her adopted daughter Chitose, and two neighborhood children. Kofue was Hirokawa’s lover and the mistress of the boarding house where he stayed as a student, but he had wished to terminate their relationship since he had moved out of their home upon university graduation and advanced to an elite career. The adopted daughter and two children appeared to have been murdered, while Kofue seemed to have hung herself. Upon the discovery of the four dead bodies in the Kofue household by a neighbor, Hirokawa was immediately put under arrest and subjected to rigorous questioning—reportedly bordering on torture. Despite the harsh interrogation, Hirokawa never admitted his guilt, and in the end evidence offered by forensic science experts ultimately established grounds for his innocence in court. After a lengthy investigation and trial, he was cleared of all charges in 1928.48 Though the deaths of K and Kofue took place a couple of decades apart, their similarities provide clues as to how sensei’s murder of K might have been investigated and tried in the early 1900s. The accused Hirokawa in the Kofue Incident appears as an incredible double of sensei—the son of a wealthy family from Niigata studying at an Imperial University (Kyoto in case of Hirokawa;

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Tokyo in case of sensei) while lodging at a nearby boarding house run by an older woman with a daughter.49 The only difference between the two cases is that Hirokawa has an affair with Kofue, the “mother” and equivalent of okusan for sensei. Their liaison predated his eventual and unwilling affair with her adopted daughter Chitose, whom the aging Kofue supposedly offered to him as an alternate lover in order to keep Hirokawa (and his money) in her family. By the time of the incident, Hirokawa held a stable white-collar job, and marriage to a woman suitable for his social standing was imminent. But Kofue reportedly refused to fade into obscurity and displayed unruly behavior every time their relationship was strained. The conceivable interest for Hirokawa to shake off Kofue and Chitose, in the prosecutor’s eyes, gave him the motive to kill them along with two innocent neighborhood children who were staying over for the night. The initial investigation of crime scene suggested that the murderer killed all of them in cold blood and made it all look like Kofue’s doing by staging her death as a suicide out of remorse for the other murders. Of four forensic experts called to testify, three argued that the marks on Kofue’s neck were made postmortem, indicating that she could not have killed herself, while one maintained that they could still be from her own suicide.50 Based on the suicide note found at the scene that appeared to have been penned by Kofue and bore Hirokawa’s seal, the prosecutor offered the scenario that he talked Kofue into double suicide and backed out at the last minute. However, during the trial the theory of women as “crazy innate criminals” took sway. The final argument from the defense was that Kofue sought revenge against Hirokawa by implicating him for her own murders and thereby carrying out “murder by law” (setting him up for the gallows).51 In the process, the oddest elements of the case were left unexplained even after Hirokawa’s acquittal, and some of them are relevant to sensei’s case. As subsequent analyses of the case point out, one of the lingering mysteries involved the supposed suicide note by Kofue. In the absence of “hard evidence” like blood-type analysis and fingerprinting that Meiji and Taishō forensic scientists were keen on refining,52 the note is a key piece of evidence that attested to Kofue’s malice against her former lover. However, it was written in a strange format that does not immediately point to such an interpretation but piques curiosity: it consisted of two kinds of paper, bore Hirokawa’s seal but no handwriting, with the content penned by Kofue using black and red pencils. Yamamoto Nogitarō questions: “One may overlook the use of two kinds of paper. But why did she use a black pencil for the first third, red pencil for the second [third], and black again for the [final] third?”53 While the

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investigators compared the writing in the suicide note to the handwriting in her account book (daifukuchō), and confirmed to the best of their ability that the note had indeed been written by her, the oddities in their evaluation suggested that it was her forgery, not his.54 In addition to the aforementioned peculiarities, the paper itself was of different quality from the other two pieces, and seemed worn due to rough handling after the note was written.55 In the investigation, it was also discovered that parts of the note were likely to have been written a long time before the incident and were actually a montage of Kofue’s writings from different times.56 Together with the inconsistencies in Chitose’s and Kofue’s alleged suicide notes—that Chitose seems to think that she will die of her chronic disease, and Kofue asks that people help her daughter after her own death—Hirokawa’s lawyer Takayama Gizō (1892–1974) suggested that Kofue had been contemplating double suicide for some time, and on the night in question combined these notes that she had written on different occasions.57 In the trial, these peculiar elements all worked in Hirokawa’s favor. Although it is conceivable that Hirokawa talked Kofue into suicide and made her write these notes at various points in the past, or he had collected these writings from Kofue over the years and pieced them together into her suicide note after the murder, that possibility was never examined. Contemporary pseudoscientific theories of female criminality cast Kofue as a madwoman whose desires and intentions were beyond the imagination of normal people. K’s suicide note in Kokoro and Kofue’s suicide note were potentially powerful pieces of evidence that could threaten the dominant interpretations of their deaths, but both were ultimately ignored because of the neat but powerful explanations already proposed by the leading theories of forensic science. Moreover, Hirokawa’s elite educational background undoubtedly worked in his favor in eliciting such an interpretation from the jury. His lawyer Takayama, who was a fellow Kyoto Imperial University graduate, was a powerful ally in emphasizing Hirokawa’s ties with the Kyoto elite community. During his passionate three-hour defense speech, Takayama acknowledged that being an alumnus of an imperial university does not automatically exonerate a defendant;58 but he also did not forget to explicitly invoke the powerful name of their common alma mater in the speech: “In the name of our alma mater, the Kyoto Imperial University, we feel extremely fortunate to have the chance to clear young Hirokawa’s name.”59 Takayama’s mention of the imperial university suggests that being associated with it still had value in 1926—especially since some key experts called to testify were faculty members of similar institutions. In Kokoro, sensei cites an incident

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about a friend who had his high school hat stolen in a brawl (part 3 section 4) and how it was such a major event when he and K were students in the late 1890s to early 1900s because of the prestige it generates in observers, and how the status of an imperial university student inspired confidence among the general public (part 3 section 10). Watakushi is intrigued by sensei’s entire character, but initially this interest grew out of his observation of sensei’s idle lifestyle despite his status as an imperial university graduate: “I had known from the beginning that Sensei was a university graduate, but only after I returned to Tokyo had I discovered that he had no occupation, that he lived what could be called an idle life. How he could do it was a puzzle to me” (part 1 section 11; McKinney, 23). Although popular regard for the educational elite declined steadily from sensei’s days as a student, if it still worked so favorably for Hirokawa in 1926, it would certainly have held true for sensei in 1900. Just as testimony from close friends suppressed any doubt in Bizan’s case, Hirokawa’s educational background became “hard” proof that soft evidence like a handwritten note could not overcome. The oddities of Kofue’s supposed suicide note were disregarded as the incomprehensible scribblings of a deranged female criminal; the peculiarities of K’s suicide note, however striking they may have been, would have also been downplayed in favor of the testimony of an elite university graduate. It is likely, therefore, that sensei would have been able to “get away” in reality.

Shizu as client One of the forensic experts in the Kofue Incident was Asada Hajime (1887– 1952), who in his reflective writings about the case calls for further development of his field: “Forensic science has grown considerably, but it still requires further progress: on the one hand, so that the wrongfully accused can be vindicated; on the other, so that those dangerous persons who hide in anonymity and in brazen disregard commit crimes can be thoroughly exposed.”60 In the world of Kokoro, sensei is the villain who sneers “in brazen disregard” and gets away with murder. He succeeded in fooling the world thanks to the benefit of doubt afforded to imperial university graduates and the underdeveloped state of contemporary forensic science. Instead of being executed for his crime, sensei is able to weave a narrative in which he takes his own life in guilt over a romantic conquest, thus dying as a very sensitive and honorable man in the eyes of readers. However, there is a silent prosecutor in the story who uncovers the crime: watakushi. Previously prevalent paternalistic homosocial criticism of Kokoro is

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responsible for having cemented his image as a faithful student and recorder of sensei’s narrative. J. Keith Vincent points out that “by privileging Sensei over watakushi as the novel’s protagonist, the paternalistic homosocial critics suppressed the possibility of a dynamic interplay between the novel’s two narrators and effectively froze Kokoro into an atemporal moral textbook.”61 Vincent also astutely observes that “[t]heir critical consensus was reflected and compounded in the popular imagination, moreover, thanks to the fact that Kokoro was not only commonly excerpted in high school literature textbooks from the late 1950s on, but that the sections chosen were invariably drawn from Sensei’s testament alone (thus extricating it from watakushi’s narrative).”62 However, more recently, critics including Ishihara Chiaki point out that watakushi actually weaves “a story in which he supersedes sensei” (jibun ga sensei o norikoeru monogatari) through the entire narrative.63 While watakushi enters the story as a curious youth who is likely to have been sexually attracted to sensei when he spotted him on the beach, in the course of their friendship he meets someone even more attractive, Shizu, who converts watakushi from a heartbroken homosexual suitor to heterosexual detective. Sensei was leading a life without apparent excitement prior to his encounter with watakushi; but in his letter he points back to the time when watakushi originally asked him about his past, and how he still wished to live then: “I was still alive then. I did not want to die” (part 3 section 2; McKinney, 124). Sensei commits suicide only when he sees no other way out—when he realizes that watakushi has indeed uncovered his past crime. Driving sensei to suicide is watakushi and Shizu’s modification on “murder by law.” Their relationship remains mostly hidden in the story, but reveals itself at times through some narrative oddities in the text. In one of his many discussions on Kokoro, Ishihara lists its famous narrative “inconsistencies,” which he calls “unravelings” (hokorobi): the number of times sensei and Shizu have ever visited K’s grave site together (sensei tells watakushi that he’s never “taken her there” [part 1 section 6]; while he discusses the time when they visited it together albeit at Shizu’s suggestion [part 3 section 51]); the number of letters watakushi received from sensei (watakushi says he mentions two letters, supposedly the reply to watakushi’s letter from his native home, and of course the last confessional letter [part 1 section 22]; but he also mentions yet another letter from the time when sensei went to Nikkō [part 1 section 9]); how much about K and sensei’s past relationship Shizu actually knew (though sensei insists on keeping Shizu ignorant of his inner struggle, it is unlikely that Shizu knew nothing of the rivalry between sensei and K throughout their marriage); and

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the length of the confession (supposed to have come on a number of sheets folded in four, but the actual narrative seems too long to be delivered in that format).64 While Sōseki had a chance to “correct” these glitches when the original newspaper serialization was turned into a book, he made a point of leaving them as he focused on more cosmetic details of the publication.65 And as long as they remain in the realm of the text, they are open to interpretation along with other textual elements.66 The most logical explanation for them is that they are evidence of the development of watakushi and Shizu’s relationship, which watakushi largely intended to hide from the reader’s view. In the process, the role of Shizu in the tacit accusation becomes difficult to discern. As not only sensei but also watakushi accord Shizu minimal opportunity for self-expression, she largely remains an enigma. But her absence from the narrative does not mean absence of desire, and in visual adaptations such a void offers space for creativity and a chance for her to speak. A manga adaptation of Kokoro (2010), part of the animecomic Aoi bungaku (young literature) series, offers the most radical portrayal of her personality taking advantage of this narrative void.67 The text offers two accounts of what may have actually happened between sensei, K, and Shizu: the first is told from sensei’s point of view, the second from K’s. In the latter, the text shows how Shizu manipulates the two men as if to gauge who will be a better suitor for her without betraying the details of sensei’s account in the original text. In these accounts, she initiates a carnal relationship with K, proposes eloping to him, only to have a seeming change of heart at the last minute and marries sensei after K’s suicide. The question of which man she ultimately loved is kept a mystery, but this visual representation emphasizes that Shizu is not devoid of her own desires, that she is shrewd enough to weigh her options, and that sensei’s feelings of anxiety and paranoia in K’s presence were not groundless. In the original literary text, Shizu’s actual knowledge of the incident between K and sensei is also unspecified. Evidence suggests that Shizu must have known more about K’s death and sensei’s subsequent change than sensei admits in the confession letter. The peculiar way in which she refers to K’s death supports this view. In the original text, Shizu uses the term henshi (“strange” or “violent” death) for what is officially ruled as a “suicide.” According to the Dai Nihon kokugo jiten Japanese-language dictionary contemporary to Sōseki in the Taishō period, the term is defined as “to die as a result of misfortune, accident; to commit suicide; unnatural death; violent death” and is used not only for suicide but for all unnatural deaths with the strong implication of foul play.68 Her use of this term for what was officially ruled as a suicide is curious, but it has not been

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seized upon by critics.69 Since Sōseki undoubtedly made a point of using this term for Shizu to describe the circumstances of K’s death—it is visible on the raw manuscript that he either changed pens or replenished ink just as he wrote these characters—it is unlikely that he chose this word lightly or simply wrote it in haste (Figure 3.6). The use of the term henshi years after the incident reflects the possibility that Shizu still doubted the circumstances under which K died—that the incident was not motivated philosophically (suggested by his own suicide note) or romantically (suggested by sensei’s suicide note). And if Shizu is indeed the type to actively weigh her options for the best outcome, she would certainly do something about the mystery surrounding K’s death. There are a number of ways in which Shizu could have gathered information about K’s supposed suicide at the time of the incident. According to sensei, Shizu never saw the actual scene of K’s death. It is indeed possible that she was barred from the room by sensei and okusan, as the latter’s maternal instinct would be to protect her daughter from the shocking sight. However, it is likely that Shizu was able to see K’s body during the wake and funeral, since it would be customary for relatives and friends of the deceased to be able to pay their respects by looking at his face while he lay in the coffin. There may certainly have been blood on his face and body originally, but they would have been cleaned for such viewing. In fact, Ichikawa Kon’s movie shows the scene of the funeral in which Shizu sits in the same room as K’s coffin, although the viewer does not get a direct view of K. If she had seen K’s face, it is possible that she learned—or at least sensed— something from it. The possibility that Shizu knew more about K and his death than sensei admitted in the final letter is also ascertainable from her comments to watakushi. When she first mentions K to him, she also says that she cannot disclose everything she knows (part 1 section 19), implying she actually believes that there is more to the story, like it was not a suicide—or at least has her own reading of K’s “strange death” and the fact that sensei gradually but surely changed ever since. Shizu’s coquettish nature, which the aoi bungaku manga version elucidates, is observable in her way of asking watakushi to join her in uncovering the truth. Instead of directly urging watakushi to launch a formal investigation, she asks him: “But tell me, can someone change so much with the loss of a single friend? That’s what I so long to know. [And I would like to ask for your thoughts on the matter].” Watakushi’s intuitive answer to this question is: “On the whole, I tended to think not” (part 1 section 19; McKinney, 40). Sekiya Yumiko points out that this particular evening, Shizu gave the servant girl (gejo) the night off, or at least not let her approach the room where she and watakushi met in order

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Figure 3.6 Original Kokoro manuscript, with the characters henshi onward (fourth column from the right) written in darker ink or different pen. Natsume Sōseki, Sōseki jihitsu genkō Kokoro, unpaginated. Used by permission of Iwanami Shoten, Publishers.

to ensure absolute privacy during their conversation.70 If she had indeed been weighing her options between sensei and K as the aoi bungaku manga suggests, it would be natural for her also to compare the aging, passive, and possibly

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criminal sensei, and the young, active, and innocent watakushi and seek to “change ships.” On this particular night, she clearly meant to take advantage of sensei’s rare absence from home, and in attempting to do so she appears to be engaged in some competition with her husband over the attentions of watakushi. With her, watakushi will be a detective; with sensei, he will be an accomplice. This evening, however, she emerges as the victor as her urging marks the birth of watakushi as detective.

“Murder is a sin, do you know that?” Shizu’s selection of watakushi as the detective and possible avenger for K is fitting since his character appears deliberately designed to succeed K. Just like K, watakushi is an imperial university student and a second son who is unlikely to inherit money from his family (unlike sensei, who stood to inherit everything as the only child). Watakushi was originally attracted to sensei just as K was likely to have been, and they both meet Shizu through their connection with sensei. Ichikawa Kon’s film version builds on the idea of watakushi as K’s substitute by having Shizu explicitly accuse sensei of pursuing a homoerotic relationship with watakushi just like the one with K (in other words, being K’s substitute for sensei also)—although there is no such scene in the original text.71 The fate of sensei as a criminal is sealed when watakushi, the new K, chooses Shizu over him. Even before the private discussion above that takes place during sensei’s absence from home, there are signs that watakushi is attracted to Shizu. The first time watakushi meets Shizu, he is stricken by her beauty (part 1 section 4); they also at times privately correspond—and of the aforementioned narrative inconsistencies, the correspondence between watakushi and sensei can be resolved by treating one of the letters as having come exclusively from Shizu, not sensei. Ishihara Chiaki’s painstaking comparative research between the published text and the raw manuscript reveals that Sōseki made a point of modifying a crucial line about watakushi’s life after sensei’s suicide—from “someone who did not have a child” (kodomo o motta koto no nai watakushi wa) to “someone who did not have a child at the time” (kodomo o motta koto no nai sono toki no watakushi wa; emphasis mine) in order to insinuate that watakushi has since then become a father (part 1 section 8; interestingly, McKinney’s translation does not reflect this connotation).72 Given this information about watakushi’s fatherhood, and watakushi’s knowledge of the most intimate details of Shizu’s current situation, it is reasonable to speculate that they are now a couple with their own child (or

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children).73 Their possible liaison after sensei’s exit from the narrative certainly casts a different light on their past relationship while sensei was still alive, and makes likely their collaboration on the investigation. Again, visual representations can help the reader flesh out the extratextual world, the presence of which is only insinuated in the narrative. As such, adaptations force the realization of unarticulated elements within the text. While Ichikawa Kon’s movie version emphasizes the homoerotic nature of sensei and watakushi’s relationship by inserting scenes of intimacy, it also strongly insinuates the birth of the new union between watakushi and Shizu that lies outside the scope of both the movie and the text. In the last sequence, watakushi rushes to sensei’s home only to find the household “in mourning.” When watakushi opens the sliding door, Shizu appears. As Shizu approaches watakushi, he steps back and falls down onto the ground in front of the entrance. The camera then retreats outside the front gate, only to be shut off from view by Shizu as she closes the sliding door from inside. However, the viewer glimpses through the slats of the gate watakushi being held and helped up by Shizu. As the movie ends, they disappear into the house together as one unit—watakushi leans on Shizu as she leads him inside. On the other hand, sensei is not entirely ignorant of their blossoming affection and issues indirect warnings on its immorality. The film version and many manga adaptations emphasize sensei’s cynical morality lesson: “Love is a sin, do you know that?” (part 1 section 12). These striking words of wisdom do not betray the textbook mantra that Kokoro is about human egoism that a heterosexual love triangle has spotlighted in the past. The apparent lesson is that one’s desire for another person to be romantically and sexually exclusive to oneself inevitably leads to egoism. But such a general maxim would resonate like an accusation in a man who covets someone else’s—his—wife: “to covet my wife is a sin, do you know that?” Watakushi is not defenseless against such intimidation. Komori Yōichi points out that under the guise of a faithful and passionate student, watakushi is a persecutor to sensei: “If one reads the first section from the point of view of sensei, one realizes how watakushi keeps on threatening sensei, and that sensei could only see watakushi as someone who sought to uncover his crime.”74 Sensei originally has no desire to disclose his past to watakushi, but watakushi persists on uncovering it under the pretext that he may learn from it. Ardent as watakushi’s desire may truly be, he is not only a detective who zeroes in on the prime suspect who has eluded the police for years, but also a man in love who benefits from the defendant’s disappearance. Sensei’s suicide at the end is supposed to have

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been motivated by a feeling of remorse for his betrayal of K and subsequent loneliness of human existence (part 3 section 53). But it is watakushi’s actions that undoubtedly prompt sensei’s self-execution. Watakushi corners the already paranoid sensei with his incessant questioning and implications of murder, as if to say: “Murder is an even worse sin than to covet someone else’s wife, do you know that?” The readers witness watakushi the detective in action as he tries to catch sensei off guard by initiating an interrogation. He reveals his investigatory method through a curious conversation he has with sensei inserted in the first part of the narrative. As they talk about watakushi’s ailing father back home, sensei mentions an episode of how an acquaintance, a military man, unexpectedly passed away in his sleep while his wife slept next to him. According to Sōseki’s text, the conversation is reported to have continued as follows: Seeing this change in me, Sensei added, “But sick or well, humans are fragile creatures, you know. There is no anticipating how and when they might die, or for what reason.” “That’s how you feel yourself, is it, Sensei?” “I’m in fine health, but yes, even I think this from time to time.” A suggestion of a smile played on his lips. “You often hear of people keeling over and dying, don’t you? Of natural causes. And then other people die suddenly, from some unnatural act of violence.” “What’s an unnatural act of violence?” “Well, I don’t know. People who commit suicide use unnatural violence on themselves, don’t they?” [A] “People who are murdered also die from unnatural violence.” [B] “I wasn’t thinking of murder, but now that you mention it, that’s true, of course.” So the conversation ended that day. [C] Even later, after I returned home, my father’s illness did not worry me unduly. Nor did Sensei’s talk of natural and unnatural deaths leave more than a passing, vague impression on my mind. (Part 1 section 24; McKinney, 31; letters inserted to mark key points in the conversation)

Because of the narrative tone, the conversation appears very casual with no description of the characters’ expressions between each utterance. The readers are ignorant as to how sensei reacted to watakushi’s invocation of murder at [A], before and after [B]. In the original manuscript, Sōseki seems to have initially thought of letting watakushi continue with the description of the scene but decided to cross it out.75 However, even if sensei’s reactions are not disclosed

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in the text, if in reality he appeared flustered or unsettled, watakushi would not have missed it. In order to fill this glaring lacuna in description, the Gakken manga version adds the line “But that was not really the case” (hontō wa sō dewa nakatta noni) to the passage at [C] to point to a hidden, deeper meaning of the dialogue.76 In the context of sensei’s later death, this conversation bears significance as he and watakushi actually discuss the topic of suicide. In another context of watakushi being a detective investigating a case, this conversation becomes a scene in which readers witness watakushi zero in on sensei without explicitly accusing him of murder. Even more curious is that in the original manuscript Sōseki makes a point of using the word “violence” (bōryoku 暴力) instead of “force” (chikara 力) by adding the character bō (暴) twice. While “force” suggests abstract or indiscriminate power like “fate,” “violence” could connote intentional and focused assault (Figure 3.7). Chronologically, this conversation takes place after watakushi hears from Shizu about sensei’s former friend K and his “unnatural” death (henshi) (part 1 section 19), and before watakushi more straightforwardly urges sensei to divulge his past to him (part 1 section 31). Even before watakushi’s conversation with Shizu, watakushi had been intrigued by how sensei came to be the way he was, so it is possible that when his father’s ill health became the topic of their conversation, he could not help seizing the opportunity to investigate sensei’s take on other kinds of death—namely, murder and suicide. Though sensei seemingly eludes watakushi’s questioning in this scene, the exchange certainly had an impact on him. As if to denounce watakushi’s past passive-aggressive approach, sensei uses in his confession letter some violent metaphors for what watakushi wishes to do with him and his secret. Meanwhile you were also pressing me to unroll my past before you like some painted scroll. This was the first time I actually privately respected you. You revealed a shameless determination to seize something really alive from within my very being. [You tried to rip open my heart and slurp the warm fountain of blood that flowed out.] I was still alive then. I did not want to die. And so I evaded your urgings and promised to do as you asked another day. [Now I will tear open my own heart and spray its blood over your face.] I will be satisfied if, when my own heart has ceased to beat, your breast houses new life. (Part 3 section 2; McKinney, 124)

The printed scroll in his metaphor may be drawn with his blood as ink. However, watakushi may not be deterred even by such a graphic image since it is not that watakushi wants to “watch sensei’s past as a printed scroll” as a passive bystander—he wants to be an active sleuth and analyze it like a detective story.

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Figure 3.7 Original Kokoro manuscript, with the character bō inserted in the last two columns. Natsume Sōseki, Sōseki jihitsu genkō Kokoro, unpaginated. Used by permission of Iwanami Shoten, Publishers.

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Watakushi’s plea bargain However, watakushi’s ultimate objective is not to expose sensei’s crime and bring him to proverbial justice; rather, he wishes to weave a narrative in which he “supersedes” his mentor, not one in which he smears his reputation completely by dirtying his own hands. At the penning of the first section, watakushi is likely with Shizu, with a child or children, and has very little to gain from total exposure of the misdeed of his wife’s former husband. He tries to protect the mother of his offspring by emphasizing her ignorance of the rivalry between K and sensei (part 1 section 12); this creates a contradiction, since it is at her urging that he launches the investigation on the possible wrongdoing in the first place. Watakushi publishes his account and sensei’s confession in the current format precisely to hide the truth. Far from conclusively exposing sensei’s past scandal, effacing himself from the end successfully diverts the audience’s attention to something trivial like a love triangle and allows him to indeed hide his real secret that is far more insidious. In that sense, watakushi is not only a detective who exacts revenge on a murderer and wins his wife as a prize but also an accomplice who lets sensei continue to hide his true crime behind his seemingly truthful, soul-bearing confession of a past moral transgression.77 After sensei’s guilt is implicitly confirmed and sensei agrees to concede Shizu, watakushi agrees to share the burden of sensei’s secret with him—and thus K’s murder also ultimately becomes watakushi’s secret. Watakushi allows sensei hide his real secret by allowing the entire novel to end with his own account so as to suggest that what he states is the true and definitive word on the matter. Because of how the story had been progressing up to that point, many readers of the novel would expect it to have a “book-end” structure—a story within the story (sensei’s past) would end with sensei’s letter, and the frame story that starts in the first part of the book should come back to tie up all the loose ends. But in Kokoro, the novel surprisingly ends with the middle story and it throws off the expectations of experienced readers. One of the most famous works to have the classic “book-end” structure may be Mary Shelley’s (1797–1851) Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus (published anonymously in 1818 and under Shelley’s name in 1823), a copy of which Sōseki owned.78 In Shelley’s novel, the story of the “mad scientist,” his sinister experiment, and his monster-son born out of it, is not revealed directly to the audience but through the mediation of Captain Walton, who encounters Victor Frankenstein and his monster creation during an expedition to the North Pole. Walton writes about them and their story to his sister back in England. He is also the one who sees Victor and his monster-son’s cursed journey to the end.

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Walton comes to the story as an ambitious youth who ventures into the Arctic wilderness. Just like watakushi, Walton meets Victor, an older man for whom he nurtures affinity and adoration: “My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery, without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.”79 In truth, Victor is a renegade scientist who attempted to imitate God and violated the ethical boundary between sacred and profane, but Walton is charmed by his appearance and manners. The difference between what Walton feels for Victor and what watakushi feels for sensei is that Walton’s affection for his older friend may be more genuine since there is no other incentive in approaching him besides his friendship.80 While watakushi needs to urge sensei to disclose his past, Victor volunteers the information to Walton upon seeing in the young man the same, relentless pursuit of knowledge that is bound to end with self-destruction.81 The even greater difference between Kokoro and Frankenstein is that after Victor finishes his long monologue, Walton comes back to tie up the loose ends of the larger story involving his expedition and the fate of the monster. The reader learns in the penultimate letter that Walton accepted the request of his crew to retreat because of harsh weather conditions; and the very last letter describes the death of Victor, the parting words of the monster, and Walton’s intention to return to England without completing the original mission. In Walton’s section of the story, the monster is also given the chance to appeal directly to Walton, which is a privilege that neither Shizu nor K was accorded in sensei and watakushi’s narratives. In Kokoro, watakushi never reappears at the end to give concluding remarks on exactly what happened to sensei, Shizu, and himself after the letter, beyond what is insinuated in other parts of the text. Is it possible that watakushi (or Sōseki through watakushi) wraps up the account in this manner because of factors external to the story—like there was “no room” or “no time” to fashion a more conclusive ending? Mizukawa Takao cites the less-than-ideal circumstances of production for the last part of the novel to explain Sōseki’s seeming “fault” of not offering a fuller explanation of “the spirit of Meiji” to which sensei supposedly dedicates his life.82 Looking back at the raw manuscript, Sōseki’s handwriting becomes visibly messy and hence suggests that he was “rushing” in the final two installments. Taking nearly the opposite view, Ishihara Chiaki speculates that it is quite possible Sōseki intended the original letter to be much shorter, but the unavailability of the author scheduled to write

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the next serialization after Kokoro (Shiga Naoya) pushed Sōseki to draw out the last part for longer than expected and create contradictions between the physical description and the actual length of the confession.83 Such circumstances suggest that it would have been easier for Sōseki to write more to bring about narrative closure, such as some final remarks from watakushi or an epilogue to the story. Moreover, if the production context alone were the reason for the “incomplete” ending, then it would have made sense for Sōseki to rework these parts when he had the chance to make adjustments to the story when it was republished in book form.84 Because there was no such attempt, the reader is entitled to think that these inconsistencies were deliberate. Visual narratives further emphasize the absence of watakushi from the ending of the original text in their attempts to remedy this odd ending by adding their own takes on what ensued after the letter. The Ichikawa Kon film depicts the aforementioned scene in which watakushi and Shizu are reunited. Gakken’s manga version adds a scene in which watakushi rushes to sensei’s home and opens something unidentifiable—possibly the front door or the fusuma to a room—with the last lines of the confession letter boxed and set over a solid black panel.85 The readers are not shown what he sees, but his downward gaze and tears suggest that he is seeing sensei’s lifeless body lying (or placed by Shizu) on the floor. Though sensei’s suicide is never confirmed in the original text, this version strongly connotes this event, while stopping just short of showing his actual corpse. Such a thorough visual depiction reminds us of the peculiarity of the original text and emphasizes the readerly expectation of watakushi returning at the end. The second “camera” that observes watakushi in his narrative comes back to give the viewer the most complete picture of the world of Kokoro, suggesting that the preceding narrative was nothing but a subjective account. Visual narratives with additions like those above remind us that when textbooks insert floor plans of sensei and K’s boarding house, they evoke the possibility of foul play, but then they also gut the original narrative with excerpting and generalizing summaries, making readers oblivious to the real lapses that are hidden behind the overt gaps. Textbook excerpts commit the same sin as promotional previews of movies that show highlights of the movie and make the viewer feel like that they have already seen the entire picture. Because the textbook excerpts add more “holes” to the text, they serve to obscure the important absences that are present in the original work. On the other hand, visual narratives can remind us of the curious omissions in the original literary narrative and radically expand our interpretive scope of the story. Textbook floor plans can steer the readers’ attention in unexpected—and

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perhaps creative—directions. However, they are most effective when consumed with other renditions of the text, including the original full version. In their present form of inclusion, textbook presentations of Kokoro can help readers notice sensei’s crime, but they also let watakushi hide his covert operation.

Critique policière and visual interpretations Given the abundant—but perhaps circular—state of scholarship on Kokoro, Komori Yōichi urges critics to acknowledge that Kokoro is a “meager” (mazushii) work and start a completely new engagement with the text.86 The lack of resolution of the key elements in the story gives the work the impression that it is “a novel that was abandoned partway through.” But as Komori acknowledges, being a “meager” text also means that it is “equipped to lend itself easily to diverse interpretations.”87 Viewing the text through the lens of critique policière and relying upon visual adaptations and other non-traditional tools of literary investigation, the openness of Kokoro can be embraced, rather than ignored or condemned as a “weakness.” Once again, Pierre Bayard reminds us: To admit the existence of these many intermediate worlds orbiting literary works has obvious risks: that we may be misled into keeping the expansion going ad infinitum, giving unknown lovers to the Princesse de Clève or making her die of poisoning. But it is difficult to do otherwise. Beyond the good faith of protagonist or narrator (who can, as in Agatha Christie’s novel or Shakespeare’s play, be caught in the act), the hypothesis of detective criticism is that the writer himself is often misled. His work, in fact, necessarily escapes him, since, incomplete, it closes itself at every reading in ever different ways.88

Even if sensei’s crime was more than Sōseki conceived, a critic who uncovers it never has to apologize to the author or readers who approach the story more conventionally, since the interpretive possibilities of Kokoro—and other literary works—should be considered endless.89 And such interpretive freedom is the foundational assumption upon which literary criticism and creation base themselves. Gansaku “Botchan” satsujin jiken (A Botchan Parody Murder Mystery, 2005) by Yanagi Kōji (1967–) exemplifies the way in which a former reader can creatively interpret the original text to write an entirely new sequel. In this case, Yanagi uses Sōseki’s Botchan to craft a follow-up story in which Botchan hears that Akashatsu—his nemesis and the embodiment of hypocrisy in the original story—has committed suicide soon after his departure from Matsuyama. But

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based on the circumstances of his death, Botchan and his friend Yamaarashi suspect that there has been foul play. As they return to Matsuyama to investigate, Botchan realizes that there was an entirely different reality that was transpiring behind his back. In reconstructing the world of Botchan and coming up with a new story, Yanagi uses seemingly innocuous details from the original work— such as the incident in which grasshoppers were stuffed in Botchan’s futon, presumably in jest—to come up with an entirely different narrative. In the original text, Botchan jumps to the conclusion that this prank was carried out by the boarding students, though they never admit it. In Yanagi’s sequel, Botchan realizes that he had misread the situation, that the students were innocent and that the incident is part of a greater intrigue. Yanagi’s new story takes advantage of the original story’s historical background and adds a political twist. Madonna, ever a taciturn heroine in the original, is also given a chance in the sequel to voice her feelings and intentions. Just as careful interpretation can produce an entertaining parody, creative use of relevant branches of knowledge can encourage readings based on something other than literary intuition. For instance, the perennial literary mystery in Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s (1892–1927) Yabu no naka (In a Grove, 1922) can be unraveled with the help of forensic science. In this story of a murder trial, Akutagawa famously never provides the solution—the differing accounts offered by multiple characters are presented equally, each with credible and incredible elements. Such was the position the director-screenwriter duo Kurosawa Akira (1910–98) and Hashimoto Shinobu (1918–) also took in their cinematic rendition of the story in Rashōmon (1950). However, a leading forensic scientist Ueno Masahiko (1929–) dissects the story from his professional standpoint in his Yabu no naka no shitai (The Dead Body in “In a Grove”) and concludes that all the elements of the scene offered in the story unanimously point to the samurai’s suicide.90 This scenario is not a figment of Ueno’s imagination, as the consistency of the textual evidence convinces him that Akutagawa wrote the story with this specific explanation in mind. Given the unconventional nature of using forensics to analyze a piece of fiction, Ueno apologizes for uncovering the mystery of the work using tools of science, when the author never expected his story to be read as a forensic report. However, Ueno is also confident that his analysis only increases the enjoyment of the text for the readers who read both the original text and his analysis.91 Perhaps the same can be said of Kokoro: bringing in unconventional tools of textual analysis and taking full advantage of interpretive freedom can cast a different light onto the text and save the work from a critical dead end.

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For those who seek to visually adapt a literary work, any “blank space” in the text is an invitation to creative freedom. Visual representations of literary texts, when carefully executed, can stop the critic from drawing hasty conclusions by showing what could or should appear in the text but curiously does not. A number of recent studies draw upon visual representations to cast new light on literary texts. Nakagawa Shigemi elucidates the contribution of the movie Higuchi Ichiyō (dir. Namiki Kyōtarō, 1939) to the study of the author and her works. The film draws upon facts recorded in Ichiyō’s diary and elements of four of her works (“Ōtsugomori” [On the Last Day of the Year, 1894]; “Nigorie” [Troubled Waters, 1895]; “Jūsan’ya” [The Thirteenth Night, 1895]; and “Takekurabe” [Child’s Play, 1895–96]) in order to weave a coherent narrative on the birth of Ichiyō the author. In the process, the movie does take creative license and bend reality;92 however, for Nakagawa, such manipulation allows the film to be meaningful for subsequent studies on Ichiyō the author and her works: Interspersed throughout this film are moments in which the living body of Higuchi Ichiyō is transmitted to the body of the viewer. Such moments make each viewer consider various questions not confined to the message that Ichiyō’s life was tragic. This is truly a case where unverbalized literary expression is actualized in a new form, where the active force of awareness that lies at the root of literary imagination begins to operate.93

The scenes and lines added to Ichiyō and her characters’ cinematic life help the viewer experience these works more fully, and these additional elements are precisely what allow the reader to decipher previously unresolved questions in her stories—for example, whether Ishinosuke had witnessed O-Mine’s theft in “Ōtsugomori”; or who really left the narcissus for Midori in “Takekurabe.”94 Although a particular visual representation simply offers one possible reading out of many, Nakagawa argues that “the film Higuchi Ichiyō excels in how it gives the viewer/reader concrete visual images along with the opportunity to understand/contemplate its fragmentary narrative. This provides at the same time a chance to truly rethink the ‘system’ of interpretation in which literary texts have been stifled.”95 The same can be said about literature that becomes textbook material. However butchered, inclusion in a textbook ensures the work’s survival after its original publication. Even seemingly harmful treatment of the original text— expedient omissions and repressive additions of extraneous information—can lead to new interpretations. The survival of a text depends on the presence of such creative interpretations as well as visual representations. Carefully executed visual representations complement the missing, contradictory, and

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underexplored elements of the story and guide the viewer’s attention to new readings, just as cinematic frames and manga balloons can help to uncover a decades-old homicide in Kokoro. The school-age students who may encounter Kokoro in a classroom can seek out its representations in other media and run wild with their imaginations. As Satō Izumi points out, textbooks are “products of editing” (henshū no sanbutsu) and what dictates how they are consumed is the “blank space between material and material.” Satō continues: “Are we able to detect these blank spaces? Reading kokugo while reading against kokugo— those of us who grew up with this stance will likely be called upon to answer.”96 Perhaps all the truncations, omissions, as well as additions are what make Kokoro appropriate for classroom material as long as students are directed to sense the blank spaces.

4

Authorship and Loose Canons: Media Mix, Visual Adaptation, and Literary Success Illustrations and literature The previous two chapters underscored the importance of visual adaptations to the consumption and appreciation of literature. Kabashima Katsuichi’s illustrations of Unno Jūza’s various stories certainly excited readers as much as—if not more than—the actual text; the cinematic and manga depictions of Sōseki’s Kokoro allow the readers to notice narrative irregularities that they may have otherwise missed. While it is impossible to quantify the actual impact of visual material on the reception of literary works, it is equally difficult to deny that when responsibly executed, such visualizations generally enhance rather than diminish the longevity of literary works. In modern Japan, visual adaptations have boosted some works not only in becoming bestsellers but also in maintaining that status. Many an author, editor, and publisher have coveted the commercial success of a “bestseller,” and for such producers of literary content, the most obvious marker of a book’s use value is its sales potential—and the wider its appeal across multiple formats, the better. As indicated in the examination of enpon boom earlier in this study, the desire to publish a bestseller grew sharply when the profit motive in literary publishing came to the fore during the 1920s and 1930s. While publishers developed new priorities and strategies in the modern publishing era, the definition of a bestseller was gradually altered. In the Meiji and Taishō periods, a book became a bestseller over an extended period of time by sustained demand among its readers; for instance, translations of Plato’s Apology (Sokuratesu no benmei) or Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason (Jissen risei hihan) would have been considered bestsellers by virtue of their steady popularity among students. The Meiji ideal of self-attained success (risshin shusse) and the Taishō-period

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goal of self-edification (kyōyō shugi) pushed students—as well as impoverished youths who had to give up higher education despite their aspirations—to seek these classical titles and read them as part of their autodidactic activities. However, as book historian Shimizu Bunkichi argues, to publishers from the enpon boom onward, a bestseller came to mean a book (or series of books) that garnered immediate financial success by appealing to more fashionable ideals— for example, cultural literacy or national pride—held across a broader segment of the reading population.1 This entailed considerably more risk, as publishers had to trust the professional instincts of their editors to detect market promise in a manuscript and engage in extended (and expensive) advertising campaigns in the hope of making a splash. The old “wait-and-see” approach came to be considered speculative and too leisurely. A winner in the marketplace was now likely conceived as a top-down creation of the publisher promoted by elaborate advertising schemes rather than a ground-up outpouring of interest, a calculated effort to maximize and exploit a text’s potential use value rather than a fortuitous outcome. A bestseller earned this distinction because of its publisher’s tireless efforts to ensure its status. Among the plotted “bestsellers,” the strongest winners were those that demonstrated smooth adaptability into various other media. Prior to the enpon boom, a story traveled from one medium to another often after generating certain success in its original form. However, as publishers came to understand the necessity of “engineering” bestsellers, they developed the practice of aggressively targeting consumers with various reincarnations of a potentially profitable story in different media. As a business strategy, publishers started to pursue the practice of “media mix” (media mikkusu), as it later came to be described, in the hope that a literary work—or at least the creative core of that work—would become not only a moneymaking franchise but also a social phenomenon. The term “media mix” is defined by media studies scholar Marc Steinberg as the “cross-media serialization and circulation of entertainment franchises,”2 driven by character merchandising, in the production, promotion, and consumption of anime in Japan. As Steinberg shows, the term “media mix” itself came into use during the 1980s, after the concept grew out of the development of television animation in the 1960s; however, as a general practice the precursors of media mix proliferated in the Edo period (1603–1868), when popular literature, theater, and commerce were heavily interlaced, with frequent cross promotion, commercial tie-ins, and product placement appearing in print and on stage. A particularly salient example would be the works of the author Shikitei Sanba (1776–1822), who often based his fiction on contemporary kabuki and puppet

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dramas and published them to coincide with openings or revivals of the plays. Such links between literature and theater were “mutually reinforcing, for those who read Sanba’s multivolumes would have wanted to see the play (if they had not done so already) and, conversely, audience members wanting a written version of the play might have been tempted to purchase Sanba’s piece.”3 As we shall see, this multiple consumption style would be systematized and perfected in the 1970s and 1980s by the publisher Kadokawa Haruki to promote novels and films alongside each other. The capacity for media mix—or the potential degree to which a story can spawn variants across media to become a bestseller—represents the use value of a text for both the creators who promote the work and readers who encounter it. During the Meiji period, media mix of a literary work usually meant illustrations and stage adaptations, and tended to be driven by the publisher on a small scale, without a grand consumption scheme for adapting the story across a wide range of media; later, as technology developed and advertising became more pervasive, producers of literature actively planned adaptations, tie-ups, and spinoffs, which included cinema, radio, and television. Tracing how some bestsellers of modern Japanese literature gained that status, and more importantly, how their authors dealt with bestseller stardom— namely Ozaki Kōyō’s Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon, 1897–1902) in the late Meiji period and Yokomizo Seishi’s detective fiction series featuring the sleuth Kindaichi Kōsuke in the postwar Shōwa period and beyond—can illustrate the ways in which bestsellers were not only created but also sustained through media mix, and how authors learned to participate beyond simply writing. This examination of the ways in which Kōyō and Yokomizo dealt with the demands of visual adaptation for their works sheds light on the issues of authorial rights over the works, and how literature can engage with adjacent media to ensure its long-term survival as a bestseller. In addition, the contorted journey of Kikuchi Kan’s Shinju fujin (Madame Pearl, 1920), a hit from the Taishō period that took off again in the early 2000s, attests to the possibility of an unplanned “organic” bestseller in the twenty-first century. These cases also suggest that the modern approach to bestseller creation is intertwined with the emergence of the “contemporary reader” (gendai dokusha) as defined by literary critic Ueda Yasuo. Ueda distinguishes the “contemporary reader” from the “modern reader” (kindai dokusha) as described by Maeda Ai by the different ways in which they consume printed material.4 The contemporary reader not only consumes the printed word in silence (as does the “modern reader”), but is able—and, perhaps more importantly, is conditioned—to

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consume it in other media as multiple forms play out simultaneously.5 The contemporary reader may first encounter a story in literary form, typically as a newspaper serialization, often already accompanied by illustrations, but is quickly invited to consume it also as a stage play, film, and eventually also television show. In the mind of the contemporary reader, such a consumption style is not considered redundant or repetitive; rather, it is the only proper way to enjoy the fictional world of the work. The multimedia tastes of the contemporary reader and the changed notion of the bestseller, as we shall see, create “variants” of a literary work. New constraints and contexts retouch and rearrange a core story as it moves from one medium to another. In the premodern pre-print era, literary texts made haphazard journeys as they traveled from the hands of one scribe to another, often accumulating curious annotations and sometimes even alternate storylines in the process. In the modern, post-printing press era, such differences accrue to the story as it undergoes media mix transformation. Far from depriving readers of the charm of the original work, the subtle (or sometimes blatant) differences between variants often ensure the overall success and longevity of the story. When the identity of the author is relatively clear and the notion of authorial possession of the text—if not copyright—is developed enough to assume a single entity responsible for the creation of the story, the process of cross-media adaptation generates the canon of the story’s fictional world—the larger universe of the story that encapsulates such variants, and in turn defines what is acceptable variation and what is not. The periphery of the “canonical universe” expands with each new adaptation, while its center becomes denser as the new adaptations articulate what are the integral and fundamental parts of the story.6

A pioneer of media mix: Ozaki Kōyō and visual adaptation As a literary work becomes a bestseller—and a social phenomenon—its canonical universe can expand with little or no connection to the author’s original creative intent. Sometimes the author participates in this process, sometimes not, but in either case the original creator rarely retains absolute control of the outcome. Kōyō was well known in his day as a consummate stylist of refined prose for whom words were omnipotent; they had the power to depict everything about the fictional world of the story. But he was also a bestselling author in his choice of medium (newspaper serialization) and in the breadth of his readership (widespread appeal). Tracing how Kōyō, who believed in the supremacy of words and whose creative process entailed

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strict control of his prose, dealt with the necessity of visual accompaniment to and adaptation of his works can show what kinds of negotiations and compromises were necessary in order not only to become but also to remain a bestselling author in the rapidly changing literary field of the mid-Meiji period. Despite Kōyō’s relative openness toward collaborative work—he routinely practiced joint authorship and collective rewriting with his literary disciples—in his early days as an author he resisted as much as possible any kind of external interference or imposition in the physical appearance and reception of his own literary texts. An example is his involvement in the promotional campaign for the serialization of his novella Kyara makura (The Aloeswood Pillow, 1890). In advance of the work’s publication in the Yomiuri shinbun, the newspaper planned to post advertisements on billboards throughout Tokyo. Illustrator Takeuchi Keishū (1861–1942) provided the blueprint for the design, but Kōyō insisted on adding the final touches to the advertisement itself so as to control what would be the reader’s visual introduction to the story.7 Kōyō sought to keep a tight rein on the visual impact of his finished product, and placed equal importance upon the substance and “look” of his words. This means that although Kōyō believed in the superiority of prose over illustration in engaging the reader’s imagination, he was nonetheless driven to refine the visual presentation of his writing. His attention to the visuality of his prose is apparent in his manuscripts filled with rubi (phonetic glosses indicating nonstandard readings of kanji characters) as well as his personal correspondence in which he often drew accompanying pictures.8 Kōyō also imparted a lesson to his disciples by painstakingly instructing them to compose visually with rubi and punctuation as well as write clearly with dark ink so as not to invite errors during the manual process of typesetting.9 To ensure that the final look of his book Tajō takon (Tears and Regrets, 1897; originally serialized in Yomiuri shinbun, 1896) met his expectations, Kōyō insisted upon changing printers three times. Not only would he make sure that the correct characters were used, but he also paid close attention to other elements of the finished product including sections, paragraphs, and punctuation, as well as typeface.10 Kōyō’s fastidiousness suggests he understood that contemporary audiences would neither simply read the text aloud (like the “premodern” readers described by Maeda Ai) nor read silently (“modern” readers); rather, they would consume his works textually and visually at the same time. The density of Kōyō’s prose made his text particularly visual, and he wished to shape the overall reading experience as much as possible as an “authority” over the story. Kōyō was also very involved in the decision-making process for every detail of his books’ physical appearance, including the cover design.11

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Kōyō’s passion for such total command over the finished product and his reliance on prose to depict his fictional worlds put him at odds with the desire for visual accompaniment among his readers and the division of labor in the publishing industry. The inclusion of illustrations in other sections of newspapers—namely, the entertainment prose section—was long established in the Meiji period even before Kōyō became involved in newspaper production as an author. As early as 1874, Tōkyō Nichinichi shinbun had included multicolored woodblock prints (nishikie) for their miscellaneous news section (zappō). This combination of prose and pictures in news reporting and literary serialization was so popular that it became the standard format for various “little newspapers” (ko shinbun), of which Yomiuri shinbun was one of the early pioneers.12 In line with this practice, Yomiuri included illustrations in the first installment of Kōyō’s historical novel serialization Iwazu katarazu (Needless To Say) in early 1895. However, neither Kōyō nor the newspaper editors favored the visual intrusion, so this experiment ended quickly and the rest of the work was serialized without images. But because the illustrations of their competitors Asahi and Mainichi were proving popular, Yomiuri opted to revive the practice later the same year, when Kōyō, together with Tayama Katai (1872–1930), serialized another historical work, Fuefuki gawa (The Fuefuki River, May 1–July 17, 1895). The demand for illustrations was becoming something that even Kōyō could not avoid. In a short piece he wrote for Yomiuri in 1899, he voiced his frustration that newspapers inserted too many illustrations to accompany their serializations: I cannot understand why novels [shōsetsu] have to be accompanied by illustrations. We do not need to rely on pictures—it is our skill as novelists that allows us to use only our brushes. Right now readers will not buy works that are not illustrated, so this cannot be helped, but when the situation changes in our favor in the future, I will not put illustrations in my works.13

Kōyō was not the only author who frowned upon illustrations: Aeba Kōson (1855–1922) also railed against the use of illustrations a few years earlier.14 Despite such firm opposition to illustrations, Kōyō gradually learned to collaborate with his illustrators, and he started providing sketches of his preferred visual accompaniments, much like he did with Takeuchi Keishū and his billboard advertisements. Some of these blueprints are extant and suggest that he insisted on retaining some control over the visual presentation of the end product. In a sketch for one of the illustrations in Tajō takon, serialized two years after his above anti-illustration comments in the Yomiuri, Kōyō gave highly detailed instructions on how a character should be drawn (see Figure 4.1).

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Figure 4.1 Ozaki Kōyō’s detailed sketch of O-Tane. “Tajō takon shiteiga,” Kotenseki database, bunko 14 B0011. Used by permission of Waseda University Library.

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In this sketch, he draws the character in black ink and gives specific directions to the illustrator Terasaki Kōgyō (1866–1919) in red ink. In the scene, O-Tane is carrying some medicine for the protagonist Sumi Ryūnosuke, a friend of her husband who is staying at their home after he lost his beloved wife. Kōyō’s instructions include the character’s supposed age (23 or 24); what she should be carrying (a lamp in one hand, and a tray with glass and a wine carafe in the other); what she should be wearing (a meisen-style haori jacket); where she should be positioned (at the top of a stairway); what posture she should adopt (she would have reached the second floor with one foot, as she is just about to finish climbing the stairs); as well as how she should appear against her background (she should appear small in relation to the all-black background so as to emphasize the darkness of the scene). This particular collaboration seems to have been a success, as most if not all of Kōyō’s wishes seem to have been accommodated by Terasaki in the end product (see Figure 4.2).15 For the rest of his career, Kōyō worked to strike a comfortable balance between the impulse to retain artistic control and the granting of creative license to his illustrators. This is especially true of his novel Konjiki yasha, which earned blockbuster status despite remaining unfinished upon Kōyō’s untimely death in 1903. Serialized in the Yomiuri shinbun starting in 1897, the work followed the tragic romance between the financially challenged student Kan’ichi and his love interest O-Miya that is derailed by overconfidence in material wealth, uncertainty of female happiness, and inability for forgiveness. The story was so popular that the publishing house Shun’yōdō gathered the existing installments into book form and produced a multivolume series between November 1898 and June 1903—even though the story had been left unfinished by the author’s untimely passing. Both the serialization and the book version included illustrations, and a large part of the work’s widespread appeal can be attributed to them. No preliminary sketches remain for the illustrations, but Kōyō’s diary entries from the period of the novel’s serialization state that he indeed drew up sketches regularly and delivered them to his illustrators, suggesting that he provided detailed guidance well into his last days as a writer.16 His illustrators seem to have respected Kōyō’s desires in providing the visual accompaniments to his works for the most part, as neither Kōyō’s diary nor correspondence from the period show complaints about discord with uncooperative illustrators.17 When Kōyō, justifiably or not, expressed discontent over the incursion of illustrations into the textual worlds he created, his frustration raises a question of ownership that is not completely explicable by the modern notion of copyright.

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Figure 4.2 Terasaki Kōgyō’s final illustration of O-Tane in Ozaki Kōyō, Tajō takon (Shun’yōdō, 1897), 384. Reproduced from the collection of the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature.

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Kōyō does not seem to be concerned with financial interests in “lending” his story to creators in other media; rather, he wants to retain authorial control— and responsibility—over the work even as it travels farther and farther from his desk.18 For Kōyō, the visualization of his fiction by someone other than himself and his audience meant interference in the delivery of his work to his readership in the form of unnecessary “coloring” of his textual universe. Kōyō seems to have reached a satisfactory compromise between text and illustration when his works were reproduced on the printed page, but how did he negotiate adaptation of his stories into a radically different medium: the theater? Kōyō became increasingly aware that his readers enjoyed consuming his story in other forms besides the printed text, and came to negotiate his desire for a pure relationship with his readers with the reality of his readership’s desires. His involvement in the production of theatrical adaptations of Konjiki yasha suggests that toward the end of his career he may have come to enjoy this process of negotiation. He was more than receptive to the visualization of his work in the medium of theater and at times actively helped the theater adaptations become popular; reportedly, he even predicted that the famous encounter between Kan’ichi and O-Miya in Atami would make a great scene on the stage.19 During the work’s second serialization in Yomiuri shinbun, Kōyō also commented that his novel felt like a piece of sōshi shibai (a type of politically influenced theater promoting the ideals of the Freedom and Liberation Movement of the early Meiji period) that would make an easy transition to a more visual medium.20 In some instances, Kōyō was directly involved in shaping the theatrical versions of Konjiki yasha by suggesting cuts and other necessary modifications. For Kōyō and the theatrical producers, the challenges of adapting Konjiki yasha to the stage were unique. Unlike an illustration accompanying the text, a theatrical adaptation was expected to be a complete work in itself, able to stand on its own with a beginning and, more importantly, an ending—even though the original serialization was still ongoing. The original print version of Konjiki yasha was delivered to newspaper audiences over the course of a few years with some breaks in between. The initial serialization lasted from January 1 to February 23, 1897 (32 installments), then continued as Kōhen Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon, Part II) later in the same year from September 5 to November 6 (52 installments), resumed as Zoku Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon, Continued) from January 14 through to April 1, 1898 (49 installments), and then again appeared intermittently until May 1902.21 The first theatrical adaptation of Konjiki yasha appeared between the second and third serializations in December 1897, when Kawakami Otojirō (1864–1911) and his troupe performed in a

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weeklong run at the Ichimura-za theater, working off of a script adapted by the actor and playwright Fujisawa Asajirō (1866–1917).22 Konjiki yasha appeared on the Ichimura-za stage on March 25, 1898 as one of their scheduled plays.23 Just before the play opened, the script was also serialized by Fujisawa in Yomiuri shinbun from March 3 to March 24. Since the novel was serialized in spurts with lengthy breaks in between, these adaptations were performed and consumed with the knowledge that the ultimate ending—the fate of Kan’ichi and O-Miya—had yet to be written. The uncertainty of the final outcome of the story made the details of the play susceptible and open to creative interpretation. For instance, the 1898 theatrical adaptation by the Kawakami troupe ends with Kan’ichi attacked by an activist of the Freedom and Liberation Movement only to be rescued by O-Miya and her husband Tomiyama Tadatsugu (hence becoming more overtly sōshi shibai, as Seki Hajime points out);24 and O-Miya, who in the original story chooses Tomiyama over Kan’ichi for a chance at social advancement through beauty, was reduced to an old-fashioned victim of a daughter’s filial duty under patriarchy as her marriage to Tomiyama is now a result of her father’s aspiration for greater wealth. Furthermore, in a performance in November 1899, the story and the main characters were given a radically new outlook—including the brand-new title Onore (Oneself)—at the hands of playwright Iwasaki Shunka (1864–1923). In this version, O-Miya is abused by Tomiyama for not agreeing to consummate their marriage (although in the original story he turns cold only after O-Miya refuses to sleep with him) and Kan’ichi has gone overseas. Kan’ichi and O-Miya are surprisingly reunited by Tomiyama, who has realized his past wrongdoing, and the couple are finally married as a “grey-haired gentleman and lady.”25 Just as Kōyō supervised his illustrations, he involved himself as closely as possible in the theatrical productions of his work—and seems to have relished such collaboration.26 He was particularly involved in the production of Konjiki yasha that was performed at the Miyato-za theater in February 1902 by the Nakano troupe, and closely collaborated with its playwright Hanabusa Ryūgai (1872–1906). This production differed from the original story and previous theatrical adaptations in several ways: first, they reenacted on stage the episode of Tomiyama buying out Aiko, his favorite geisha (rather than treating it as a quoted anecdote, as in the original story); second, they combined into one role the two peripheral characters Sayama Motosuke (in love with a geisha who is about to be bought by a rich man) and Akura Masayuki (a youth forced to commit fraud because of accumulating debt and whose mother set fire to the home of moneylender Wanibuchi); most significantly, they treated as reality

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what was supposed to be Kan’ichi’s dream, in which O-Miya kills her romantic rival Akagashi Mitsue and commits suicide, with Kan’ichi following her.27 They also included the strong insinuation that O-Miya and Kan’ichi shared a physical relationship before O-Miya married Tomiyama, hence making O-Miya’s betrayal more dramatic.28 However, despite Kōyō’s active contribution, the Miyato-za version of Konjiki yasha was not popular with audiences, and the story would experience several more reincarnations until a standard version eventually emerged.29 Though Kōyō seemingly approved (or perhaps even suggested) the changes to the original story in the aforementioned Miyato-za version, he found it an invasion of his authorial rights when his story was morphed in other versions at the hands of someone else without his knowledge—even if the resulting product proved to be more popular than the Miyato-za version in which he participated. Additions, more than subtractions, made him particularly upset. For instance, he was disturbed with the Tōkyō-za version of Konjiki yasha performed in 1903 because this adaptation had what he thought were various extraneous elements that served to spoil the existent version rather than complete or complement it. He was especially annoyed by the scene of the attack against Kan’ichi at Yotsuya mitsuke, which had been made inappropriately slapstick. Also, as an author who paid utmost attention to the accuracy of the visual creation of his story, Kōyō was also irritated by the poorly constructed props and sets—cherry trees, the seashore, a mountain road—that disrupted rather than enhanced the production.30 The playwright for the Tōkyō-za production, the aforementioned Fujisawa Asajirō, was actually as respectful and deferential of Kōyō’s opinion on the adaptation as his collaborators in illustration. Fujisawa states that he and his troupe were ready to be advised by Kōyō in rehearsals; however, Fujisawa also stakes a claim for theatrical adaptation as something besides a simple and faithful visual representation of a text: “We don’t intend to make our costumes and such according to the author’s instructions,... In order for us to put on the ideal play, there is the matter of [pleasing] the manager, and [the author] needs to understand this [aspect].”31 In addition, though unmentioned, Fujisawa and his troupe would certainly have had their own agenda to modify the story to suit this particular production. Fujisawa wishes Kōyō to understand and acknowledge that it is within the creative space between author and manager—and perhaps the audience—that variants are born. Moreover, the participation of Kōyō in the Miyato-za adaptation of Konjiki yasha and how this production deviated from the original storyline suggest that Kōyō himself was at least partially responsible for the creation of multiple

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storylines for Kan’ichi and O-Miya, and provides a telling testament that a story is bound to change as it travels from one medium to another even when the author participates in the transplantation. It is probable that with his worsening illness, which would ultimately prevent him from finishing Konjiki yasha, he became less and less concerned with keeping a tight grip on the main storyline. However, the various modifications he allowed to the story, especially in days of relatively good health, cannot all be attributed to passivity in his declining physical condition. It is possible to speculate that despite some instances of documented protestation, Kōyō did not necessarily detest the idea of his stories being adapted into theater; nor, for that matter, did he dislike playing the role of playwright because he understood that this inter-media journey was a necessary step for his story to not only become a bestseller but also stay one. Even though Kōyō initially had an aversion to the idea of illustrations and had resisted relinquishing control over his stories beyond the literary medium, it seems that spawning variants of his story in various other media could only help to spread Konjiki yasha’s recognition value as well as advance his own authorial reputation.

Yokomizo Seishi and Kadokawa Haruki: Partners in promotion Thanks to the presence of visual adaptations and re-anthologizations, Kōyō’s works continued to stay in the popular consciousness for decades after the author’s death. But what of works and authors who have faded—or are, at least, starting to fade—into obscurity? The revival and subsequent sustained popularity of the detective fiction author Yokomizo Seishi at the hands of publisher Kadokawa Haruki presents an instructive case of how an agreeable author and a master promoter could engage in “media mix” to bring about a successful literary comeback. Yokomizo’s works were popular in the prewar and immediate postwar periods but considered dated by the early 1970s. Yet, they were repackaged and reissued with such momentum that Yokomizo became the second highest-paid author in 1978 between Morimura Seiichi (1933–) and Matsumoto Seichō (1909–92)—two authors who were in the prime of their careers.32 What enabled the resurgence of Yokomizo’s works were the extensive bunko paperback campaigns by the publishing house Kadokawa shoten as well as the creation of adaptations in various visual media designed to coincide with them. Behind Yokomizo’s phenomenal return to the limelight was Kadokawa

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Haruki, one of the most inventive figures of postwar Japanese publishing history, who joined his family’s company in March 1965 and succeeded his father Kadokawa Gen’yoshi (1917–75) as president in November 1975.33 As head of Kadokawa shoten, Kadokawa Haruki perfected the model of publisherled bestseller production by renewing the image of bunko and forming unexpected alliances with two adjacent media, cinema and television. His contemporaries considered these moves highly unorthodox—if not reckless— because of the long-held view of bunko as a tool for self-enrichment, and the dismissal of cinema and television as bitter rivals of books in competition over the limited leisure time and financial resources of their audiences. However, far from leading readers away from literature, his forays into different media helped both literary works and their visual adaptations to boost each other’s recognition as “must-see” and “must-read” products. As part of his strategy to stimulate book sales through media-mix schemes, Kadokawa Haruki eventually coined a catchphrase that became the most famous line of 1977: “Read then watch, or watch then read?” (yonde kara miru ka, mite kara yomu ka).34 The slogan playfully invites the target consumer—the “contemporary reader” who is motivated to seek out his/her favorite story in all forms—to choose whether to consume the Kadokawa-produced story in book form first or in movie form first while presupposing that he/she will end up pursuing both forms. In many ways, this slogan came to describe the cross-media consumption pattern for entertainment that would last well into the twentyfirst century. Neither Kadokawa Haruki nor his publishing company invented the media-mix strategy; as Marc Steinberg points out, the method gained prominence in the 1960s with the advertising tie-in between Tetsuwan Atomu and Marble Choco targeting a young audience of television anime viewers.35 What was significant was that they borrowed the strategy, refined it, and applied it to the broadest possible audience and to the promotion of literature: “Much like the mass media toy did to the nonmedia toy, the Kadokawa business strategy downplayed the inherent cultural value of the book in favor of its value as a communicational medium: a packaged and exchangeable good with built-in relays to other commodified cultural forms such as the film or sound track.”36 And as a result, literature, visual adaptations, and other cultural elements related to the story became advertisements for one another: “previously autonomous cultural forms lost their autonomy, became interrelated, and were organized around the form of the advertisement.”37 The collaboration between Kadokawa shoten and Yokomizo Seishi is a prime example of a comprehensive promotional strategy that engineered bestsellers

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and created a superstar out of a quasi-retired author. In contrast to Kōyō, who attempted to retain authorial control over his works by keeping a tight rein on visual adaptations, Yokomizo was open to variation, in much the same way that Kawabata Yasunari distanced himself from film adaptations (as discussed in the Introduction). But Yokomizo went a step further, playing a more visible role as a “poster-author” who lent his likeness and authorial persona to the visual adaptations of his works.

Bunko wars of the 1970s The background to Yokomizo Seishi’s reemergence with Kadokawa shoten is the reflection of the new climate in the world of bunko paperbacks. In 1971, Kōdansha, one of the undeniable powerhouses of Japanese publishing and a rival of Kadokawa shoten, announced that they would be inaugurating a bunko series; after that, two other industry leaders, Chūō kōronsha and Bungei shunjū shinsha (previously Bungei shunjūsha, renamed in 1946) also launched their own bunko series in 1973 and 1974, respectively. If Kadokawa shoten wished to preserve its reputation as one of the three best bunko publishers along with Iwanami shoten and Shinchōsha, they needed to revamp their own series.38 At first glance, the choice of Yokomizo Seishi as the focus of this new bunko venture is absurd, since the author was considered past his prime by the end of the 1960s.39 Yokomizo had previously abandoned the magazine serialization of Kamen butōkai (Masked Ball) in 1962 for health reasons and had not written any new works since. However, Kadokawa Haruki identified two main advantages in working with the once popular but now forgotten author: first, he thought that Yokomizo’s works would mesh well with the contemporary “Discover Japan” advertising campaign (the details of which will be discussed in the next chapter) that ended up as legendary as his own media-mix scheme; second, the popularity of the manga serialization of Yokomizo’s Yatsuhaka mura (The Village of Eight Tombs, 1949–51) by Kagemaru Jōya (1940–2012) in Shōnen magajin (1968–69) made him aware of the visual potential of Yokomizo’s works.40 Unlike Matsumoto Seichō’s works, which demonstrated an overt awareness of contemporary social issues, Yokomizo’s stories typically took place in the isolated, quasi-supernatural world of yesteryear with murders motivated by personal vengeance and deepseated rancor—in other words, in the world that the consumers inspired by the “Discover Japan” campaign would find intriguing. Kadokawa Haruki predicted that such reverse “freshness” of Yokomizo’s material would appeal to

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the young audience that he wished to target.41 Kadokawa Haruki first visited Yokomizo himself in late 1970 to ask his permission to reissue Yatsuhaka mura in Kadokawa bunko; as this work proved to be popular despite pessimistic predictions (including from Yokomizo’s friends), more and more titles were added to their bunko lineup.42 Throughout what would become a grand-scale media-mix promotional campaign, Kadokawa Haruki’s ultimate goal always remained to sell books.43 In planning his bunko venture, he certainly did not spare any expense: his lavish budget was used on a slew of revolutionary marketing strategies that were all closely interconnected so as to create maximum synergistic effect. In doing so, Kadokawa Haruki certainly used “traditional” means of book promotion, as he repeatedly ran ads for the bunko in newspapers that were designed to create hype based on hyperbolic language reminiscent of the enpon boom.44 But he was also extremely innovative: for instance, he packaged Yokomizo’s bunko volumes with covers featuring radical, eye-catching designs to reflect the ambiance of the stories; he also financed efforts to have these stories adapted into movies and made the release of the movies coincide with the publication of bunko. He also printed ads and discount coupons for the movies on bookmarks (shiori) and inserted them in the bunko all the while running ads for both bunko and movies on television.45 These strategies are particularly important in the sense that other publishers subsequently came to emulate them. Kadokawa Haruki’s new approach called for an elaborate redesign, both visually and philosophically, of the entire bunko list. With the aim of “fashionizing” (fasshonka) the bunko line, Kadokawa Haruki sought to “change from the unidirectional Iwanami model, which selected classic texts and works of ‘pure literature’ that were delivered by the publisher to the reader, to a more flexible and responsive approach to publishing that actively anticipated the needs of readers and sowed the seeds for new trends and tastes. So [he] made the bunko covers more visual and more appealing.”46 Contrary to the enpon volumes that emphasized the supposedly high value of their content and the meaning of its liberation to the masses, Kadokawa Haruki’s updates suggest that he viewed bunko as tools by which to not only respond to but also shape the needs and tastes of readers. The textual interiors were also modified in order to cultivate new audiences. Kadokawa Haruki reveals that in the new bunko volumes of Yokomizo’s works they reduced the use of kanji and provided furigana with the goal of cultivating upper elementary school students as a major part of Yokomizo’s new audience.47 Yokomizo’s bunko covers evolved during the campaigns as Kadokawa Haruki hired the illustrator Sugimoto Ichibun (1947–) to ensure that the mysterious and

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gory world of each story be palpable as soon as potential readers laid their eyes on the cover.48 Many of the new jacket illustrations featured scenes and characters from the book, offering the prospective reader a taste of its content. For instance, the cover for Yatsuhaka mura went from vaguely drawn hitodama (balls of fire representing human souls) of slain medieval warriors to the depiction of a fully armored warrior (with an unsheathed sword) surrounded by bats and the grotesque face of an old woman (presumably one of the elderly twins Koume and Kotake from the story). In a similar manner, the cover of Gokumontō (Hell’s Gate Island, 1947–48) also underwent a makeover, from a generic drawing of three partially nude female bodies (probably alluding to the three sisters who are the victims in the story) to a menacing landscape that more directly evokes the mystery and history of the island as a former penal colony.49 As Kadokawa shoten emphasized visual unity and brand awareness in the bunko’s presentation, they deliberately strayed from the original mission of bunko as proposed by Iwanami Shigeo in 1927 at the height of the enpon boom: that unlike zenshū, one could purchase just the titles one liked with Iwanami bunko.50 However, the unified design was able to create the temptation—through both the advertising mantra and the physicality of the books—to collect all volumes rather than just individual ones without ever calling them zenshū. Although it had become standard practice since the days of Kōyō for literary serializations to have some accompanying illustrations, many authors from subsequent generations sometimes grumbled about this practice, especially in the prewar period. For instance, even an author like Kikuchi Kan who usually paid little attention to the visual adaptations of his works in theater and cinema, commented in the story “Tsuma no hinan” (My Wife’s Accusation, 1921) on the shame of writing for “illustrated magazines” generally shared by the contemporary authors.51 Around the same period, Edogawa Ranpo also protested that often illustrators give away the surprise in the story in the illustrations. When his story “Osoroshiki sakugo” (Horrifying Misunderstanding, 1923) was serialized in Shinseinen, certainly no stranger to the rules and conventions of the detective fiction genre, the very first illustration accidentally revealed the trick to the reader (that there were three medals instead of one). Ranpo also complained that other times illustrations could be misleading: he mentions how the armchair in the story “Ningen isu” (Human Chair)—in which the narrator is supposed to hide in order to feel the object of his desire—was transformed into a sofa during its original publication in Kuraku in 1925.52 However, in the case of Yokomizo and Kadokawa shoten, the renewal of the bunko covers made a clear impact that led to renewed recognition and

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commercial success for the perhaps largely forgotten body of work of an over-the-hill author. Eye-catching covers and curiosity-inspiring images were welcomed by latent audiences including aficionados of manga (particularly gekiga, “dramatic” illustrations that might be compared to “graphic novels” geared toward adult readers) who in the past were not targeted as potential markets.53 In addition, Kadokawa Haruki provided Yokomizo’s works the ultimate “illustrations” to boost their sales—movies. In 1975, Kadokawa shoten had contributed 500,000 yen to the production company ATG (short for Art Theater Guild) in the production of the first Kindaichi Kōsuke movie in fourteen years:54 Honjin satsujin jiken (Murder at the Main Manor, 1946)—a tale of murder motivated by traditional values written in the style of classic Anglo-American detective fiction. Kadokawa shoten planned a bunko book fair to coincide with the film’s release in September. Contrary to pessimistic predictions, Honjin became a respectable hit—it became the first movie produced by ATG to gross more than 100 million yen.55 The impeccable tie-in scheme together with the enticing slogans and intriguing book covers allowed sales of Yokomizo’s works to double to 7.5 million copies during the first bunko fair in 1975.56 Encouraged, Kadokawa shoten planned another Yokomizo film to coincide with the second bunko fair. They were to collaborate with the studio Shōchiku this time, but their agreement fell through, prompting Kadokawa Haruki to establish his own movie production company, Kadokawa Haruki jimusho, in January 1976 with financial contributions from friends and colleagues as well as his own funds.57 They produced the movie version of Inugamike no ichizoku (The Inugami Clan, 1950–51), a story of family, greed, and murder in a rural community, to go with the second bunko fair. At the suggestion of Hara Masato (1931–) of the film distribution company Nihon Herald eiga, Kadokawa Haruki hired Ichikawa Kon as the director and participated himself in the production from the early stages.58 On October 16, 1976, the day of the movie’s release, Kadokawa shoten ran ads in all of the major newspapers for both the movie and the thirty-nine bunko titles featured in the “Yokomizo Seishi Fair.” The most memorable ad uses an image from the film in which the legs of one of the murder victims stick upright out of a lake. Thanks to this aggressive advertising, both the movie and the bunko fair were hits. Despite pessimistic predictions from industry insiders, the movie grossed more than 1.75 billion yen,59 and by the end of 1976, Yokomizo’s bunko works sold more than 18 million copies, and a year later more than 28 million copies.60 This success vaulted the author back into literary stardom and pushed Kadokawa shoten into the spotlight of the publishing world.

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Although not always as the principal producer, Kadokawa Haruki would get involved in a few more Yokomizo Seishi movie projects implemented in the late 1970s and the early 1980s. Between 1975 and 1981, a total of ten Kindaichi Kōsuke movies were produced: Honjin satsujin jiken (1975; ATG), Inugamike no ichizoku (1976; Kadokawa Haruki jimusho), Akuma no temariuta (The Devil’s Handball Rhyme, 1977; Tōhō), Gokumontō (1977; Tōhō), Yatsuhaka mura (1977; Shōchiku), Joōbachi (The Queen Bee, 1978; Tōhō), Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku (The Devil Comes and Plays the Flute, 1979; Tōei), Byōinzaka no kubikukuri no ie (The Hanging House on Hospital Hill, 1979; Tōhō), Kindaichi Kōsuke no bōken (The Adventure of Kindaichi Kōsuke, 1979; Kadokawa eiga), and Akuryōtō (Island of Evil Spirits, 1981; Tōei).61 Each movie, regardless of who produced it, ensured Yokomizo’s visibility in the popular consciousness. Once the images of Kindaichi Kōsuke and Yokomizo’s fictional world became common motifs, other producers of content jumped in to make more representations. Ten movies within the span of seven years is remarkable, but sixteen television adaptations within just over nineteen months (April 1977 to October 1978) is astounding. Within this time span, stories such as Inugamike (April 1977), Honjin (May 1977), Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku (June–July 1977), Gokumontō (July–August 1977), and Akuma no temariuta (August–October 1977) that had cinematic adaptations were also delivered to the small screen, often in multiple installments.62 Alongside the films, the television adaptations of the Kidaichi Kōsuke stories likely helped Yokomizo’s bunko sales.63 In the abundance of visual adaptations, the variations between versions became something to spot and perhaps even enjoy.64 The presence of cinema and television versions for quite a few titles once again points to the different expectations for the stories from the audience besides the puzzle of “whodunit.” As different actors played the detective—most notably Ishizaka Kōji (1941–) in the movies and Furuya Ikkō (1943–) in the television versions—audiences compared which one was better suited to the role. To date, a total of 23 actors (more if including other media) have played Kindaichi Kōsuke—a role not unlike James Bond or Sherlock Holmes that has been widely performed across different styles and generations.65

Authorship without authority: Yokomizo at the movies As Kadokawa Haruki revamped the image of bunko via Yokomizo’s works, a few of the author’s friends expressed their disgust with how he was “selling out.” An old acquaintance and fellow detective fiction writer Nishida Masaji (1893–1984,

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older brother of Tokushige, Yokomizo’s kashihon’ya compatriot in Chapter 1) reportedly said: “As humble individuals, we can never imagine publishing forty bunko.”66 But Yokomizo was unfazed by such criticism as he firmly believed the movie versions of his stories to be separate products from his text, and—despite a hint of embarrassment—welcomed the phenomenal bunko sales supported by new young fans. Unlike Kōyō in the early days and many authors in between, Yokomizo willingly accepted others “tampering” with his stories once they left his own hands.67 Such a laissez-faire attitude toward his works may have had much to do with his own former career path. He had worked as an editor at Shinseinen back in the prewar period and exercised control over the works of other authors including his former mentor Edogawa Ranpo. Just as Kawabata Yasunari did with his works, Yokomizo conceived of literature and its cinematic adaptation as separate entities to the point where he did not care about the financial success of the films: “After signing a contract with the production company and receive the author’s fee [gensakuryō], the novel leaves my hands and becomes something completely different, so whether that movie makes a profit did not concern me. I often did not even watch the movies based on my own stories.”68 Even prior to the 1970s, Yokomizo showed marked indifference to alterations made to his stories in the course of trans-media adaptation. When his Kindaichi Kōsuke stories turned into movies nine times in the late 1940s to the mid-1950s (with the famous period movie star Kataoka Chiezō [1903–83] playing the lead role for six of these), the adaptations significantly deviated from the original story. For instance, even though Yokomizo’s original works always depicted Kindaichi wearing kimono—which is noteworthy because all but one of his cases were set in the postwar period—Kataoka’s incarnation dons a Western suit and a felt trilby hat. The decision to “update” the costume was largely due to the presence of Occupation censorship that frowned upon “period” movies, as well as previous interactions between the censors and producer Matsuyama Hideo (1906–86), director Matsuda Sadatsugu (1906–2003), and screenwriter Hisa Yoshitake (1896–1981). In some cases, they changed major aspects of the stories, including the titles, to appease the censors. For example, they removed the phrase satsujin jiken (murder case) from the title of Yokomizo’s story Honjin satsujin jiken, which became the film Sanbon yubi no otoko (The Three-Fingered Man, 1947).69 In addition to changes made for the censors, Hisa adjusted other aspects of Yokomizo’s works in the films, including the identity of the killer, even though the original stories were completed—unlike Kōyō and his unfinished Konjiki yasha—so there was no uncertainty of style or plot upon which the adaptation

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could take creative license. Yokomizo was aware of these changes but did not object. For instance, Yokomizo knew that Hisa routinely rearranged stories in the course of adaptation: “Hisa [as a screenwriter] has his own philosophy—he had the confidence even to be able to surprise those who have read the novels [before seeing the movie]. [In all his screenplays,] the killers were changed.”70 Changing the identity of the killer is a bold dramatization move, and probably for many detective fiction authors this would probably represent the ultimate violation of their story. This violent expansion of the canon creates more than one possibility for the killer, like having two centers within one universe. Such expansion is often positive for a work’s survival over the long run, but having two “centers” challenges the idea of what constitutes the core of work. Still, Yokomizo’s attitude readily accommodated the desire of the “contemporary reader,” and such flexibility certainly helped his stories survive beyond their expected lifetimes. Yokomizo’s willingness to maximize the popular reach—and, subsequently, the longevity—of his works often meant going beyond what is normally expected of an author. The appetite of the “contemporary reader” for Yokomizo’s works also included different and new kinds of authorial participation in the finished visual product. For example, Yokomizo agreed to make a cameo appearance as the proprietor of the inn at which Kindaichi was staying in the movie Inugamike no ichizoku to ensure its success. According to Yokomizo, this publicity stunt was a request of both Kadokawa Haruki and the movie’s director Ichikawa Kon: The enthusiastic president [of Kadokawa shoten, Kadokawa Haruki] told me “I just spoke with Ichikawa the director and he says that he really wants you to appear in the movie even for one scene. What do you think? Please do say yes.” Honest man that I am I believed that it was the wish of the director and didn’t realize that it was actually a strategic move on the part of the president and his developed business sense.71

Appearing in a movie even for a short scene with minimal acting was a big deal for Yokomizo, who had suffered from chronic anxiety attacks.72 Being “used” as an advertisement gimmick would have mortified many authors; for example, when Akutagawa Ryūnosuke was recruited to give a lecture as part of a publishersponsored event during the height of the enpon boom, he reportedly quipped “I am standing here in place of a poster.”73 On the other hand, Yokomizo accepted this new assigned role and made a few more cameo appearances in the movie versions of Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku and Byōinzaka no kubikukuri no ie in 1979.

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Yokomizo also made himself “visible” to his fans in other ways. As part of the promotional campaign for Inugamike, he attended the movie premier, made repeated appearances on television, and did a book signing at a department store, and explained that he was doing it out of obligation to young fans who welcomed his works anew.74 Rather than being frustrated at being dragged out of “retirement” in his 70s, he expressed appreciation to Kadokawa Haruki for giving him the opportunity to connect with a new readership: “In any case, I take my hat off to the determination and the stage-direction ability of the young businessman Kadokawa Haruki, who has rediscovered the forgotten author that I was and created this so-called boom.”75 In this regard, Yokomizo was the ideal author for an all-out media-mix campaign: he was willing not only to relinquish his claim to his story as it leaves his hands and assumes various forms but also to make the cross-media journey himself as interest in his stories reached unexpected heights. In addition to the example mentioned above, Akutagawa abhorred the use of kyaku-yose panda (literally, “crowd-drawing panda”) to promote his literary works during the enpon boom, whether that proverbial panda was himself or something else;76 however, Yokomizo willingly worked as his own panda to promote his books.

Read it AND watch it The only time Yokomizo expressed certain reservations with altered adaptations and their promotion was when the conventions of movie promotion violated those of the detective genre, and not only when the identity of the killer was changed but it was revealed to the audience as part of the ad campaign. During the promotion of yet another Kindaichi Kōsuke movie directed by Ichikawa Kon—Akuma no temariuta in 1977—the identity of the killer was divulged to the audience before they supposedly saw the movie when it was mentioned in a promotional interview that Kishi Keiko (1932–), the actress in the role of Rika, would be playing the killer—completely exposing what used to be and some might still consider the point of the mystery genre.77 Yokomizo was shocked by this “spoiler” also because Murder on the Orient Express (dir. Sidney Lumet, 1974), a mystery movie based on Agatha Christie’s novel by the same name, explicitly requested audiences around the world not to reveal its whodunit. (Orient Express is, of course, famously set up in such a way that all suspects turn out to be accomplices to the murder.)

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The ready change of the identity of the criminal and the absence of huge outcry for such spoilers reveal a potential difference in expectations between Anglo-American and Japanese audiences for mysteries; however, it might also be an indication that Kindaichi films from the 1970s take into consideration repeated consumption of the story, and consider something else besides the revelation of whodunit as the appeal of the reading and/or moviegoing experience. In fact, in promoting movies and novels at the same time, it is more reasonable to expect a mixed audience of some having read the original story by Yokomizo in novel form and some others encountering the movie first and reading the novel afterward.78 Those viewers of Kindaichi films who knew the story would still watch the movie or read the book because now they were encouraged—and even expected—to consume it in more than one medium. The interview anecdote and the film’s seemingly unaffected popularity suggest to us that as far as Yokomizo’s works were concerned, the classic whodunit was not the central attraction of the story; rather, audiences sought something else. This “something else,” as the advertisement is played over and over again in various media, becomes the desire to keep on seeing more and more Yokomizo adaptations. The use value of the original work and its many avatars in different media in this case are not created by the hype of the promotion—they are created by each other. Kadokawa Haruki’s attempt to maximize book sales and boost box office success breathed new life into an old relationship between visual media and the publishing industry. In his scheme, they never needed to worry about each other to get a larger share of the market. As implied by his catchphrase, “Read then watch, or watch then read?” audiences who consumed a story in one medium were more likely to try another different medium rather than move on to a completely new story or author. Those on the production side would be wiser to make the story available in different media and to not only ensure that the audience knows about it but also make them feel that they need to consume it in different media. Rather than confronting the audience with a choice between book and cinema—“It’s the same story but different adaptations. Will you read it or watch it?”—now it has been made a foregone conclusion that consumers will both watch it and read it, because they often are different stories that take up different spaces within its canonical universe. Between flashy covers, cinema adaptations, ubiquitous television commercials and dramatizations, and bookmarks as discount coupons for movies, Kadokawa Haruki propelled the popularization of bunko and possibly the broader literary

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field. By collaborating with Kadokawa Haruki, Yokomizo showed a model of an author who can serve his/her works’ best interests as they seek the widest-scale dissemination and lasting presence in popular consciousness. As preceding chapters have indicated, Japanese literature in the modern era has followed the steady path of commodification, with ever-escalating emphasis on use and entertainment value, in an increasingly profit-driven market—except for the war years. Kadokawa Haruki undoubtedly precipitated this process by reinventing the function and common perception of bunko, traditionally a tool to gain kyōyō and hope for social advancement, into a medium for disposable reading through which people can seek the newest and most socially discussed works. The success of the Kadokawa-Yokomizo collaboration shows that in the modern era, bestselling authors needed to learn how to let go of their stories as soon as they left their desks and allow others to participate in the expansion of the story’s canonical universe. And the more authors could actively participate in—and enjoy—this process, the greater potential for media-mix success and bestseller stardom.

Shinju fujin: The Heisei revival of a Taishō hit Kadokawa shoten’s enormous impact on the process of creating a bestseller begs the question: is a natural bestseller—a literary social phenomenon driven purely or even mostly by public enthusiasm—possible after this entrenched approach to bestseller creation through media mix (and aggressive advertising)? In the life of Kikuchi Kan’s bestseller Shinju fujin, which was serialized in the Tōkyō Nichinichi shinbun and Ōsaka Mainichi shinbun in 1920, published in book form by Shinchōsha the same year, but then enjoyed a surprising resurgence in the Heisei period, we can see that a bestseller can be born without an overarching media-mix campaign. Indeed, a literary work can enjoy this kind of organic success when “contemporary readers” trained to consume a story in more than one medium encounter an appealing visual adaptation and then seek out the “original” literary text in their pursuit for maximum enjoyment. Interestingly, the original popularity of Shinju fujin in the Taishō period owes much to the popularity of Konjiki yasha lingering from the last days of Meiji, in large part thanks to various visual adaptations and sequels that came after Kōyō’s passing in 1903. While it is likely that Kōyō originally intended to end the story with what is now considered the third part,79 the story was to be continued but left incomplete by its author. The incompleteness and popularity

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of Konjiki yasha would prompt many writers to “complete” it. Most famously, Kōyō’s disciple Oguri Fūyō wrote Konjiki yasha shūhen (The Golden Demon: The Final Episode, 1909).80 Because of these variations, the story enjoys multiple storylines and endings. Such avatars of Konjiki yasha after Kōyō’s passing as well as theatrical and cinematic adaptations also helped the genres of katei shōsetsu (literally, “family novel”) and tsūzoku shōsetsu (literally, “popular novel”) stay popular even while Japanese Naturalism enjoyed the literary spotlight in the late Meiji to early Taishō periods. When Kikuchi Kan started to serialize Shunju fujin in the Ōsaka Mainichi shinbun and Tōkyō Nichinichi shinbun in June 1920, he was greeted with the passionate embrace of Taishō readers who were familiar with the conventions of the genre from visual adaptations of Konjiki yasha and other central texts. Shinju fujin is often described by critics as “Konjiki yasha of the Taishō period” because of its similarity in setup and plot, as well as the common theme of money.81 However, Shinju fujin did have a new twist: most notably, the protagonist who attempts a lone fight against the omnipotence of money in society— Kan’ichi’s reincarnation—is now a woman. It could be said that Shinju fujin is one of the “what if ” stories of Konjiki yasha, written with the questions, “What if the gender of the protagonist is switched?” (so that the protagonist is now the O-Miya figure whose beauty is demanded in exchange for money) and “What if the story is set in the late Taishō?” (so that the wealthy antagonist is not born rich but amassed his fortune in industry).82 With this new setup, the previously mentioned but neglected fact about O-Miya—that she on her own accord enters this beauty-for-money economy—is brought to the forefront of the story. This way, it could be said that Shinju fujin’s own canonical universe overlaps with that of Konjiki yasha. At the same time, the major difference is that unlike Konjiki yasha, Shinju fujin had only a few theatrical and cinematic adaptations after the end of its serialization. In addition to the supposed first film adaptation in 1920 by Kokusai katsuei, Shinju fujin was made into movies twice before the Second World War and once after. The second version was produced by Shōchiku Kamata in 1927, and the third by Nikkatsu in 1933; the postwar version came in two installments with Takamine Mieko (1918–90) and Ikebe Ryō (1918–2010) in 1950.83 The relative dearth of adaptations could be more to do with the author’s career than the story’s content. Although Kōyō passed away young and left Konjiki yasha unfinished, Kikuchi enjoyed a relatively long and eventful career after Shinju fujin. As Kikuchi wrote numerous stories describing dilemmas between female

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chastity, money, and love, Shinju fujin became “one of many” tsūzoku shōsetsu works. In addition, unlike the star-crossed lovers Kan’ichi and O-Miya whose definitive fate forever depends on each adaptation, Shinju fujin’s protagonist Ruriko is given a decisive end at the hands of the original author: she is killed by a jilted admirer at the end of the story. Still, Shinju fujin made an inadvertent comeback more than eighty years later, when the Tōkai Television Broadcasting Company, a regional station based in Nagoya, chose the novel as the basis for a “noontime melodrama” (affectionately abbreviated as hirumero) in 2002.84 The post-broadcast journey of this work attests to the possibility of an audience-driven bestseller as a post-Kadokawa media-mix phenomenon. As just one of the many series that Tōkai produced that year, it was undertaken with low expectations, and the series debuted in April to unremarkable ratings, including just a 5 percent share in the Kantō area; however, by the middle of May, ratings shot up to 10.8 percent in the Tōkai area, and numbers in other regions followed.85 No one on the production side willed it to be a hit, and no particular attention was paid in its promotion to single it out.86 While the series ran as scheduled and the last episode aired on June 28, popular interest did not fade out with the conclusion of the show; rather, fans took their hunger for the story to the original text and its avatars in other media. Kikuchi’s original novel had gone out of print in popular form long before 2002, but many fans nonetheless sought it out by exercising creativity and passion on par with that of wartime young readers who faced a serious dearth of entertainment material.87 Copies of the novel turned up in unexpected places. One fan reported finding an old volume in her grandfathers’ library,88 and others found it in zenshū form at their local libraries.89 Other fans who were still unable to locate a copy signed a petition on http://www.fukkan.com (a website collecting requests to bring old titles back into print) to lobby publishers to reprint the novel.90 In response to such popular demand, Shinchōsha and Bungei shunjū shinsha— the former a titan of literary publishing and the latter with strong historical ties to Kikuchi Kan—printed bunko versions later that year.91 A novelization of the television drama was published in July 2002 to satisfy the craze for all things Shinju fujin; a creative manga interpretation based on Kikuchi's original story by Sachimi Riho, and a faithful manga actualization of the television drama were also published in 2002 and 2003.92 Reflecting the extent to which the story became a widespread social phenomenon, the phrase “Shinju fujin” was also nominated as one of the “popular words of the year” (ryūkōgo taishō) of 2002. The unexpected Heisei revival of Shinju fujin suggests a return, however temporary and exceptional, to the old model of a bestseller in which the

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audiences discover a hidden gem without any pressure or intent on the production side. However, this instance is more complicated than the traditional model when put into the context of the inter-media tie-ins and fierce advertising campaigns of the 1980s and 1990s, when consumers were taught to consume the story in one medium and then move on to another medium. The proclivity of the “contemporary reader”—as cultivated by the Kadokawa media-mix system—is powerful enough to steer production in the direction of their own desires when that medium was not available, and understanding that impulse is crucial in explaining the comeback of Shunju fujin in the early twenty-first century. The Heisei television reincarnation shows how a story is radically altered to fit the different tastes and media of another era, and how such a radical adaptation can spur renewed interest in the original work rather than offer disappointment. It is widely known that Kikuchi as author kept a laid-back attitude when his works were adapted in different media—so he may not have opposed such drastic changes.93 Still, Kikuchi’s influence on the story is radically diminished in the television drama version as the creators of the Heisei Shinju fujin made quite a few revisions to the setting and storyline of the original work. While the producer Tsuru Keijirō of Tōkai Television initially emphasized the series’ strong ties to the original story, he himself later admitted that the original story accounts for only about 30 percent of the television drama series.94 The stark differences in details between the original story and the Heisei television version raise important questions about canonicity just as changing and casually disclosing the identity of the killer challenged the “core” of Yokomizo’s universe. The canonical universe grows with every adaptation, but to what extent could a new version be considered to retain some relationship to the original? The Taishō literary Shinju fujin and the Heisei television version are radically different even in their basic setups. First, the setting was changed from the Taishō period to the early 1950s, but without any reference to the Second World War or the Occupation; second, the original story spans only a few years within the Taishō period, but the hirumero version extends the story for more than a decade.95 Because of this change in historical setting, the profession of the villain Kappei was changed from shipping magnate to president of an industrial conglomerate who owns a hotel as well as a brothel. The prostitution angle was added most probably to emphasize the theme of the exchange of flesh for money that permeates both the original and adapted versions.96 By putting the details of the two versions side by side, it is tempting to make value judgments or debate which version has higher artistic merit. However, it

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is more fruitful to examine the reactions of Heisei audiences who were charmed originally by the television drama version and traveled to other representations of the story, as they embody the “contemporary reader” who cannot help but consume the story in a multitude of media. They inherited Kadokawa Haruki’s lingering mantra “Read then watch, or watch then read?” and internalized the consumption pattern based on that premise even in the absence of fierce advertising campaigns urging them to do so, so that after “watching it first” they proactively sought to read it. Their insistence on enjoying a good story in a multitude of media directly affected the production and distribution of related works. It is significant that the rediscovery of Shinju fujin took place without privileging Kikuchi’s original or downplaying the television version. The original was never declared the definitive and exclusive source of the canon; rather, audiences seem to have accepted both the original and the television adaptation as allowable variations of the story. Though many readers leave little or no trace of their reading, the example of Sachimi Riho, author of one of the manga versions, reveals how a contemporary reader can come to participate in the story’s canonical universe. She was a fan of the television series first and was ecstatic when approached to write a manga adaptation. Sachimi then consulted Kikuchi Kan’s original story and eventually came up with her own Shinju fujin with quite a bit of its own modifications, including Ruriko enjoying the happiest outcome in her version, as she is able to fulfill her motherly duties by being devoted to her stepchildren while also marrying Naoya at the end of the story. The various iterations of Shinju fujin show us how a canonical universe is formed and modified in the later media-mix age. The presence of equally accepted variants suggests that adaptations do not threaten the supposed authority of the original. The original still enjoys attention as the original, but in the minds of fans its significance lies in its status only as the “first” adaptation of the story. Fans who consume the story in multiple media enjoy the subtle and bold differences that exist between variants. The creation of each variant works like a filter to preserve the foundational parts of the story and sift out secondary details. The center of the canonical universe is the cluster of brightest stars that are the central parts of the story that no adaptation can do without (in Shinju fujin’s case, that Ruriko does have to face the challenges of marriage to Kappei and societal expectations while remaining pure). Although the center constantly becomes denser, this universe is always expanding at the periphery with the creation of new adaptations.97

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Universe of the canon, and a different kind of “Must Know” The different attitudes assumed by Ozaki Kōyō and Yokomizo Seishi toward the “intrusion” of multimedia representation indicate the presence of multiple notions of authorial possession over texts that cannot be defined entirely through the modern notion of copyright. When “Giketsu kyōketsu” (Blood of Justice, Blood of Gallantry, 1894), a short story by Izumi Kyōka, was adapted for the stage in 1895 by Kawakami Otojirō as Taki no shiraito (The Water Magician) without permission, Kōyō as Kyōka’s (nominal) coauthor and literary mentor published a statement of protest that Kawakami and his company did not inform them of their plan for adaptation. Kōyō is often considered a victim of precopyright customs, as he is known to have only been paid in lump sums for his enormously popular works no matter how much revenue his manuscripts ultimately produced. However, in raising objections to the non-“author”-ized adaptation of “Giketsu kyōketsu,” Kōyō asked for no monetary compensation, and insisted that his objection is motivated by ethical reasons (tokugi).98 If that is his true feeling, it means that seeming profiteering did not anger Kōyō but the unwitting expansion of the story did. Ironically, “Giketsu kyōketsu” is now mostly (or perhaps even exclusively) known as the “original story” for Taki no shiraito, which has spawned six movies and countless theatrical adaptations to date. In fact, as all adaptations of Taki invariably credit Kyōka as the author of the original story, they may be largely responsible for having kept Kyōka’s name in the popular consciousness and his other literary works in print.99 The tendency to shift attention from original to later reincarnations, no matter what their birth stories are, is here to stay. Cultural critic Azuma Hiroki points out the precedence of “database” over “narrative”—that the original is no longer the most important and authoritative version of the story. Instead of an “original” and “copies,” there are only “database” and “simulacra.” The original author may insist on the copyright; but the copies also insist on their right to multiplication and dissemination. The audience no longer pays excessive attention to the identity of the original author or the plot of the original story; instead, they focus on the various versions of the story born out of various parties’ contribution to the canonical universe of the story.100 Current understandings of copyright tend to protect the author’s control over his/her works, but contemporary bestseller creation through visual media is story-based, rather than author-based. While the example of Shinju fujin suggests the possibility of a work becoming a bestseller with successful visual

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representation decades later, the subsequent fate of other works by Kikuchi Kan also indicates the difficulty of literary works to become bestsellers in the contemporary age without visual representation. Although the television Shinju fujin was able to bring its original back into print, in the absence of a strong Kikuchi-themed campaign, it failed to improve sales for the author’s other works. For instance, Shinchōsha attests that the sales of Shinju fujin did not affect that of the existent anthology of Kikuchi’s short stories, so they did not plan any further reprints of Kikuchi Kan’s other works.101 Kadokawa Haruki’s invitation to consume a story in more than one medium may have been welcome because it reminded audiences of the long tradition— which may have become latent or even defunct during Meiji with the advent of silent readers—to consume a story textually, visually, and audibly. To trace the history of media mix in the modern era is also rethink what modern literary studies has neglected, or ignored outright: to read and to watch a story can exist independent of each other, but media mix invites readers/viewers to consume them together once again. The mission of the modern novel may be to “express the un-visualizable,” but the more it tries to pursue such a goal, the more attention visual representations bring to literary texts. The concept of media mix itself can expand beyond the multimedia adaptation of creative works into the real world. As the following chapter will argue, readers are now not only encouraged to consume works in print, on the stage, in a movie, on television—they are invited to explore the fictional and biographical worlds of their favorite literary works and their revered authors in a different mode of reading, one that privileges direct experience of literary heritage through interactions with “sacred” spaces and “meaningful” objects. This form of “reading” could be seen as a logical extension of media mix, but it is perhaps also the most radical realization of use value; indeed, the ultimate “use” of a text might be a canonical variant rendered in three dimensions, such as a statue of O-Miya and Kan’ichi on the beach in Atami that can draw fans of Konjiki yasha and keep the work alive, not just in the reader’s imagination but in the physical world.

5

Literary Ambulation: Tourism, Author Worship, and Hunting for the Past Literature and tourism Avid lovers of literature like the American writer Helene Hanff (1916–97) have shown themselves eager to travel to the locales associated with beloved authors and famous characters: Please write and tell me about London, I live for the day when I step off the boattrain and feel its dirty sidewalks under my feet. I want to walk up to Berkeley Square and down Wimpole Street and stand in St. Paul’s where John Donne preached and sit on the step Elizabeth sat on when she refused to enter the Tower, and like that. A newspaper man I know, who was stationed in London during the war, says tourists go to England with preconceived notions, so they always find exactly what they go looking for. I told him I’d go looking for England of English literature, and he said: “Then it’s there.”1

Major tourist destinations such as London, New York, and Paris actively advertise their literary heritage, and guidebooks abound for those literary pilgrims who want to visit the haunts of their favorite authors and see the landscapes that form the backdrop for their favorite novels. As literary tour guide David Burke asserts: “Just as writers were enriched by living in Paris, our appreciation of their work— and indeed of the city itself—is heightened by following them from place to place in our imaginations or, even better, in our walking shoes.”2 The apartment at 47 rue Raynouard in Passy in Paris, where Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850) took refuge from his loan collectors between 1840 and 1847, is now la Maison de Balzac [Balzac Museum]: “[the museum] is rich in objects from his life and work: his meticulously restored study; his famous coffee pot [from which he constantly drunk to keep the high rate of manuscript production]; his turquoise-studded cane; the superb marble bust by David d’Angers; and portraits of Eveline Hanska

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and his literary contemporaries Hugo, Dumas, and others.”3 Burke reports that the Musée Marcel Proust (Maison de tante Léonie at Illiers-Combray), where Marcel Proust (1871–1922) spent holidays between ages six and nine, is as “much as it is described in the opening part of the novel [Swann’s Way in In Search of Lost Time], from the magic lantern of Geneviève de Brabant to the staircase the little narrator climbs all alone on the nights when M. Swann comes to call.”4 Enchanted by such detailed accounts, literature-loving tourists duly make their ways to these sites to pay homage to their literary idols who once spent some time there. Other times, readers flock to certain locations to experience the time and space inhabited by their favorite characters—very often to sites that themselves are fictions. Sherlock Holmes, the world-famous creation of Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930), is inseparable from the time and space of Victorian London in which his stories are set. The street address 221b Baker Street, where Holmes and Watson were supposed to have “lived” (although they were never “alive”), did not exist until 1990 when it was created to respond to the global interest in the fictional detective and his exploits. Spurred most recently by the popularity of new films and television series featuring various incarnations of the sleuth—especially such films as Sherlock Holmes (2009), its sequel Sherlock Holmes: The Game of Shadows (2011), and the “fictional” account of his twilight years in Mr. Holmes (2015); as well as the well-executed and hugely successful BBC series Sherlock (2010–)—the Holmesiana industry is booming, and thousands of visitors to the Sherlock Holmes Museum (at what should logically be 239 Baker Street) each year take turns to photograph themselves holding a pipe while soaking in the atmosphere of the flat painstakingly recreated to correspond to the original stories. Capitalizing on this popularity are the several books about Holmesian London that have been published in recent years: Sherlock Holmes’s London (David Sinclair, 2009); The London of Sherlock Holmes (Thomas Bruce Wheeler, 2011); Sherlock Holmes and Conan Doyle Locations: A Visitor’s Guide (Allan Foster, 2011), to name a few. These guides help readers who want to experience the world of Sherlock Holmes expand their exploration from a fictional address on Baker Street to an entire city. Various localities in Japan have also provided a similar degree of fascination for literary-minded travelers. For centuries, Tales of Ise (Ise monogatari) shaped the imaginations of privileged travelers to the eastern countries.5 Aficionados of classical literature have also frequented the town of Uji near Kyoto to reminisce about scenes from Genji monogatari and Heike monogatari (The Tale of Heike). In the early modern era, Tōkai dōchū hizakurige (Hoofing It Along

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the East-Sea Highway) showed the humorous example of commoners from Edo making the pilgrimage to the Ise Grand Shrine, the holiest shrine in the country. During the centuries in between, Gikeiki (The Record of Minamoto no Yoshitsune) and Taiheiki (Taiheiki: A Chronicle of Medieval Japan) made the once-forgotten capital of Kamakura an attractive travel destination.6 Even in the early twenty-first century, a literary journey to the Tōhoku region can still be guided by Matsuo Bashō (1644–94) and his Oku no hosomichi (Narrow Road to the Interior).7 A group of modern Japanese authors are also routinely recruited to guide visitors to the various areas with which they were associated. In Higuchi Ichiyō to aruku Meiji Tōkyō (Walking Tokyo of the Meiji Era with Ichiyō, 2004), Higuchi Ichiyō serves the readers as their guide beyond time for the shitamachi area of Tokyo where she spent most of her short life. The book invites the readers: “If we wander the streets of Tokyo alongside Ichiyō, we are sure to find an unexpected side of the city.”8 Ichiyō’s followers are invited to stop at the venerable shops (shinise) that she once patronized: Fujimura in Hongō for yōkan bean jelly, Daikokuya near Kanda Myōjin in Yushima for candies, and Rengyokuan in Ueno for soba noodles.9 Just as Ichiyō informs the contemporary travelers’ explorations in the shitamachi more than a century after her death, some fictional characters who are nothing more than figments of their creators’ imaginations actively entertain tourists in the towns where they made their names. The eponymous protagonist of Natsume Sōseki’s Botchan is fictional but he has been enlisted to promote the city of Matsuyama and the nearby historic Dōgo onsen hot spring among contemporary tourists. Visitors to Matsuyama can ride the “Botchan Train” (a replica of the train depicted in the novel), eat Botchan dango (the sweet rice dumplings favored by the protagonist), and resist the urge to swim in the Dōgo onsen bathhouse (for which Botchan received a warning) while imagining the eponymous character’s experience in the town. As entertaining as these itineraries may seem, they beg some fundamental questions regarding the relationship between travel and literature: what exactly can readers expect to experience when they tour cities with such literary landmarks and connections? And more importantly, how do these trips and activities contribute to the understanding and appreciation of literature? The explicit mission of the Higuchi Ichiyō book above is to “experience vicariously” (tsuitaiken suru) her life and the bygone culture of which she was a part. However, the exact meaning of “vicarious experience” and its purpose beyond sheer enjoyment are left unexplained in the book. The appeal and significance of

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visiting “Ichiyō’s well”—the place tucked away in the deepest part of Hongō from where she supposedly fetched water—may remain unclear even after an actual visit, as the site is now surrounded by private homes. Other literary guidebooks equally insist on the possibility and excitement of following in the footsteps of authors and their fictional creations, but often do not articulate the meaning of the act. Nagai Kafū, another oft-enlisted author-guide for old Tokyo, frequented the quaint restaurant Arizona Kitchen in Asakusa. Until the restaurant’s closure in October 2016, the restaurant advertised itself on its storefront sign as the “Western-style restaurant that Nagai Kafū loved” (Nagai Kafū ni aisareta yōshokuya desu) and prominently displayed a portrait of Kafū eating the eatery’s signature dish “liver creole” (which was noted on the menu as “Kafū’s favorite”). Fans could thus enjoy the author’s preferred lunch while reflecting on his life and literary legacy, but what miraculous insight they could expect in such a dining experience still remains uncertain. Equally ambiguous is the function of literary museums (bungakukan or bungaku kinenkan) that celebrate the achievements and lives of the authors who were born or otherwise associated with the areas along the walking routes suggested by these guidebooks. Literary museums as cultural institutions in Japan have been on the rise: their numbers have increased rapidly in the postwar period, and the wider trend of jinbutsu kinenkan (personal memorial museums) for not only authors but also figures that had some kind of significant contribution to the region continues into the twenty-first century.10 In case of Ichiyō, for instance, her fans can visit the Ichiyō Memorial Museum (Ichiyō kinenkan) in Tokyo’s Taitō Ward to learn about her life and works. Established in 1961, it has celebrated the author’s connection to the area for more than half a century, particularly through the work “Takekurabe” that was set in the area. Yet, the function of even such institutions with a long history remains vague when considering the exact purpose of their displays. The demand to experience material attractions—Ichiyō’s cosmetic tools, a replica of her writing desk, Nagai Kafū’s liver creole at Arizona Kitchen— prompts the question: how exactly can they serve readers in understanding authors’ lives and their literature more deeply? This chapter attempts to answer these questions by examining the connections between literature, tourism, and author worship in an age where the diminished appeal of literature is not only slowly recognized but also perhaps unwillingly acknowledged. The discussion of Shinju fujin in the previous chapter explored how the most ardent fans of literature seek out adaptations of their favorite stories in other media so as to prolong their enjoyment beyond the initial encounter. When such avatars are

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not available, or after they too grow insufficient and unsatisfying, the most zealous pursuers go farther to find the remnants of the story in the real world. They head to the actual residence or even the study of the author where he/ she first conceived the story, or the site where the key events in the story are supposed to have taken place. For them, such spaces are “holy ground” (seichi), and a visit to such a site is a “sacred pilgrimage” (seichi junrei). Even in the absence of tangible benefits to this kind of sightseeing, literary guidebooks invariably play up the allure and importance of experiencing these locales firsthand. The guidebook Tōkyō bungaku sanpo (Tokyo Literary Strolls) explicitly calls the Yushima-Hongō-Kasuga area, in which many literary landmarks are concentrated, the “holy site of literature” (bungaku no seichi);11 the promotional copy on the obi band covering the dust jacket of Bungō no ie (Homes of the Literati): “If you know the house, you can see the literature” (ie o shireba bungaku ga mieru).12 The prevalence of such cultural pilgrimages suggests a certain distinct mode of reading behind seemingly superficial or downright irrelevant literary strolls. While reading literature has supposedly been a solitary and personal activity ever since silent reading was established as the dominant mode of consuming literary texts in the modern era, many readers seem to have developed the urge to extend the pleasure of the original work by visiting sites related to it and/or its author with the increased facility for domestic as well as international travel in the postwar era. I call this mode of reading hodoku or “literary ambulation.” Different from tōsa (investigation by walking), hodoku aims to not only “check and confirm” the details of the fictional world against reality but also expand the reading and experience of the text through the reader’s five senses—or possibly six, if imagination is included. The practice and actual pleasure of hodoku are what make readers answer the persistent calls for cultural pilgrimage. According to the geography scholar Masubuchi Toshiyuki, the idea of cultural pilgrimage has recently been a very important driving mechanism in “contents tourism” (kontentsu tsūrizumu), in which cultural products such as cinema, television dramas, songs, anime, and manga play a central role in generating in the minds of potential travelers the desire to visit the relevant sites.13 The hodoku practitioners as cultural pilgrims are at the forefront of recent trends in tourism, which Sasaki Hidehiko thinks have been shifting from mere “consumption” to “contribution,” “experience,” and “creation.”14 Their fascination with the world of the story drives them to be more than mere bystanders at these sites. They eat the aforementioned Botchan dango in Matsuyama, enjoy liver creole at Arizona Kitchen, and stroll Hongō

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with  Ichiyō senbei rice crackers in hand—on one level, these activities are simplistic consumption (shōhi)—but in their minds these acts are still extensions of “reading” and “experiencing” the story. Samantha Matthews says of the literary grave hoppers in Europe in the nineteenth century: “These scribbling pilgrims position themselves not only as humbled worshippers of genius, but as active, creative beings, empowered at the grave by its evidence of their own creative life.”15 The hodoku practitioners in contemporary Japan are certainly as proactive, and in many senses they need to be: in the case of Tokyo in particular, the radical modernization and physical transformations that the city has undergone in the modern era certainly makes hodoku intellectually challenging, as the very real material changes in the metropolis make it difficult not only to witness but also to imagine the past. Because of this challenge, hodoku becomes an even more creative and strenuous process in which practitioners need to actively engage with the present to enhance—or strive to complete—their experience with the text and the past. The challenge of re-presenting the past extends to the literary museums that the devotees find during their pilgrimages. Though without explicit missions, they have been operating as precious depositories of the past. In addition to the authors’ former personal possessions, they archive documents pertaining to a particular author or authors with ties to the area, and typically display their handwritten manuscripts as well as first and noteworthy editions of their works. As already mentioned with Ichiyō’s case, the value of viewing these items in furthering the understanding of literature, even if they used to belong to their favorite authors, may seem dubious. Rather, conventional critical wisdom informs us that an obsession with such material possessions may create a hindrance to objective criticism as they implicitly elevate authors to the status of “saints” or even “gods”—quasi-religious figures and objects of veneration. While the discovery of long-lost manuscripts of famous authors still makes headlines today, the excitement should come from the possible furthering of scholarship rather than some sort of religious fervor.16 However, literary museums possess tremendous strengths once the validity of author worship in the crisis of literature is acknowledged. Through the trivial items displayed there—coffeepots, combs, and other unliterary items—hodoku readers can imagine the lost past and turn their thoughts to the ever-elusive process of artistic creation and the effects of milieu on the shaping of the text. An examination of the dynamics of hodoku can help to unveil literature’s potential as a tourist attraction as well as tourism’s potential as a vehicle for literary understanding.

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Hodoku: Walking and reading On the ever-present tension between the joy of literature and the rigidity of theory, Antoine Compagnon renders his verdict: Certainly, the author is dead, literature has nothing to do with the world, synonymy does not exist, all interpretations are valid, the canon is illegitimate, but we continue to read the biographies of writers, we identify with the heroes of novels, we follow the footsteps of Raskolnikov through the streets of St. Petersburg with curiosity, we prefer Madame Bovary to Fanny, and Barthes plunged delightedly into The Count of Monte Cristo before going to sleep. This is why theory cannot prevail. It is not prepared to discard the reading self. There is a truth in theory that makes it seductive, but it is not the whole truth, for the reality of literature is not entirely theorizable.17

For the adversaries of hodoku, or the school of thought that privileges the language of the text more than any other element, pretending to physically experience the world and the atmosphere of the story may not seem like a legitimate intellectual activity. Still, Compagnon here acknowledges that the urge to “follow the footsteps of Raskolnikov through the streets of St. Petersburg with curiosity,” as naïve as it sounds, is one of the manifestations of the raw charms of literature that stands on the opposite pole from sophisticated, but perhaps unexciting, theoretical readings. What he imagines here appears close to the desire for “vicarious experience,” the key word often used to describe the goal of hodoku. The guidebook series Meisaku tabiyaku bunko (Guided Tours of Literary Classics, JTB Publishing, 2009) selects a particular set of texts that can specifically be associated with a tourist site or town. The eight-volume series features: Kobayashi Takiji’s Kanikōsen (1929; Otaru and Hakodate); Dazai Osamu’s Tsugaru (1944; Aomori); Itō Sachio’s Nogiku no haka and Haru no ushio (1909 and 1908; Matsudo and Yagiri); Higuchi Ichiyō’s “Takekurabe” (downtown Tokyo); Hori Tatsuo’s Kaze tachinu (1938; Karuizawa); Oda Sakunosuke’s Meoto zenzai (1940; Osaka); Hayashi Fumiko’s Hōrōki (1930; Onomichi); and Natsume Sōseki’s Botchan (Matsuyama). On the book cover flap, the series describes its purpose: “To vicariously experience a famous work directly by taking a guided stroll through the location in which the story is set.” In the volume for Ichiyō’s “Takekurabe,” the editors include three kinds of extra information for the readers to enjoy fully the world of the story: “knowledge that allows the reader to experience directly the setting of a famous work; to understand more deeply the life and ideas of its author; to gain extra insight that allows for richer enjoyment of the story.”18 The editors of this series target

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readers on the move, as all extended annotations are for landmarks and local customs rather than language. Each volume also features a map in which key sites in the texts are marked for the benefit of hodoku readers who are out and about with the book. The ultimate goal of this reading is tourism, and literature is the important starting point. Moreover, the milieu of writing constitutes the indispensable background information for the deepest possible reading. Noh performer (and literary essayist) Yasuda Noboru (1956–) reveals his drastically different impressions of Matsuo Bashō’s Oku no hosomichi between first and second readings. First, he read it as a typical modern reader would any book—sitting silently indoors—and found it extremely boring. However, Yasuda decided to give it a second chance and for this time, he traveled with the text—he traced Bashō’s trip by sailing where he sailed and walking where he walked. Through this activity, he gained a completely different understanding: “This is pretty engrossing, it turns out. ‘So this is contemporary Japan,’ I think to myself as I walk these streets; and the more readily I dispel my everyday awareness of fatigue and rain and dark, the more quickly I see things come into focus that I did not notice when I first read the work. And this is a deep enthrallment that reeks redolently of danger.”19 He then realized what he did wrong the first time: “At first I didn’t find it interesting because I was reading [the work] comfortably indoors, still with the sensibility of a present-day person.”20 The same can be said about modern writings. The scholar of modern Japanese urban culture (and Nagai Kafū specialist) Kawamoto Saburō (1944–) would readily agree with Yasuda. Reading outdoors came naturally to him as he delved deeply into Kafū’s Danchōtei nichijō (Dyspepsia House Days, 1917–59): “In fact, when you read Danchōtei nichijō, you cannot stand still; you want to walk with Kafū through the old neighborhoods of Tokyo.”21 Kawamoto also emphatically describes the upsurge of emotions in his reading of various entries in Kafū’s diary: What did Kafū eat, what kind of movies did he watch, what sort of women did he consort with, and above all what parts of Tokyo did he frequent? I wanted to cherish these details, to dive deeper and deeper into them. In the same way that Kafū ventured into the hidden backstreets and alleyways of Tokyo, I enter deeper and deeper into the details of Kafū’s world. I stroll the same places Kafū walked—Fukagawa, Sunamachi, the Arakawa drainage canal, the east bank of the Sumida River, Asakusa, Ichikawa—with the feeling that I am traveling through time into the past, like I am viewing a phantom trace of a now-lost landscape.22

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Whether a great work of literature is created by an author’s genius or is a product of his/her environment is a perennial quandary for literary scholars, but Kawamoto seems to think that the external world is at least as important as the author’s personal genius, since what he reveals here is the desire to experience the milieu of a text’s creation. As Kawamoto emphasizes the milieu over other dimensions, he echoes Noda Utarō (1909–84), the self-professed creator of the term “literary stroll” (bungaku sanpo). A poet and literary critic, Noda would consider hodoku an indispensable step in understanding the text not only intellectually but also physically.23 Noda directly connects the text and its milieu as he explains the intention of writing his Tokyo guidebook: “I wrote this handbook for people who want to learn about literature on a more palpable level by immersing themselves in the environment in which that literature grew, without relying solely on the reading they have already done.”24 In saying this, Noda seems to believe in the value of reading a text on the move—or moving with the text as one reads it with one’s entire body, with an emphasis on the directly “corporeal” (tai) aspect of “vicarious experience” (tsuitaiken). Experiencing the physicality of the story plays a key role in Maeda Ai’s essay “BERLIN 1888,” a chapter in his seminal oeuvre Toshi kūkan no naka no bungaku (1982) and a prime example of a critic’s quasi-epiphanic insight into a story by experiencing firsthand the physical and material background of a work.25 His study of Maihime (The Dancing Girl, 1890) by Mori Ōgai (1862–1922) brought him to Berlin—and he describes the logistics of this international hodoku trip in a separate essay. He joined a weeklong JALPAK tour to East Germany during the “golden week” holiday in 1979 with the explicit purpose of “seeing with my own eyes the streets of East Berlin that set the stage for Ōgai’s Maihime.”26 He visited the key sites from the text including the Parochialkirche in the Mitte area of Berlin. The church lost its signature tower during the Second World War and hence its appearance had been altered since Ōgai’s time, but Maeda visited the quaint, stone-lined Waisenstrasse just behind it and still reminisces: In the bitter winter of 1888 [Meiji 21], when Ōta Toyotarō looked down from Elise’s room on the fourth floor, he must have seen a bumpy old street much like this one: “Although the ground in the Klosterstrasse area was bumpy and uneven …” is the applicable passage. When I stepped into this gloomy alleyway draped in the shadows of dusk, I felt arise the sense that I was standing before a time tunnel leading into the world of Maihime. I had the feeling that the life Elise and Toyotarō shared, in which they had only each other, was filled with loneliness.27

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There is no guarantee that the sensation and insight Maeda experienced here are legitimate. However, he sounds confident that they are, and such sense of selfassuredness certainly is even more present in “BERLIN 1888,” as he discusses Toyotarō’s inner consciousness projected onto the city landscape. What Maeda gains as he strolls in the streets of Berlin is unobtainable in his office, and that is the charm—and power—of hodoku. Ara Masahito (1913–79) would agree with the value of the insight one can only gain from hodoku, as he performed a tremendous amount of fieldwork in compiling his magnum opus, Sōseki kenkyū nenpyō (Chronology of Sōseki), a supplementary volume to the Sōseki zenshū from Shūeisha in 1970. Ara reportedly confided in his assistant Tomita Masako his thinking behind the project: “You cannot talk about things that you have not seen yourself. If you rely just on written descriptions you end up repeating the same mistakes. You cannot teach other people until you have walked [there] with your own feet”; he also called his investigation style “footwork” (futto wāku).28 The result of his labor, of course, is the nearly complete year-by-year recreation of Sōseki’s life. On a smaller scale, hodoku practitioners for Japanese literature have also been strolling the streets of Tokyo in order to gain revelatory insight into the worlds of their favorite stories and the minds of their favorite authors. The guidebooks for literary ambulation most often feature the areas of Hongō, Ueno and Asakusa, and “Yanesen” (Yanaka, Nezu, and Sendagi). Authors such as Ichiyō, Ishikawa Takuboku, and Tokuda Shūsei (1872–1943) lived in the Hongō area at some points in their lives; and because of the area’s proximity to the University of Tokyo, it is also the stage for various stories including Natsume Sōseki’s Sanshirō (1908), in which the eponymous protagonist is a student there. Ueno and Asakusa have been immortalized by Sōseki’s other key works like Gubijinsō (The Poppy, 1907), Sorekara, and Kokoro, as their characters move through various parts of the area. Kafū’s frequent visits to Asakusa in the postwar era are well documented in his diary Danchōtei nichijō. In Yanesen, such literary titans as Kōda Rohan, Natsume Sōseki, and Mori Ōgai all had residences in which they penned their key works, including Gojūnotō (The Five Story Pagoda, 1892), Wagahai wa neko de aru, and Gan (Wild Goose, 1911–13), respectively. Guided by these sources, readers are invited to imagine the atmosphere of the stories and the bygone customs of the time. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the “contemporary reader” (gendai dokusha) desires to consume favorite stories in multiple media without finding them repetitive or redundant.29 Hodoku readers go a step further—they weave

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their own versions of the story with their feet, following the faint traces that still exist in the real world.

Obstacles for Hodoku: Physical transformation of the city However, one inevitable concern is that it might be dangerous to conflate a superficial visit to a location with an actual “understanding” of a literary text. Does the hodoku practitioner simply confuse the novelty of different surroundings with the illusion of new insight? In the case of modern Japan, and contemporary Tokyo in particular, the rapid physical transformation of the sites themselves does not allow hodoku practitioners to be passive and idle strollers. As much as these guidebooks claim the facility of time travel, readers in early twenty-firstcentury Tokyo must still exercise considerable agency and imagination in gaining access to the world of Meiji, Taishō, or even Shōwa Japan. For readers like Helene Hanff, Maeda Ai, and Kawamoto Saburō, a complete hodoku experience would be to visit to a relevant site and see the world of their favorite text unfold before their eyes. But how satisfactorily one can perform such a task, and how readily such a scene reveals itself to “travellers from the future,” is largely dependent upon the material preservation of the past. The reality is that not only Tokyo but also all modern metropolises struggle to preserve their past, whether glorious or infamous. In their discussion of London, Donna Dailey and John Tomedi offer a case in point: “With a population of over seven million in the metropolitan area, London is Europe’s largest city. Many visitors come here looking for merry old England and end up discovering the world.”30 In Tokyo, London, Paris, and other cities that underwent significant modernization, the present dominates the foreground, and links to the past must be teased out, exploited, or sometimes conceived anew. Unlike the Sherlock Holmes Museum, for which a physical location was created to accommodate a fictional address, the Charles Dickens Museum is located in the existing building at 48 Doughty Street, where the author (1812–70) lived from March 1837 to December 1839. During his life, Dickens lived at several other addresses in London, but this location was selected to house his museum largely by default: it is the only building still standing that Dickens had called home. While Paris may still be able to boast the remnants of the original wall around the city built by Phillipe-Auguste (1165–1223) as well as various Renaissance and pre-Revolutionary archeological remains, modern-day visitors who expect the Boulevard des Italiens of nineteenth-century literature would be shocked to find no classic cafés or bars but just a bland business street.31

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Present-day Tokyo may offer literary visitors a similar sense of disappointment, especially those seeking the Edo-flavored experience of works by authors like Ichiyō and Kafū. The radical alteration and willing destruction of Edo had already started with the Meiji government’s call to transform the country and its new capital in the name of modernization. The degree of changes in Meiji was on par with Haussmann’s reorganization of Paris in the mid- to late nineteenth century, and perhaps more radical in the sense that the reorganization came in unorganized waves. Following the destruction caused by the Ansei Earthquake of 1855, the new Meiji government made seemingly deliberate attempts to erase the prominent vestiges of the past in Tokyo.32 Within the first four years of the Meiji period, the anti-Buddhism movement (haibutsu kishaku) destroyed the various temple gardens that had long offered Edoites respite from the bustle of the city.33 In later years, the government only realized 20 percent of its plans for new public parks, and ended up concentrating most of its efforts on the Hibiya Park, while otherwise turning a blind eye to the rapid destruction and disappearance of old areas of greenery.34 The landscape of Edo as a garden city was thus lost. Where there used to be green grass now stood new buildings, but they did not stand tall for long. After the Meiji craze to modernize, the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923, and the air raids of the Second World War, the physical transformation of Tokyo accelerated. Precious cultural sites were lost during these catastrophic events, including some of the most famous sites of prewar Japan that had prominently been featured in various literary works: for instance, landmark buildings such as the Rokumeikan in Hibiya (built in 1883) and the Ryōunkaku in Asakusa (also known as Asakusa jūnikai, built in 1890) did not survive into the postwar era. Immortalized in such works as Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s “Butōkai” (The Ball, 1920) and “posthumously” by Mishima Yukio’s play of the same name (1956), the Rokumeikan was in use in various capacities even after it ceased to function as a dance hall, but it was dismantled in 1940. Today, only a plaque between the Imperial Hotel and the NBF Hibiya building reminds passersby that the famous structure had stood at the site. The Ryōunkaku was completed in 1890 with the first-ever elevator in Japan that took visitors up to the eighth floor. However, the tower sustained extensive damage in the Great Kantō Earthquake and it had to be demolished soon afterwards for safety reasons.35 Today, there is nothing that commemorates the existence of the original tower at the site.36 The only famous prewar landmark buildings that still stand in their original forms today are the Wakō Building in the Ginza and Meiji Seimei kan in Marunouchi, both of which are post–Great Kantō Earthquake constructions (built in 1932 and 1934, respectively).

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Some sites that are more immediately related to modern Japanese literature also suffered destruction during the last days of the Second World War, especially in the Tokyo air raids of March 10, 1945. Perhaps the most famous of all these lost sites is the Henkikan, Nagai Kafū’s home for 25 years, constructed in 1920. Now only a simple monument stands at the site in present-day Roppongi itchōme.37 The neighborhood of Tamanoi, where Kafū reminisced the bygone days of Yoshiwara and Edo and used as the stage for Bokutō kidan (A Strange Tale from East of the River, 1937), was completely destroyed on the same day. Also going up in flames was the Kikufuji Hotel in Hongō (built in 1897), the go-to self-sequestration site for many authors with tight deadlines in the prewar period, whose guests included Uno Kōji (1891–1961), Uno Chiyo (1897–1996), Ishikawa Jun (1899–1987), and Sakaguchi Ango (1906–55). Even before the air raids, the hotel had been shut down and repurposed as a dormitory for a munitions company.38 The complete erasure of the Kikufuji is an especially sentimental one for literary strollers who often cherish the “holiness” of the actual site of literary production.39 Sasaki Hiroyuki remarks: “Visiting the site where a historic building flourished in its heyday but now no longer exists, it is sometimes impossible to believe that such a structure had ever been there. The Kikufuji Hotel in Hongō is a good example.”40 The neighborhood has changed so much since the hotel’s heyday that he is in disbelief that he is at such an important literary site, with only the modest monument as a reminder: “Peeking cautiously to your left, you wonder if the building could have stood in such a place—then a stone monument reading ‘Site of the Kikufuji Hotel’ jumps out at you.”41 The end of the Second World War and the subsequent era of recovery also brought about another wave of change to the capital, and further literary landmarks were lost in the process. The five-story pagoda in Yanaka, immortalized in Kōda Rohan’s Gojūnotō still stood when Noda Utarō walked from Ueno to Yanaka to look for the real pagoda in the early postwar period. Noda notes his enchantment as he thought of Rohan’s text at the dilapidated site, which later burned down in an incident involving a double suicide in 1957.42 The Nakasu district, built on a small artificial sandbar in the Sumida River that inspired Satō Haruo in Utsukushiki machi (Beautiful Town, 1920) as a fantastic “in-between” site for a modern utopia, and which Noda visited to mourn the loss of the Otokobashi bridge during the war, became completely unrecognizable thanks to landfill projects in the early 1970s.43 In the midst of such changing landscapes, the preservation of literary sites on private property is even trickier, as buildings tend to simply become too old and need to be taken down in lieu of extensive and expensive repairs. The

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Ichinomiyakan, an inn located in the seaside community of Ichinomiya in Chiba Prefecture, was famous for its “Akutagawa cottage” in which the author Akutagawa Ryūnosuke stayed in 1916 and penned an ardent love letter to his would-be wife Tsukamoto Fumi (1900–68). According to a guidebook featuring the favorite inns of famous literary figures, the Ichinomiyakan allowed guests to stay in the actual cottage as recently as 1999 (around the time of the guidebook’s publication).44 However, since then the cottage has become unavailable for actual stays presumably because of its declining condition and is now only available for viewing. In other cases, it just as often happens that the institutions that own the physical structures in question simply go out of business. While literary preservationists are not oblivious to the passage of time and the difficulty of keeping the past alive in the present, often they are unable to overcome the demands of everyday life. Already in Meiji, when Ozaki Kōyō prematurely passed away, there was a desire to preserve Tochimadō, his residence in which he penned his key works and taught his illustrious students, as the most important and precious historical site for Kōyō’s devotees. However, the sheer difficulty of upkeep for such a facility made the idea impossible.45 An example of a circuitous preservation effort is Natsume Sōseki’s residence Sōseki sanbō near Waseda. There the author penned his finest works and the famous Mokuyōkai (Circle of Thursday) gathering of disciples used to meet. When Sōseki passed away in 1916, his former disciples attempted to preserve it as a future memorial museum of sorts but were deterred by the more immediate everyday business of the writer’s remaining family, who needed to continue to live in the house, and certainly the experience of the Great Kantō Earthquake, which convinced Matsuoka Yuzuru (1891–1969) and others that the residence had to be moved elsewhere.46 However, before a consensus for the preservation plan could be reached, the building was destroyed during the Tokyo air raids.47 The house was recreated and opened as a museum in 2017. Even the problem of preservation aside, if one is talking about a “model” or “inspiration,” especially for a potentially less-than-flattering theme or character, the caretakers of the site in question have every reason to disassociate themselves from the undesirable attention. A prime example is the heroine O-Tama in Mori Ōgai’s Gan and her supposed residence. On the Muenzaka slope in the HongōNezu area, where the novel is set, residents of a particular house reported that they used to constantly be pestered by tourists and tour guides who mistakenly considered their home to be “O-Tama’s house.” When the time came to remodel their home, the residents changed it in such a way that it no longer resembled the

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structure described in the story. When the writer Mori Mayumi called on them, they confided in her how they felt: People say what a shame it was to tear down such a charming house, but back then our family felt like a bunch of pandas. On weekends and holidays, groups of literary tourists would come around, with people explaining that “this is poor O-Tama’s house”; there were even people who would peer inside, wondering if O-Tama’s descendants lived there. Of course they didn’t! Our ancestors weren’t concubines! So when we rebuilt our house, we made it as nondescript as possible.48

By remodeling the house in an inconspicuous style, the residents insist on the fictionality of Ōgai’s story, rather than the reality of it, to undo the involuntary “preservation” of O-Tama’s home and living quarters. Today, the Mori Ōgai Memorial Museum stands at the original site of Ōgai’s old home; however, the O-Tama house—supposedly in the same neighborhood—has disappeared into the inaccessible past. For such reasons, the odds are stacked against twenty-first-century hodoku readers who want to hunt for the traces of modern Japanese literature. Contemporary Tokyo does not allow simple and perhaps naïve equations of past and present, because very often the original structures and old cityscapes are no longer visible and must be imagined by the individual. Even the experienced hodoku reader Kawamoto Saburō admits in the aforementioned quote that the landscape and scenes he seeks are gone, with only faint memories of them lingering.

Literary museums to the rescue In the face of such historical and cultural erosion, literary museums become an important cultural bulwark along with the aforementioned literary guidebooks. A literary museum is typically a region-based institution that celebrates the achievements of an author or authors who have ties to the locality, and works as both a museum and an archive. In Japan, they started to appear in the early postwar period; the Tōson Memorial Museum (Tōson kinenkan) in Gifu opened in 1952 to commemorate the life and achievements of Shimazaki Tōson and is perhaps the earliest example.49 The Museum of Modern Japanese Literature (Nihon kindai bungakukan; henceforth abbreviated MMJL), the most important and comprehensive facility to date, was established in 1963 in Tokyo next to the former residence of the Second World War general Maeda Toshinari (1885– 1942) in Komaba kōen, just off the University of Tokyo’s Komaba campus.

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The founders of the MMJL were motivated to preserve the precious documents and other materials crucial to research into modern Japanese literature: In the course of its development, modern Japanese literature has overcome many hardships, from the Meiji period, when ancient traditions clashed with new ideas from abroad, through the Great Kantō Earthquake, the devastation of war, and the suppression of speech. Amidst the radical changes in Japanese society following defeat in the war and rapid economic growth in later decades, precious sources documenting this history were in danger of disappearing. Fearing this loss, concerned scholars and researchers such as Takami Jun and Odagiri Susumu called for a facility to collect and store literary resources. To this end, an exploratory committee was established in May 1962, and the following April the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature opened its doors.50

The museum was thus established to combat the cultural and historical “loss” of the past.51 Today, not only the MMJL but most literary museums are equipped with libraries that are open to the public, and their collections often include rare visual materials of authors and/or interviews with people who knew the authors firsthand. After the establishment of the MMJL, numerous literary museums were established throughout Japan as if to reflect the desire to preserve the fading past as well as give a boost to local tourism. Contemporary to this movement was the start of the national “Discover Japan” (Disukabā Japan) advertising campaign in 1970. A joint effort of the Japanese National Railways (Kokutetsu; privatized in 1987 as the Japan Railways Group) and the PR/advertising firm Dentsū, the ad campaign promoted domestic travel to sites of traditional Japan as a search for one’s true self. The Dentsū executive Fujioka Wakao (1927–2015), one of the most important key players of this campaign, argued in his legendary pitch to the railway executives: Until now, leisure travel has tended to be “postcard-type” destination marketing, which ends up as plain sightseeing, an experience on the same dimension as television programming. The joy of travel must be created by the traveler; one must discover Japan oneself, and, in the process, rediscover oneself. This is what we meant when we named this campaign “Discover Japan.”52

In the phrase “the joy of travel must be created by the traveler,” we can detect the notion of “contents tourism” that is practiced by hodoku readers today. The campaign also alluded to the particular importance of literature within culture: the campaign’s sub-slogan was “Beautiful Japan and I” (utsukushii Nihon to watashi), seemingly a twist on the phrase “Beautiful Japan’s I” (utsukushii Nihon

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no watashi) coined by Kawabata Yasunari in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968.53 Like the literary guidebooks that have steered hodoku readers to the physical sites tied to authors and their works, the “Discover Japan” campaign promoted train travel as an on-the-ground means of self-discovery through exploration of cultural heritage—and literary museums were to play an integral role in this process.

Literary museums as underutilized cultural institutions Spurred in part by the “Discover Japan” campaign, the market for domestic travel grew and the interest in cultural heritage expanded in the 1980s. Alongside these developments, the number of literary museums also surged, leading to the publication of guidebooks devoted exclusively to these kinds of institutions. Nearly thirty years after the establishment of the MMJL, Kihara Naohiko, executive director of the Hokkaidō Museum of Literature, declared in 1990 that the importance of the literary museum as a cultural institution has become widely recognized: “Following in the footsteps of art museums and other institutions, literary museums have earned civic stature and are gaining recognition as valuable repositories of cultural heritage.”54 Over the last three decades, numerous guidebooks—including Fumikura: Nihon no bunko annai (Storehouses of Letters: A Guide to Japan’s Literary Archives, 1979); Zenkoku “bunko/kinenkan” gaido (A Guide to Archives and Literary Museums throughout Japan, 1986); Bungakukan tansaku (Exploring Literary Museums, 1997); Nihon no bungakukan hyakugojussen (A Selection of 150 Literary Museums in Japan, 1999); and Sakka no fūkei: bungakukan o meguru (A Landscape of Authors: Touring Literary Museums, 2009)—have been published to help readers navigate the 759 literary museums throughout Japan.55 However, literary museums remain problematic and, more importantly, underutilized cultural institutions for several reasons. First, they are problematic precisely because they are underutilized. They hardly ever—more often never— make money, and the sheer cost of operating them represents a substantial financial burden to local governments (jichitai) and nonprofit foundations. Former chair of the board of trustees of the MMJL and perhaps the biggest supporter as well as the most vocal critic of literary museums, Nakamura Minoru (1927–; chair 1998–2011) laments that even literary museums commemorating the achievements of such literary titans as Tanizaki Jun’ichirō run in the red.56 The high cost of maintenance also makes the acquisition of

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new materials almost impossible, even if they are donated. Sakakibara Hiroshi, an author of one of the aforementioned literary museum guidebooks, reports the surprisingly high cost involved in maintaining a bunko, an archive of rare books and/or manuscripts usually born out of a donated collection. While its initial expense may be low, the subsequent cost to categorize, catalogue, and maintain the collection can demand a huge budget in the long run.57 Because of the financial limitations, donated materials are now often turned down, thus hindering the future expansion of the museum’s archive.58 Another challenge faced by literary museums is how to address the needs and expectations of their different audiences. Aside from hodoku practitioners who actively seek out literary museums as destinations in their own right, most visitors to such facilities are simply travelers staying in the area who are not particularly familiar with the authors or their works—and thus they need to be introduced to the topic within the limited space and time of their visit. In discussing world heritage tourism, the cultural journalist Sataki Yoshihiro describes two kinds of sites: those “whose impressiveness can be sensed on the spot even without prior knowledge” and others “whose value cannot be understood without grasp of their background.”59 Nakamura is well aware that the collections housed in literary museums belong to the latter category. On the point of naïve visitors, he cites an episode from his visit to the Tayama Katai Literature Museum (Tayama Katai kinenkan) in Tatebayashi, Gunma. While viewing the section on Katai’s Inaka kyōshi (Country Teacher, 1909), Nakamura overhears a couple behind him say to each other: “Even though he was a ‘country teacher,’ in real life he was an impressive person.” “That’s what they say, he was even mentioned in textbooks.”60

The exchange made Nakamura sneer behind them, but it also made him think about what single-author literary museums can do for their audiences and for the legacy of their authors. In the case of the Tayama Katai Literature Museum, Nakamura suspects that half the visitors come to the facility before or after they visit the main tourist attraction in the area (the nearby Tsutsujigaoka park, famous for beautiful autumn foliage). Looking at Katai’s apology letter to his student Okada Michiyo (1885–1968)—the model of Yoshiko in his famous work Futon (The Quilt, 1907)—for his scathing description of her and her lover in story, Nakamura wonders: “In an art museum, it is possible to enjoy and appreciate a work on its own terms. However, if you have not read Futon, you will not be interested to know why [Tayama] Katai had to write a letter of apology or what kind of apology it was.”61

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Such a dilemma is related to the most significant problem encountered by all literary museums: that despite the richness of their collections, it remains unclear how exactly they further visitors’ understanding of literature. It has been pointed out that in Japan not only literary museums but museums in general are established with passionate but ambiguous goals, and their existence has even been criticized as almost purposeless.62 The same criticism could also apply to literary museums. Originally, one of the important supposed functions of literary museums was archival; as mentioned in the mission statement of the MMJL, precious sources on modern Japanese literature were being lost or even destroyed prior to its establishment, so there was a sense of urgency in creating a specialized archive to preserve peripheral material like authors’ notes, correspondence, drafts, as well as authentic manuscripts. However, what the literary museum would do with the collection once it is established—how to make the collection available and properly maintained while also aiding their users disseminate and advance knowledge about it—was left undecided. Such a lack of guidance is reflected in the way literary museums display their collections of such items as handwritten manuscripts and letters as well as the personal belongings left behind by the enshrined literary figures. Visiting the Kanagawa Museum of Modern Literature, Nakamura harshly criticizes the vagueness of its purpose and the ambiguity of its role in furthering the understanding of literature: “Mishima Yukio’s creative notebook drew my eye, but just seeing [Higuchi] Ichiyō’s notebook, her handwritten manuscripts, her first editions behind the glass did not lead to a deeper ‘understanding’ of her works.”63 This is not a problem unique to the Kanagawa Museum of Modern Literature; indeed, Nakamura is equally bothered by the poor method of display of the aforementioned apology letter at the Tayama Katai Literature Museum. As the letter is encased in a glass case without any aid for the visitors to read the small characters, he worries that the significance of this letter is lost on patrons who are not necessarily familiar with the author and his works, and points out: “even the most engaged visitor will not respond if the letters inside the glass case cannot be read.”64 The lack of explicit mission for literary museums as well as the underutilization of their collections are also reflected in guidebooks. Despite the abundance of titles in this genre, they do not contain any clear statement about what it means to visit literary museums and what benefit visitors can expect from them. An early title published in 1979 includes just a very basic message from its editorial team: that they wish the book will be used “widely as a guide for researchers and students.”65 The editor of another guidebook published in 1986 explains the aim

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of the book: “This work was compiled with the goal of gathering as thoroughly as possible the literary archives and museums scattered across Japan, in order to serve as an accurate and complete guide for interested readers.”66 Later titles are also scarcely more than catalogues: one published in 1999 simply lists entries for literary museums without any preface or afterword to explain the rationale behind its compilation;67 another published in 2009 consists of an extended photo-essay that gathers beautiful images from literary sites across Japan but otherwise has no explicit statement of purpose.68 The “displays” of literary museums in these guidebooks leave much to the imagination of the traveling readers, as they must decide how to understand the collections they encounter and what their trips mean to them.

Rethinking the literary museum experience The original purpose and future potential of the literary museum has been hampered by the shortage of context provided to visitors who may not know very much about the collections on display. In discussions on the methods and purpose of exhibition (tenji) in Japanese museums, critics point out that museum curators have been pursuing objectivity as the most valued principle for display perhaps too literally, while failing to acknowledge that a completely impartial display—devoid of subjectivity, ideology, and the curator’s personal taste—is, of course, an illusion. Sasaki Hidehiko argues that in the pursuit of “an objective display that is not based on a particular interpretation,” the inevitable subjectivity of the museum has been forgotten or neglected.69 Such an implicit belief in objectivity can explain the minimal annotations literary museums provide for their displayed items that frustrated Nakamura in the previous section. However, such excessive pursuit of objectivity at the expense of the display being unexcitingly “impersonal” clearly goes against the grain of why literary museums—especially the explicitly biographical museums (jinbutsu kinenkan)—were created in the first place. The main purpose to establish literary museums may originally have been archival, but behind it certainly existed the desire to celebrate—and perhaps worship—literature and its authors. The establishment of the very first literary museum in Japan, the prototype of what is now the Tōson Memorial Museum in Gifu, was biographical, and predates the MMJL. Its establishment was “a labor of love by local residents who wanted to commemorate the literary achievements of a native son.”70 The desire of the local population to recognize the achievements of Tōson suggests

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that the urge to deify a mortal—even a scandalous one who infamously had an affair with his biological niece—persisted into the postwar era.71 Cultural anthropologist and folklorist Komatsu Kazuhiko explains the postwar practice of deification of a mortal individual by the latent desire to remember the past: When the modern imperial state was dismantled after the war, its supporting ideology of State Shinto was also taken apart. Since then, the veneration of modern “human gods”—which had been encouraged by the state, by local authorities, or by similar civilian organizations—has largely faded. However, this tradition of deification did not necessarily disappear. Such thoughts and actions were born of the urge to remember things beyond the limits of time.72

Komatsu then goes on to suggest that this wish to remember certain individuals bear fruits most often as the establishment of the personal memorial museum, or biographical museum.73 In this context, the proliferation of literary museums in postwar Japan can be understood as an implicit expression of the desire to remember and worship certain individuals and their achievements even when nothing calls for such action. Literary museums as cultural institutions worship the literary elite while being well aware of their shortcomings, as the founders of the Tōson Memorial Museum wished to commemorate and remember their favorite author. This urge to “remember the past against the erosion of time” echoes the sentiment of the founders of the first generation of literary museums as well as those hodoku readers who seek to experience literary sites despite the loss of their authentic past. Understanding the meaning of this desire, Kawamoto Saburō urges hodoku practitioners to look beyond the obvious pitfalls of author worship; for instance, he appeals to readers to condone the possible sins of Noda Utarō in his overly worshipful essays from his literary strolls in the 1950s: “When read now they might reek of author worship or belletrism. They might also indulge in sentimentality, that the past was better. But back then the works of Sōseki, Ōgai, Kafū, and Kyōka were in danger of being forgotten as ‘old’ literature. That is why we should not deny the feelings of literary ambulists who fret about whether ‘literary relics’ still exist.”74 Hodoku adepts who “fret about whether ‘literary relics’ still exist” are indeed able to embody the worth of literature in their bodily practice of worship. When such literary pilgrims yearn to prolong their enjoyment of literature by learning the biographies of their favorite authors, consulting their manuscripts, as well as placing themselves in their native surroundings, they are indeed on a “religious” journey. Perhaps hodoku practitioners already enjoy visiting various literary museums related to their favorite authors because they do abundant research on their own before they venture out into the physical world. However, their experience could

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certainly be enriched further by the acknowledgment of the subjective nature of display. Just as Kawamoto defends Noda’s “bias,” Sasaki Hidehiko argues that museums can—and should—be more daring and forthcoming with articulating the “choices” they make, rather than efface the selectivity of their endeavor: It is not necessarily “truth” that is on display. Exhibition is a process by which certain things are selected and inserted into a story. It is not possible to choose or arrange anything without a particular point of view. It would be fair to call this an act of creation built upon a scholarly foundation, expressing not “truth” but “interpretation” on the part of the museum.75

When a museum can realize this, “when the beads of ‘fairness’ and ‘propriety’ are sewn together with the sparkling thread of ‘yearning’ spun by human hands,” according to museum critic Tsukada Miki, this is when the magic of the museum can conceivably happen.76 This scenario for successful museum display and audience reception is also relevant to literary museums. Seeing literary museums throughout Japan struggle with various issues, Nakamura wonders: “Is it possible to create an exhibition that makes visitors’ hearts race, like they are participating in a festival?”77 What Nakamura expresses as “racing hearts” (tokimeki) and “festival” (shukusai) echo what Tsukada describes as “yearning” (akogare), and they both point to the need to inspire the audience to get excited—even intoxicated—enough to develop a strong desire to visit the archive of the past and make the escapade memorable. While in serious literary criticism, excessive “author worship” can certainly only be a hindrance to the critical assessment of literature, in terms of the popularization and even survival of literature, the enshrinement of authors and their works can be effective in order to ensure its continued and/or renewed presence as something special in the popular knowledge and imagination. The historian Morimoto Kazuo describes the nature of this magic that properly displayed great works of art can generate as follows: Visiting old temples in Nara and Kyoto, you often see in their dimly lit chambers beautiful Buddhist statues on display and images adorning the walls. When you find next to such statues and paintings labels telling you that they are “national treasures” or “important art objects,” you feel that you are viewing something wonderful, something culturally and artistically divine. These are “holy” objects that you cannot encounter in daily life, and the space they occupy appears like a world removed from the everyday. You might almost feel the air of time long past wafting against your skin. Just hearing the words “national treasure” or “important art object” can make you feel solemn, like you must approach the work with a sense of awe.78

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Literary museums need to exploit this “sense of awe” that can be derived from a direct encounter with a material object. Once all parties surrounding literary museums—those who operate them and those who visit them—acknowledge that literary museums are sites of worship as well as archives of the past, the objects encased in their display cases can assume and exert their “exhibition value” without sacrificing their “cult value.”79 As in the example above with national treasures and important cultural properties, seeing the guarantees of quality, no matter how arbitrarily placed in reality, can inspire awe in the minds of the observers. Concrete objects may seem just what they are, but once their significance is explained they can exert tremendous magic and generate an incredible sense of appreciation in the minds of the observers, especially if they are familiar with their backstory—be it a handwritten manuscript, a pen, or a piece of clothing. German physicist Werner Heisenberg (1901–76) discusses the magic of such evocative power even on the scientific of all minds with the example of Hamlet and the Kronborg Castle: Kronborg Castle, or rather the spot on which it stands, is connected with the legend of Hamlet, the Danish Prince who went mad or shammed madness to escape the machinations of his murderous uncle. [Niels] Bohr mentioned the legend and went on to say: “Isn’t it strange how this castle changes as soon as one imagines that Hamlet lived here? As scientists we believe that a castle consists only of stones, and admire the way the architect put them together. The stones, the green roof with its patina, the wood carvings in the church, constitute the whole castle. None of this should be changed by the fact that Hamlet lived here, and yet it is changed completely. Suddenly the walls and the ramparts speak a quite different language. The courtyard becomes an entire world, a dark corner reminds us of the darkness in the human soul, we hear Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be.’”80

Literary museums can play this role of guide that can provide historical context and add value to their experience. Though literary museums may not have been doing enough detailed guiding, many of them already display the personal possessions of their authors as if they are precious relics. The Tanizaki Jun’ichirō Memorial Museum of Literature (Tanizaki Jun’ichirō kinenkan) in Ashiya boasts Tanizaki’s overcoat, the Mori Ōgai Memorial Museum presents Ōgai’s personal stationery, and the Tayama Katai Literature Museum shows Katai’s diploma from his elementary school in Tatebayashi. While these objects do not mean much by themselves, when one is a believer—like hodoku practitioners—they take on tremendous significance and come close to becoming an otherworldly experience. Nakamura may have decried the ignorance of the visitors at the

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Katai museum, but he points out that conversely some knowledge of the author can generate tremendous enjoyment during the visit: “Terada Torahiko’s [1878–1935] possessions, like his favorite phonograph or violin, are not means for understanding his literature. But for someone who is intimately familiar with his writing, such things can be unending sources of fascination.”81

Author worship and literary necromancy By better promoting their existent collections, literary museums can spearhead the movement to encourage a new appreciation for authors and their literature. In order to preserve in the popular consciousness the “holy” aura not only of literary artifacts but also of literature itself, a certain degree of encouragement for the deification of the mortal author and the affirmation of bodily experience may be useful—or even necessary—because otherwise there can be little incentive to protect or restore the past in the fast-paced, money-driven modern world. One of the literary relics that hodoku readers commonly covet is the site of production itself—most often the author’s study (shosai) where the magic of literary creation took place. The appeal of the study as a “holy site” is widespread. Ann Rigney comments on the case of Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832) and his home in the Scottish Borders: Abbotsford is, in the first instance, the place one visits in order to see the exact spot where the famous Waverley novels were written: the book-lined study is maintained as a shrine to the site “where it all happened” (present-day postcards are available of “The Study”) with pride of place given to the chair upon which Scott sat when working at his desk (this chair is a recurrent topic in the representations of Abbotsford arguably because the place where Scott placed his buttocks is the closest one can get to the physical presence of the man himself in the act of writing).82

The place is not only the “historical backdrop to Scott’s novelistic production” but also an “empty vessel that [Scott] filled with his presence.”83 In other words, visitors go to Abbotsford to feel the author and imagine how he may have lived there. This is common among not only hodoku readers for their hero-authors, but also among authors toward their fellow writers. When Morita Sōhei once coincidentally rented a room where Ichiyō used to lodge, he could not but interpret it as a divine promise of his own genius.84 Nakamura reports having

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felt an upsurge of emotions when he visited the old cottage in Karuizawa where Nogami Yaeko used to live and write. He is almost delusional at the site, but his sensations are real: “In this humble shed that seemed barely able to keep out the wind and rain, she took up her pen and prepared tea, even well into her 80s and 90s—as I imagined this, I felt a sense of sober appreciation.”85 The shosai of many Japanese authors, however, have not had the advantage of preservation. While Scott’s study at Abbotsford had the fortune of being left as it was when the great author lived there, Ichiyō’s room—and many other shosai—simply did not survive the passage of time and historical erosion. Now Ichiyō’s room is completely gone and only her writing desk remains: the original is “enshrined” in the MMJL while a replica is hard at work at the Ichiyō Memorial Museum. Though the scarcity of Ichiyō’s relics may be explained by the impoverished state in which her short life ended, to expect the total preservation of an established writer’s shosai can be a tall order: at the Tanizaki Jun’ichirō Memorial Museum of Literature, the only authentic possession in the recreation of his study is his former desk.86 To tackle the problem of inauthenticity, or the impossibility of pursuing full authenticity, David Parker, the former head of the aforementioned Charles Dickens Museum in London, proposes: It’s best, doubtless, to have an intact authentic complete environment inherited directly after the writer’s death, but you rarely get that. When you haven’t got it, what you do is whatever will best evoke him and his works without diminishing the value and authenticity of the genuine objects you have. If that involves the use of modern replicas, so be it. If that involves intelligent guesswork about the author and his environment, so be it. Call in the experts, certainly. Get things right as you can. Don’t make concessions to vulgar sentiment. But remember: we are not simply in the business of preserving artifacts; we are in the business of calling up ghosts.87

If the literary “ghost” does not appear naturally, those who for one reason or another ended up in the position of guardians of the past must take on the task of calling up ghosts in order to achieve the full potential of the commemorative site. In many ways, literary museums as cultural shrines and the people who work to maintain them already help visitors have an unforgettable—sometimes supernatural—experience. It is not an exaggeration to use the language of religion to describe the way in which museum staff go about their business: many guidebooks to such literary museums remark upon the reverence with which they treat the relics and legacies of their authors. When literary critic Shigesato Tetsuya acknowledges his indebtedness to the staff members of the various

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literary museums he visited, he remarks upon their dedication to their authors and their achievements: “I received gracious assistance from the curatorial staff at each museum. They gave heartfelt commentary on the author’s life and the exhibits, and I heard many words of praise brimming with esteem toward the literary figures enshrined. I was able to feel that, here, literature was still very much alive.”88 The employees of the literary museums, with their dedication to the institution in which they work, stand in as priests and priestesses of the literary “gods” they revere. And perhaps the best caretakers of a literary legacy really can conjure up ghosts. One such literary necromancer who best practiced in postwar Japan what David Parker proposes in the quotation above may be Nagai Hisamitsu (1932–2012), adopted son of Nagai Kafū and his designated heir who kept the author’s last residence in Ichikawa, Chiba “alive” until his own death in 2012. After Kafū’s Henkikan home burned down in 1945, his postwar residence in Ichikawa was the next best “shrine” to commemorate the achievements of the eclectic author. Though the inhabitants of the supposed O-Tama house disliked the unsolicited attention that came with literary notoriety, Nagai Hisamitsu— originally an unwilling heir to his legacy—rose to the occasion and took the utmost care in preserving his adoptive father’s heritage. Nagai lived in Kafū’s old house in Ichikawa since the day the author passed away on April 30, 1959 until his own death in 2012, and made every effort to celebrate the late author. During these fifty plus years, Nagai renovated the house out of everyday necessity, but he did so to accommodate his family as their numbers grew. He built a second floor for some parts of the otherwise one-story house, and added a room for his family members to rest and another room to store Kafū’s former belongings and manuscripts. In the entire process, the preservation of Kafū’s former living quarters was given the utmost priority. Nagai’s principle echoes the priestess-like employees of literary museums when he says: “Indeed, we made a point of preserving as many traces of Kafū himself as possible.”89 As Nagai guarded the legacy of his father, he willingly complied with the desires of Kafū fans for material traces of the late author, even though they were basically strangers who visited his home without notice: “We get many Kafū fans at the house. They ask for various things: to have a peek at the yard, to walk where Kafū walked, to let them touch his books.”90 These reported requests of Kafū’s hodoku fans attest to their desire to physically experience traces of the admired author. Nagai performed the task of a faithful guardian of literary relics and legacy in more ways than one. Until the end of his life, Nagai kept more than 3,000 items of Kafū’s former possessions, including his desk, brushes

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(fude), inkstones, hibachi, umbrella, sewing kit, ties, as well as manuscripts and drawings.91 Caretakers of these items like Nagai are charged with no easy task, as the personal items of famous authors are often stolen or simply misplaced in the confusion of their deaths, including Kafū’s signature beret.92 After that experience, Nagai and his wife treated his father’s relics as family treasures. So when Iwanami shoten was editing its Kafū zenshū (1962–74) and making the printed text directly off of Nagai’s legendary diaries, his surviving family members carried the relevant manuscripts to the Iwanami offices each day and stayed while the pages were photographed—they would not leave any materials behind with the publisher. Because the manuscripts for Kafu’s diaries have been treated with such care, even researchers who in principle are accustomed to handling rare materials can experience overwhelming emotions when coming into contact with the originals. Editor and writer Matsumoto Hajime is thrilled when he comes across the actual handwritten manuscript of Danchōtei nichijō: Being able to touch the pages with my own hands was a happy thing, but by no means did I feel able to read them in a normal way. The pages represent Kafū himself, and to people who worship the author with their entire being, these volumes can only be touched with trembling hands. We cannot insert sticky notes or scribble in them. They are “artworks” in their own right upon which we are only permitted to gaze.93

Kawamoto Saburō discusses his own excitement of seeing the same manuscript in quite a similar way: “I cannot forget my sense of exhilaration when I was shown the original manuscript of Danchōtei nichijō, with the title beautifully written in ink calligraphy on the hardbound case.”94 A carefully encased manuscript evokes the image of the “collector” immortalized by Walter Benjamin’s description: “One has only to watch a collector handle the objects in his glass case. As he holds them in his hands, he seems to be seeing through them into their distant past as though inspired.”95 David Parker states: “Most museums invite the visitor to focus his attention above all on the physical objects on display. Biographical museums require the visitor to see through the physical objects to the man beyond, and in the case of the latter, to the imagined worlds he created.”96 When the manuscript box opens, Kafū comes back—and such a supernatural experience is made possible only thanks to the dedication of literary caretakers like Nagai Hisamitsu. While Matsumoto Hajime and Kawamoto Saburō may have had access to such rare materials because of their status as leading scholars of Kafū, literary museums allow any lay visitor to behold a literary relic like a manuscript and/or an author’s

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favorite writing implement—and sometimes more. A prominent example is the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House (Dazai Osamu sokai no ie), a museum commemorating the life and works of the novelist Dazai Osamu (1909–48). The museum opened in 2007 and is located in Kanagi, Aomori, in the house where Dazai stayed during the Second World War. (The house was originally built as a detached home for Dazai’s older brother Tsushima Bunji and his wife; the former main residence of the Tsushima family now operates as the separate Dazai museum called Shayōkan, named after Dazai’s work Shayō [The Setting Sun, 1947].) All visitors to the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House are treated to an awe-inspiring experience through the evocative power of Shirakawa Hiroshi (1967–), owner and guide of the museum. Shirakawa entered the local tourism and literary museum industries very differently from others. While he had the good fortune of having been born in the family that owned the house since 1975, he only read a few works by the author before he started the museum.97 Today, visitors receive hands-on and up-close personal tours. Whereas many literary museums and historic houses now typically limit the visitors’ ability to enjoy the experience through their bodily senses—for example, they often limit access by not letting the visitors enter the space or touch the relics but only allowing them to see them—Shirakawa lets the guests sit on a threadbare window-side bench that is still upholstered in the original fabric. The bench shows the ageappropriate wear and tear, but Shirakawa continues to allow visitors to sit on it, as he is more interested in giving his guests the authentic feel of the past. Shirakawa’s personal tour helps to introduce the visitors to the different sides of Dazai’s life and literature. He actively refers to the stories of his homecoming, like “Kikyorai” (Going Home, 1943) and “Kokyō” (Hometown, 1943), to chisel out Dazai’s connection with the space. The climax of Shirakawa’s tour is when he shows the guests into the room where Dazai’s mother lay ill. The details of Dazai’s homecoming upon his mother’s sickness are chronicled in the short story “Kokyō,” and his tour includes emotional highlights from it. Previously disowned, Dazai was officially banned from visiting his family or natal home, but he nonetheless comes to see his mother for the first time in ten years in 1941, and again with his wife and infant daughter in 1942. Dazai did not know what to expect, but he comes, and receives an unexpectedly warm welcome. Shirakawa does not “narrate” the stories word for word per se, but describes what happens in these stories using expressions from the original text and relates them to the space during the tour. In the room adjacent to the main bedroom, where Dazai penned many works, Shirakawa invites the visitors to sit where Dazai used to sit, pose as Dazai used to pose, and take a token photo. He gives

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detailed instructions as to how he used to write (seated half-cross-legged, with his right elbow on his right knee for support). Something happens when Shirakawa recreates Dazai’s moving scene at the site where the event took place decades ago, and when his guests embody the author in the creative moment. Shirakawa is able to conjure up ghosts (Figure 5.1).

Figure 5.1 Shirakawa Hiroshi posing as Dazai Osamu at the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House. Photograph by the author. Courtesy of Shirakawa Hiroshi.

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The comment of the photographer and essayist Komatsu Ken’ichi perhaps represents the sentiments of the many visitors who are moved by the tour. After citing the scene in which the prodigal son Dazai visits his sick mother on her death bed back at home and fights back his tears in order to complete the anti-filial son image he has imposed on himself, Komatsu emotionally yearns: “There is no other scene in which Dazai talks so bluntly about his mother and his family. I wanted to see the very room in which he choked back his tears.”98 He reports “smelling” Dazai strongly in the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House: “Memories of young Shūji [Dazai’s real name] dwell in the Shayōkan, but the presence of Dazai Osamu the author can be felt most strongly in the former annex to the family home. Coming here, I felt as though I had finally met Dazai Osamu in the flesh.”99 The hospitality of literary guardians like Nagai and Shirakawa is not meaningless, since various hodoku practitioners attest that there is indeed a certain something that they could feel by placing themselves in the space relevant to the creation of their favorite stories. Kōda Rohan’s former residence Kagyūan (“snail hut”), and the house in Sendagi that Mori Ōgai and Natsume Sōseki rented both now stand in the Meiji-mura open-air museum in Inuyama, Aichi. Both displayed structures urge visitors to take photos as they “pretend to be” (narikiru) the authors themselves by sitting where they used to sit. If “acting” means “being possessed” to a certain extent, then it is not surprising that literary museums and other facilities devoted to authors are touted as “shrines.” Much as one visits a shrine to receive divine revelations, to perform sacred dances, to pray for guidance and protection, the worshipers of a particular author go to literary museums or “places where X did Y” in the hope that something will happen. It seems that one puts oneself in such a “sacred place” to see what happens, to confirm whether one is struck with the same inspiration that moved the author. Literary museums need not force their audience to accept the sacredness of authors and their literature: the current and new hodoku practitioners already sense that they are sacred, and the literary museums aid them in acting upon their intuitive belief.

The potential of literary tourism Since accessing the past is no easy task—if not impossible—in Tokyo and elsewhere in Japan, the efforts of those guardians of literary heritage like Nagai and Shirakawa are most welcome. Historic Tokyo proved elusive when

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Kawamoto Saburō chased Nagai Kafū’s shadow in the 1980s—or even when Noda Utarō took his literary strolls in the immediate postwar years. Accessing anything before the Second World War in the twenty-first century is an even taller order. Komatsu Kazuhiko readily acknowledges the difficulty of seeing “Edo” in present-day Tokyo: “One cannot look around the campus of the University of Tokyo and picture the domainal residence of the Maeda clan, nor can one stand in the Ginza and imagine the silver mint of the Edo period. Edo as a city has been destroyed and exists only in the history of a particular time, and in order to envision its landscape we must employ an overwhelming array of historical documents.”100 Undertaking hodoku and summoning ghosts require same degree of intellectual training and practice. However, hodoku readers and ghost searchers need not despair. The selfproclaimed “teratabist” (tera temple + tabi trip + ist) Yoshida Sarasa optimistically and playfully describes how she discovered the pleasure of hunting for the past in present-day Tokyo by visiting temples: The most important tip for visiting temples in Tokyo is to imagine what the things in front of you looked like in the past. Temples in Kyoto or Nara have plenty of beautiful Buddhist statues, gardens, and old buildings, but many temples in Tokyo have become concrete buildings, and it is somewhat challenging to imagine what they looked like in the Edo period. However, making this effort is an intellectual game, one that might be called an adventure transcending time and space. Once you realize this, your visit to the temples of Tokyo becomes even more interesting.101

Yoshida’s excitement in the hunt for the traces of Edo echoes Nakamura’s “racing heart” for literature and literary museums. Yoshida’s discovery suggests that the skills to travel across time are acquirable, and the key investments for the acquisition of these skills are patience, repetition, and imagination. The historian Sano Mayuko has researched the Japanese stay of the former consul-general from the United Kingdom Rutherford Alcock (1809–97; in Japan 1858–64) by tracing his footsteps of his travels across Japan. As Sano follows his route, she claims that there are areas in which reminders of the late Edo bakumatsu period are still visible and tangible on the surface (Suzuka in Mie Prefecture, for example) and other sites “for which it is impossible to envision the scenery of the time without using imagination as a tool to peel away layer upon layer of history.”102 In her attempt to retrace Alcock’s travels in Japan, she learns to navigate old roads: In tracing Alcock’s route, I became adept at digging through layers of history while keeping the present landscape in mind, and I marveled at how quickly the

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old path emerged from beneath the newer neighborhood. The old road has been preserved in places as a promenade by local authorities, but for the most part, it runs through residential areas whose inhabitants are unaware of its presence. Even so, despite there being a number of other narrow paths nearby, there always appeared a trail that made me say to myself, “Oh, this must be it.”103

Literary museums can train hodoku readers to hone the skill to see the past that is not readily visible. Once trained, hodoku practitioners can also expect the same kind of breakthrough moment and subsequent thrill at the “lostness” of the past. For instance, the aforementioned Nakasu sandbar in the Sumida River was landfilled in 1970, and there is nothing now that suggests that the area used to be an entertainment district connected to the shore by three bridges. But instead of feeling disappointed, Kawamoto expresses excitement: When I realized this, I was drawn even more to [Nagai Kafū’s] The River Sumida and the neighborhoods it depicted: places named Nihonbashi Ningyōchō, Hamachō, Kakigarachō, Hakozaki. The river that had once surrounded Nakasu [island] had become landfill, now an unremarkable area adjacent to the Tokyo City Air Terminal. The more I was confronted with this fact, the more pronounced I found the symbolism of The River Sumida and the phantasm of Taishō-era literature. As I walked through actual streets, I started to experience neighborhoods that no longer existed. I think I wanted to see through the real world a landscape that had been lost—or that never existed outside my mind in the first place.104

Chasing a landscape that never existed outside of one’s mind is no easy task, and the critical value of such an attempt may be dubious. However, it is a powerful experience. An anonymous hodoku enthusiast visits the location of Mori Ōgai’s old home and interprets its meaning: Looking at the different facets of Ōgai’s life—as a literary figure, and as a military doctor and civil servant—we see them overlap in complicated ways. Neither can be separated from the other. That might be one reason why he continued to live in Sendagi, on the boundary between the Yamanote and Shitamachi areas of Tokyo. He could function effortlessly in either world. This is why the entrance to Kanchōrō faces Yabushita-dōri.105

The veracity of such a comment is never certain, since it disregards all elements of architecture that may have been dictated by the shape of the land as well as financial considerations that Ōgai may have had in choosing the setup of his residence. However, it is a willing misreading aided by material conditions,

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from a reader who seems to have detected a certain multifacetedness in Ōgai’s works and felt that such a reading was justified by the setup of his house. In the absence of right and wrong in literary criticism—only more informed and less justifiable—on what point could one fault this reading as completely delusional and meaningless? As literary museums become more assertive in taking a particular angle and presenting themselves as more than just objective repositories of material, they can better strategize the content of their displays and articulate their own purpose. The passion for hodoku and the wealth of literary museum collections can be and should be used to promote literature in the twenty-first century. Masubuchi Toshiyuki argues that kontentsu—media contents or simply culture—has become an indispensible element in the construction of a locality’s image; therefore, we can say that the time has come to think seriously about how such content can be mobilized. Culture is an important local resource, and we understand its powerful contribution to the development of a local brand.106 As such, the literature and life of a local author could be considered valuable and leverageable assets. This does not mean to “make concessions to vulgar sentiment” or cheapen the genius of authors and the value of their literature, as David Parker once feared. Rather, the literary museum can work as a site where longtime fans and potential initiates who otherwise exist separately can congregate and affirm their affinity. Religious anthropologist Ueshima Keiji lists “immovability” among the nine essential qualities of a “holy site” (seichi).107 The quality of immovability in this case can be understood as the integrity that the relevant parties implicitly agree not to violate. The benefits of responsible commercialization have been pointed out as a positive chance to foreground latent but valuable cultural resources: Tourist development and sightseer visitation do not necessarily lead to the “loss” of traditional culture; they can also become opportunities for “rebuilding” and “creativity.” The existence of sites in which local culture can be represented to tourists provides residents the chance to reawaken to the cultural traditions that they have unconsciously passed down from generation to generation.108

This insight recalls the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House and its owner Shirakawa Hiroshi, who grew up relatively unaware of the author and his works but whose efforts have successfully raised awareness of a local cultural resource. If anything, the “vulgarization” or “popularization” of literary museums alarms critics like Nakamura because of the risk that in their rush to present their collections to the public, museum operators will turn to exhibit contractors to design the displays without consulting experts who actually know the author’s

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works.109 Through their fundamental mission of commemorating authors and collecting materials, literary museums have incredible potential in promoting not only literature but also literary criticism that can coexist harmoniously with the more “popular” mode of author worship. For instance, by focusing on the preservation of not only handwritten manuscripts and professional correspondence but also drafts, personal letters, and memos, literary museums already participate in the scholarly conversation about the genesis of texts. These materials are especially important to genetic criticism, a mode of inquiry (originating in France as critique génétique) that draws upon such “avant-textes” in analyzing and interpreting literary works. Proponents of genetic criticism Yoshikawa Kazuyoshi and Taguchi Noriko recognize the question of “the mystery of the birth of the literary text” and the “debates over ‘genius’ and ‘environment’” as the main contributing factors.110 Literary museums can offer clues to both camps. When explicitly tied with genetic criticism, an author’s handwritten manuscripts, memos, letters, as well as trivial items from daily life can give new momentum to the interpretation and appreciation of that author’s creative output. The treatment of “relics” at literary museums gives us a chance to reconsider the genesis of the text as well as the birth of a bungō—namely, how a masterpiece is born, and how a mortal author becomes an immortal object of worship through both the excellence of his genius and the endorsement of his environment. The manga critic Natsume Fusanosuke (1950–), the grandson of Natsume Sōseki, has wrestled with the difficulties of descending from the most famous author of modern Japanese literature. He compares the deification process that his grandfather underwent with that of the manga titan Tezuka Osamu, and accepts the situation because of the greater good that it generates: I do not deny the “Sōseki image” held by the public…. This is because deification creates a market. There are a lot of books about Tezuka because the market reached a certain size, and that market includes a tier of book buyers who wanted to “learn properly” [about him]. With such a market, whether built through deification or not, the potential grows for an influx of young readers who engage critically and inherit the mantle [of his works].111

The process of deification creates interest and builds value in the author and his works, and in this deification exists the opportunity for reevaluation and longevity. Contrasting the world of antiques and that of literature, Kobayashi Hideo once enigmatically said: “In fact, literature is not as highly literary as writers and scholars tend to think.”112 The contemporary writer Harada Munenori, for

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one, takes this as encouragement to enjoy even the decidedly unliterary aspects of literature.113 This is the mind-set that drives hodoku practitioners as they flip through guidebooks and wander the streets in pursuit of their literary curiosity. When such serious literary ambulists travel to Aomori Prefecture to experience the world of Dazai Osamu, they are likely to tour the Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House with Shirakawa Hiroshi and visit the Shayōkan museum; however, they will also make sure to sample the “Dazai ramen” at a nearby eatery. Despite the knowledge that the author himself never ate these noodles, these hodoku patrons savor the experience of tasting a dish containing the author’s (supposedly) favorite ingredients of young bamboo shoots and wakame seaweed. In such a way, successful literary tourists enhance their reading experience by exploring to the fullest the authentic (and not-so-authentic) dimensions of their favorite authors’ lives—not just seeing the sights and visiting the museums, but also eating the namesake noodles and buying the author-themed souvenirs. As Shigesato Tetsuya remarks: “Embracing the frivolous in this way is a testament to the power of outstanding literature.”114

Conclusion: Copyright, the Commons, and Guardians Against Gridlock

As explored in the preceding chapters, literature has been useful—and actively used—across various media and forms in modern Japan. A text can enjoy longevity, in one continuous life or multiple reincarnations, through the efforts of perhaps fortuitous but devoted guardians—inspired editors, entrepreneurial publishers, creative readers, literary tourists—who recognize its use value and keep the content alive in the public imagination. The corollary of the above is then that literature, and perhaps all forms of creative production, may be chased into oblivion in the absence of such agents who take up the challenge of perpetuating its life. However, the legal custodians who “own” the works after their authors relinquish control (either through transfer or death)—the actual copyright holders—often do not see eye to eye with these self-appointed guardians. The regulation of copyright has developed significantly during the postwar era, and now perhaps it has reached the point where it stands as a hindrance to the widest possible dissemination of a work, thereby constricting its use value and threatening its long-term survival. In his analysis of intellectual property, the scholar Yamada Shōji argues that with the advent of “neoliberalism” (shin jiyū shugi) in the realm of economics in the early twenty-first century came the attempt to “enclose” (kakoikomu) something intangible like culture.1 The “enclosed culture,” now officially deeded to supposedly lawful owners, is then considered a “cash cow” that brings endless benefits to its owner after the initial investment. In this scheme, the sharing of the cash cow becomes as counterintuitive as the sharing of tangible and intangible benefits with one’s competitors. Or, worse yet, this mode of thinking justifies the “killing” of the cash cow if the cost of maintenance exceeds earnings. Despite the centrality of copyright to modern conceptions of authorship and literary labor, this “cash cow” model curtails the use value of literature, preventing the kind of adaptation and repackaging that has allowed literary works to survive.

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In the past, publishers balanced a spirit of collaboration with an awareness of healthy competition that contributed to the overall development of literature as well as the professional wisdom that the “cow” should be kept alive even in the absence of immediate returns because of the possible future benefits. They were able to recognize the importance of leaving the “cow” alone—even if it does not immediately produce cash. There have also been creators of content who are open-minded about the independent lives of their works—excellent examples being the liberal views of Kawabata Yasunari and Yokomizo Seishi described in earlier chapters—but in most cases the derivative use of literature faces the harsh reality and byzantine processes of copyright clearance and permission. Copyright holders do not necessarily oppose the use of the work altogether, but their negotiations over royalty payments and terms of acceptable use can be dauntingly time-consuming tasks that discourage otherwise passionate disseminators of content operating in good faith.

Cows, copyright, and the common good For Japanese authors and publishers, the navigation of copyright restrictions has always been tricky, and this difficulty was especially pronounced in the context of literary translation to and from the Japanese language during the late Meiji period. The modern history of restrictive copyright started in Japan in 1899, when the country signed the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Work. Subsequently, the ten-year reservation for translation rights in the Berne Convention was affirmed in 1908. The Berne Convention mandated that materials published in member countries would be under the copyright protection for the first ten years after their creation—and enter the “public domain” only after that. A significant exception was content published in the United States, which was not a signatory to the convention, and as such American publishers were not obligated to adhere to its terms. The Copyright Convention between Japan and the United States (Nichibei chosakuken hogo jōyaku) was signed in 1905 and went into effect on May 11 of the following year. The second article explicitly guaranteed the freedom of translation for materials published in both countries: “The subjects or citizens of each of the two High Contracting Parties may without authorization translate books, pamphlets or any other writings, dramatic works, and musical compositions, published in the dominions of the other by the subjects or citizens of the latter, and print and publish such translations.”2

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Translations played a key role in the development of modern Japanese literature—for works of detective fiction (tantei shōsetsu) in particular—and the enforcement of copyright seems to have been necessarily lax in order to allow the healthy growth of the imported genre. The enormous success of the first wave of enpon soon gave rise to more specifically themed series, and detective fiction was one such niche that no less than four zenshū publishers—Kaizōsha, Hakubunkan, Shun’yōdō, and Heibonsha—decided to explore in 1929. Three of these four zenshū featured non-Japanese works. Seminal foreign stories were included in these series, such as The Moonstone (1868) by Wilkie Collins (1824–89) and various works by Emile Gaboriau (1832–73; works published 1860s–70s), and most of them had entered the public domain by then, according to the Berne Convention. The works of S. S. Van Dine, the leading author of American detective fiction, were only recently published, but the free translation of these stories would have been authorized by the above Copyright Convention between Japan and the United States. In promoting the Shinseinen ban sekai tantei shōsetsu zenshū (Shinseinen edition Complete Works of Detective Fiction), one of the four mentioned above, its de facto editor Morishita Uson (1890–1965) cites the strict copyright situation overseas and the relative ease of Japanese publishers in comparison, since no matter the original publisher the Japanese versions are “translations” that do not infringe on copyright: “In foreign countries there are publishers who mutually infringe upon publication rights, but as an actual problem this is not easily realized. However, if we spend a great deal of time and effort on this translation, which will be the only one of its kind in Japan, we will somehow be able to complete this difficult enterprise.”3 Morishita sounds confident and implies that clearance of copyright was not a big issue in translation projects, but this was not always the case. The editor Kimura Ki (1894–1979), one of the key players in the enpon boom, reports a behind-the-scenes story about a case in which the literary magazine Shinseinen published a short piece (“of three to four pages”) without permission. The copyright holder(s) came to know about it, and demanded a whopping 20,000 yen. Shinseinen reportedly was able to negotiate the fee lower.4 Perhaps to avoid such mishaps and expense, some publishers did attempt to comply with the terms of the Berne Convention. Former Hayakawa shobō editor Miyata Noboru (1928–) testifies to the conscientious effort of the Japanese publisher Kaizōsha to secure permission from a Western rightsholder for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (1927). While all Doyle’s works were published in Japan ten years after their respective original publication dates (hence after they entered the public domain), The Case-

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Book was an exception: it was originally published in London in 1927, and Kaizōsha wished to publish the Japanese translation in 1928, when it was still in copyright protection under Berne. So as to comply with the law, Kaizōsha signed a translation-publication contract with AP Watt, the agent of Adrian Conan Doyle.5 Kaizōsha presumably did so in order to include the story in its series Sekai taishū bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of World Popular Literature, 1927–31).6 Miyata suspects that the story may have slipped into some magazine serializations without explicit permission but also firmly insists: “Although there may have been some unauthorized publications in the form of magazine reproductions, for works published in a signatory nation of the Berne Convention within ten years of the original publication, it may be safe to assume that copyright was honored.”7 It is difficult to grasp a complete picture of how publishers secured permission, paid copyright fees, and negotiated royalties in prewar Japan. Some works included in Morishita’s zenshū from Hakubunkan—the works of Agatha Christie published in the United Kingdom in the 1920s—were indeed under copyright protection. It is possible that Morishita and Hakubunkan did go to the trouble of contacting the rightsholders of her works, securing permission, and paying royalty advances, and that such elaborate preparation gave him the confidence to make the above statement; however, it is equally possible that they did not bother to fully comply with the terms of the Berne Convention because doing so was difficult and impractical. Strict adherence to the Berne terms meant that something like the translation of Samuel Smiles’ Self-Help (the revised 1866 edition) by Nakamura Keiu (1832–91), which became one of the biggest bestsellers of the Meiji era after it was published in Japanese as Saigoku risshihen in 1871, would no longer be possible without obtaining copyright clearance even though the rightsholder might prevent not only speedy and/or abridged translation but also the publication of the material altogether should the royalty payment or any other element become an issue. An article in the Yomiuri shinbun from 1934 states, perhaps with some exaggeration: “In our country, 99 percent of all translations are published without regard to treaties and without the permission of the original authors.”8 But is it correct to assume that Japanese publishers engaged in book piracy simply for financial gain? This scenario also suggests that the publishers would naturally prefer to translate and publish the material whose copyright had expired because then they could skirt the issue of getting permission; but in many instances they translated some works still under copyright protection only because the expected benefit outweighed the risk. Certainly, the prospect of profit

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was always a factor in the minds of prewar Japanese publishers, as discussed in previous chapters, and they were unlikely to have undertaken a venture when they strongly suspected that it would lose money. But it would be inaccurate to think that they were purely and always profit driven. They may have indeed regularly translated and published copyrighted works without permission, but the evidence cautions against automatically considering them unscrupulous merchants, or that they were only interested in ruthless profiteering. In the case of Japanese detective fiction zenshū publishers, they likely translated and published the works they did because they thought they were important. The endeavor of detective fiction translators and publishers in the prewar Japan could be considered akin to the contemporary “fansub” culture in which global anime fans perform unpaid work in the name of disseminating their subtitled translations of anime works. Such advocates feel that great works in the favorite genre—be they Golden Age Western detective fiction or contemporary Japanese anime—are not translating and disseminating themselves, so they voluntarily take up the task of subtitling and redistributing copyrighted material, despite the risk of prosecution. As Ian Condry argues about the motivations of anime fansubbers: “to see the world of fansubs simply in terms of copyright infringement is to ignore the significance of debates within the fansub community about what should be valued in a digital era and how.”9 The prewar translators were not in the “digital era,” but in the 1920s and 1930s Japanese detective fiction authors viewed themselves as participating in an international continuum or movement in which timely intra-genre communication was crucial. The translators certainly got paid for their work, and the publishers benefitted from the sales of their products, but it is wrong to label their motivations as purely financial. The concept of “dark energy,” which Condry uses to explain what is at work behind the anime fansub endeavor, might also help to explain what drove these publishers and translators: “We might think of fandom’s dark energy as a collection of social forces that enlivens the connections between content and desire, which in turn helps drive the circulation of media products.”10 This “dark energy,” as well as their sheer enthusiasm for the works, ultimately made translators and publishers see beyond the inherent risk in what might otherwise be viewed as “pirate” translation: “Dark energy evokes the larger flowing system, not just the element that can be packaged and sold.”11 Although authors of the original works were adversely affected by the lack of royalties, they did not necessarily mind this sort of productive piracy. One rare anecdote of a Western author and a Japanese translator meeting in person sheds light on how the involved parties themselves thought about the issue. Senoo

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Akio (1892–1962), the translator of numerous works for Shiseinen and the above zenshū, reveals an account of his meeting with F. Britten Austin (1885–1941), a British author whose works he had translated—without permission. Austin’s visit to Japan on the eve of the Second World War in late 1937 allowed Senoo to discuss the matter face to face with the author. In “Ōsuchin o osou” (Raiding Austin), an essay published in Shinseinen’s spring supplement of 1938, Senoo reveals both the excitement and fear he had upon hearing of the impending visit of the author whose works he had introduced to Japanese audiences through his translations: I thought that I needed to meet him no matter what. But there was a large obstacle. Authors from Europe and the United States are extremely averse to their copyrighted works being translated. If he knew that I had translated his work without his permission, he might become furious. That said, it would also be pointless to hide this and simply meet with him as a fan.12

In the end, Senoo decided to take a chance: he wrote to the author, apologized for the pirate translations citing difficulty establishing communication with overseas authors, and requested a meeting. Austin positively replied by express mail, and the two met the day before Austin was to leave Tokyo. During the meeting, the two did discuss money matters: Austin bluntly asked Senoo how much he gets paid for translating his works. When Senoo replied frankly, Austin was surprised at how little it was. Senoo reports that Austin explicitly told him that he is willing to forfeit his share because “things seem different in Japan.”13 After that, the two discussed various publishing related tidbits—Senoo showed Austin the actual publication of his story in Japanese (“Kyoei kara no koe,” published in Dokuritsu by Hakubunkan), gave him an anthology of Katsushika Hokusai’s prints as a souvenir, and chatted about background to his debut work about a mysterious curio shop owner who plays a string-less string instrument. During the meeting, Senoo won enough confidence that Austin wrote up a simple contract for him stating that he is willing to grant him exclusive translation rights in Japan: “On the condition that I would retain full copyright, I grant you the Japanese-language rights to all of my works.”14 The two parted ways wishing for another future meeting in Paris. It is significant that Austin did not demand that Senoo “cease and desist” nor instruct him to contact his agent properly in the future. Though much less frequently, Japanese works were also translated overseas. Ranpo reveals that he was contacted by the Harbin Times in 1931 for permission to serialize his novel Majutsushi (The Magician, 1930): “Seeing that this was not

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Russia proper and I did not consider it a major newspaper, I did not request any fees in particular and freely gave my permission.”15 The work was serialized in fifty installments from May 29 of that year. The real implication of Ranpo’s seemingly generous gesture is unclear—did it help expand his readership in Manchuria? Earn him international recognition? Inspire a new crop of authors? However, one thing certain from these two examples is that Ranpo and Austin for one reason or another chose not to create what could be called “gridlock” for their works. Michael Heller in Gridlock Economy (2008) warns of the harm in insisting too much on one’s property rights in the contemporary world: “Private ownership usually creates wealth. But too much ownership has the opposite effect—it creates gridlock. Gridlock is a free market paradox. When too many people own pieces of one thing, cooperation breaks down, wealth disappears, and everybody loses.”16 Again, how Austin and Ranpo felt about their works and their system of circulation may be close to what anime fansubbers feel in the contemporary world. Condry explains that part of the fansubbers’ intention is to “make up for shortcomings in international markets for anime, particularly the slow pace at which broadcasts and DVD releases from Japan are made overseas.”17 He asserts: “Fansubbers in effect theorize an alternative approach to fair use that hinges on the recognition that the industry often fails to serve the public. Factoring in these networked fans’ desires can help us understand the mechanisms of the globalization of anime by navigating between theories of cultural resonance and economic determinism.”18 The inefficiency in distribution of the anime industry is not “gridlock” per se, but it is certainly something that prevents what fans think are great works—anime with an abundance of “use value”—from being shared with the widest possible audience in a swift and effective manner. In thinking and caring this much about the object of dissemination, fansubbers and pirate translators appear to possess the qualities that Tanji Yoshinobu ascribes to the “guardians” of art without whom the work is likely to wither away.19 It is worth noting that Sōseki’s works almost fell victim to the same kind “gridlock” that can hinder literary survival.20 After the author passed away in 1916, the copyright for his works under the law of the time was to expire thirty years later, in December 1946. However, in May 1946, it became known that in view of the pending copyright expiration, Sōseki’s surviving family members had requested to register 69 likely book titles as commercial trademarks. Of these 69 requests, 36 were approved in November of that year. In the following year, the family members again requested to register an additional 28 terms such as “Natsume Sōseki,” “Sōseki,” “Natsume Sōseki sakuhinshū” (Collection of Natsume Sōseki’s Works), and “Sōseki zenshū” (Collected Works of Sōseki).

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Their requests were motivated by the ongoing competition between Iwanami shoten and Ōgiku shoin to publish the first postwar Sōseki zenshū. Previously, Sōseki’s collected works had been published by Iwanami shoten, headed by Iwanami Shigeo, one of Sōseki’s direct students; however, over the years he and Sōseki’s surviving family members reportedly grew apart in their vision for the zenshū.21 When it came to light that the family’s requests to the Patent Office made the previous year had already been approved, the debate about Sōseki’s works pushed the interested parties to convene an impartial committee of experts to make a recommendation. In the end, the committee advised: “In the spirit of protecting cultural assets, it is undesirable for copyright to be monopolized as a commercial trademark, and as such the parties should discuss the matter to their mutual satisfaction.”22 Subsequently, in June 1948, the Patent Office decided to decline all pending and future requests for patents on terms related to the author, and dismissed an appeal for reconsideration in November 1949: “In the end, the matter was resolved with the understanding that the public interest takes precedence [over private ownership] thirty years after an author’s death.”23 Ultimately, the critical stance of Natsume Fusanosuke may be what allows the maximum dissemination of Sōseki’s name and works: “My present thinking is that Sōseki is part of the widely held culture of our society, and as such we must consider the balance between the social ownership of his legacy and the limits of individual rights.”24 He also mentions that he neither comments upon nor demands compensation for “film or stage versions and other forms of adaptation or parody of works long out of copyright, much less textual use in publications or image use in commercials” because he believes that giving such free rein allows the legacy of Sōseki, “an enormous cultural presence in this country, to continue into the future and to inspire new creativity in appreciation and criticism.”25 Such an open attitude, as well as the decision of the ad hoc committee on the patent issue in the late 1940s, allows Sōseki to be considered a model case in which his works “undergo active re-creation while keeping a happy relationship with their originals.”26 Natsume Fusanosuke reveals that he has reached this conclusion from his work in manga criticism, especially “his experience in the study of copyright matters relating to the use of manga illustrations.”27 He seems to be aware that while it may be legal to request trademark protection for certain creative elements, this protection can create gridlock that hinders the work’s maximum dissemination and ultimate survival in the long run. The psychology of fansubbers as well as Natsume Fusanosuke’s willingness to consider the “big picture” of fair use offer further insight into the inner workings of Japanese prewar publishers. There

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were certainly rivalries between publishers—as discussed earlier—and book publishing was not a nonprofit enterprise. Yet, there are instances in which publishers gave priority to something else besides their own maximum financial gain for the ultimate benefit of literature, their authors, and the common good. For example, many publishers seem to have considered the publication of an author’s personal zenshū to be a significant event in his or her career that should represent something besides profitability. When death seemed imminent for Ozaki Kōyō, his disciples formed “Tochimandō shuppanbu” (after the nickname for Kōyō’s residence), and started planning his personal zenshū to comfort their dying master while he was still alive. In the process, there were reportedly publishers who tried to make them bid to reclaim Kōyō’s copyrights knowing how essential this would be for publication of the zenshū—and these attempts definitely show the increasing maturity of the market economy in the publishing world at the time.28 But there were also those publishers who deliberately ignored the profit-versus-loss capitalist argument, including Shun’yōdō, the company that held the copyrights to most of Kōyō’s works. Kōyō’s zenshū would in the end come to be published by Tochimandō through Hakubunkan, but Shun’yōdō not only never opposed it but also willingly cooperated with Kōyō’s disciples and the rival publisher.29 Publisher and critic Yamazaki Yasuo suspects that the priority of Wada Ume, the head of Shun’yōdō at the time, was to ensure the financial stability of Kōyō’s family, or “to make something respectable so that his bereaved family might benefit as much as possible.”30 Shun’yōdō’s assistance can also be an explicit refusal to reap financial rewards from the death of an author with whom they enjoyed a fruitful collaboration in the past. The voluntary gesture on the part of publishers to supplement the payment that authors received for their work was appreciated and marked as noteworthy. When Kaizōsha struck it rich with its Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū (in which Kōyō’s volume was published first) in the late 1920s, the company paid royalties to Kōyō’s family even though the latter did not hold copyright to the deceased author’s works. Upon hearing that, the author of an anonymous column in the March 1927 issue of the literary journal Bungei shunjū—likely its editor in chief Kikuchi Kan—spared no praise for Kaizōsha’s decision.31 Shun’yōdō was not the only publisher to forfeit copyright to the works they owned so that someone else could compile a worthwhile zenshū. At the height of the enpon boom and its advertising wars, the same Shun’yōdō criticized their biggest rival Kaizōsha for neglecting to include any key works (save some poems and essays) by Shimazaki Tōson, a major literary figure without whom the Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū could not be considered as comprehensive as its

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name. Kaizōsha knew that Shun’yōdō’s criticism was valid, so they sought to work something out with the right holders for Tōson’s novel until the last minute.32 As part of that effort, Yamamoto Sanehiko went to Satō Giryō (1878–1951) and Nakane Komajūrō (1882–1964) at Shinchōsha, and tearfully asked for permission to publish one of Tōson’s novels—Hakai (The Broken Commandment, 1906), Haru (Spring, 1908), or Ie (The Family, 1910–11)—for which Shinchōsha held copyright while promising to pay whatever fee the publishers asked. Satō agreed, and gave permission to print Haru while Shinchōsha took no profit from it (royalties went only to the author). Thanks to Satō’s generous gesture, Yamamoto was thus able to include Haru in volume 36 and make his zenshū more legitimately “complete.”33 Sometimes publishers explained such collaborative (and unprofitable) gestures through values like giri (indebtedness). In 1956, Kōdansha planned the selected works series Kurisuchī tantei shōsetsu shū (Detective Fiction Works by Agatha Christie) with Matsumoto Keiko (1891–1976), the widow of prewar detective fiction translator Matsumoto Tai (1887–1939) and an accomplished translator in her own right. The series included Christie’s Evil Under the Sun (1941), only to discover that their competitor Hayakawa shobō had already secured the Japanese-language rights. Matsumoto explains in her note at the end of volume 9 that this mishap happened because of a misunderstanding of the date of the original publication (she thought it was published in 1934, instead of 1941). Interestingly, in the announcement Matsumoto makes the point of clarifying that Hayakawa shobō had never contacted them to complain about it. Moreover, she points out their generosity when the Hayakawa version of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was published around the same time as hers, again by mistake (Matsumoto thought that they would be published at least six months apart), and explains: “On that occasion, Hayakawa shobō was kind enough not to object, so in this instance we should repay our debt by allowing them— with Kōdansha’s understanding—to extract selections from our volume.”34 As if to confirm Matsumoto’s statement, a note from the Kōdansha editorial team follows her comments, announcing that what was originally going to be volume 11 will now be volume 10, and volume 12 will be volume 11. Matsumoto’s acknowledgment is a repayment of kindness to Hayakawa shobō, who decided not to create gridlock by prioritizing the higher good of disseminating Christie’s works. The lack of gridlock—thanks to the effort and foresight to avoid its creation— certainly benefitted Sōseki as well. The aforementioned copyright-trademark scandal in 1946 temporarily slowed down the output of his zenshū: Ōgiku shoin’s

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zenshū was cancelled after twenty-three volumes in 1949 as the company went bankrupt.35 Iwanami shoten’s version also suffered a year-and-a-half interruption during publication likely because of the competition with Ōgiku shoin as well as paper shortages and inflation during the immediate postwar period, though the project was completed in October 1950. But the conclusion of the copyrighttrademark saga made clear that publishing a collection of Sōseki’s works had become an undertaking that any press could launch. Between 1953 and 1955— years that coincided with the improvement of the paper supply situation in postwar Japan—Sōseki’s works were reproduced on a wide scale, with seven zenshū and anthologies issued within this timeframe.36 Sōseki’s legacy further benefited from the generosity of intra-industry collaboration on his zenshū. When Shūeisha published its Sōseki collection in the 1970s to early 1980s (Sōseki bungaku zenshū, 1970–83), Iwanami shoten, a rival publisher who has published the original Sōseki zenshū as well as subsequent revised editions, did not stint on sharing information and knowhow about how to go about compiling Sōseki’s works. In the monthly newsletter for Ara Masahito’s legendary Sōseki kenkyū nenpyō, which was published as a supplementary volume to Shūeisha’s zenshū, the Shūeisha editorial office makes explicit their gratitude to Iwanami shoten for their assistance: “From Iwanami shoten, the nine-time publisher of the Sōseki zenshū, we received valuable materials and cooperation that transcended the bounds of corporate interest…. This collaboration lays the foundation for the enormous development of Sōseki studies in the future, and it also has many implications for the way in which collected works are edited.”37 The book historian Yaguchi Shin’ya suspects that the rivalry between Ōgiku shoin and Iwanami shoten in 1946 happened because Ōgiku shoin was an “outsider” to publishing: it was previously an organization that collaborated with the military and promoted pro-imperialist ideology (kōgun shisō). Because of their government connections, they had abundant paper to print books even during the early postwar days when publishers generally had to submit proposals to receive paper rations, giving Ōgiku shoin an upper hand over Iwanami shoten. But they were not a “publisher”—with the intellectual resources, expertise in literature, and willingness to give the common good priority over the company’s financial gain—in the same sense as Iwanami shoten.38 It is not the official corporate policy of Iwanami shoten to always put the betterment and common good of Japanese literature before the profit of the company, but founder and long-time president Iwanami Shigeo certainly possessed a long-term view and broad perspective on literature. When Tanizaki

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Jun’ichirō’s translation of Genji monogatari was published by Chūō kōronsha after several years of work, Iwanami Shigeo sang the praises not only of the original classical work and the translator Tanizaki, but also of Shimanaka Yūsaku (1887–1949), the president of its publisher Chūō kōronsha. Iwanami offered an extremely generous endorsement: In bringing this project from first sight to publication in such a short span of time, I express my appreciation to Chūō kōron president Shimanaka Yūsaku for his insight, ability, and enthusiasm. For a publisher, there is no greater joy than the publication of a timeless book [eien no tosho]. Before this happy day, Mr. Shimanaka experienced numerous hardships unknown to others. As someone involved in publishing, I would like to think that I am second to none in my veneration of the classics…. I am not easily forgiven by others because of my narrow-minded character, but I will not stint upon these heartfelt words of praise for Mr. Shimanaka and his project.39

Sometimes the “common good” in literary publishing entails the sharing of a “house author” with another publisher. Shimanaka Yūsaku’s son Hōji (1923–97) faced a setback in the postwar period with the very same author with whom his father—and then himself—had a close relationship. For a long while, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s Sasameyuki (The Makioka Sisters, 1943–48) was an important moneymaker and a prestige generator for Chūō kōronsha. So it was a scandal when Tanizaki gave Kadokawa Gen’yoshi, the head of Kadokawa shoten (and Haruki’s father), his permission to include the work in their Shōwa bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Shōwa Literature) in 1961. The details of the negotiation are unclear, but when the upset Shimanaka Hōji went to discuss it with the author himself the deal had already been completed. According to Yamazaki Yasuo’s personal interview with Shimanaka, the meeting between Shimanaka and Tanizaki was reportedly intense, with both becoming sick in bed for a period after the encounter.40 Hearing the rumors about such consequences of Kadokawa shoten “stealing” Sasameyuki from Chūō kōronsha, Kadokawa Gen’yoshi paid a visit to Shimanaka.41 Shimanaka undoubtedly suffered from his author’s decision to grant permission to another publisher to republish Sasameyuki, but he eventually accepted and ultimately defended Tanizaki’s choice. He rationalized: “It is natural for authors to want their works to be read by many people. This is different from monetary gain and is an allure that only authors can understand. Even if the money is a factor, we have been imposing upon him to work with us on the Tale of Genji.”42 However, the collaboration between Chūō kōronsha and Tanizaki surprisingly continued even after this incident: Tanizaki reportedly

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wrote a letter of apology to Shimanaka and swore that he would not forsake Chūō kōronsha.43 While such a letter was not made public, it is likely that for the remainder of his career Tanizaki did not “shop around” for a publisher who would give the best price for his works. The masterpieces of his last years, such as Fūten rōjin nikki (Diary of a Mad Old Man, 1961), Daidokoro taiheiki (The Maid’s Story, 1962), and the third and last translation of Genji monogatari (1964–65) were all published by Chūō kōronsha. This seems to have been the right decision, as Chūō kōronsha in turn has definitely repaid Tanizaki’s fidelity with a loyalty that outlived the author and the duration of copyright protection. In 2015, Chūō kōron shinsha (renamed after its merger with Yomiuri shinbunsha in 1997) announced the publication of a new 26-volume zenshū of Tanizaki’s works to be published between 2015 and 2017 to commemorate the 130th anniversary of Tanizaki’s birth, the establishment of Chūō kōronsha, and their close partnership.44 In an age of digital texts and the purported death of literature, publication of a 26-volume personal author zenshū in a boxed papercover format, with each volume containing 600-plus pages and costing 6,800 yen, seems to be a risky venture in terms of forecasted profit. However, the Japanese publishing industry is filled with such counterintuitive moves. Nagae Akira reveals that the publishing industry insiders enjoy the same kind of intra-industry intimacy in the twenty-first century that they did nearly a hundred years earlier: This may seem strange to people outside of the publishing world, but booksellers and publishers are friendly across company lines. Employees of different bookstores go out drinking together, often with booksellers in the same town. And they talk a great deal about work. If they sell books, they talk about how “this genre is hot now” and “I found this amazing book” and the like. They even share with each other inside tricks for getting books in stock. You would think that as people in the same business in the same town, they would be competitors, but in the bookstore world this kind of camaraderie is stronger. Publishers also get along with their counterparts elsewhere.45

These publishing professionals who compare notes over drinks are not precapitalist workers who fail to understand the value of monopolies or industrial secrets; rather, they can be seen as mature proponents of responsible publishing and sophisticated patrons of culture. Observation of copyright and getting paid for literary labor—be it as author or editor—is certainly important: as book historian Yamamoto Yoshiaki eloquently demonstrates, “getting paid” for their creative endeavors is a privilege that artists—including authors—earned after years of struggle.46 They should not have to relinquish their right to money

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just because someone else wants to use their work or the system of circulation necessitates the temporary suspension of their right. Yet, faced with the reality of a relatively short life expectancy for literary works, the nature of art as a composite of various elements, and the actual trajectories of the few works that have withstood the test of time, we may need different notions of ownership and use for cultural products. The examples given by Michael Heller in Gridlock Economy include land owners for the potential site for a new airport and runways who refuse to give up their properties even if the entire community suffers from constant air traffic congestion and frequent delays in existing facilities; pharmaceutical companies giving priority to carving out their territory before the common good; and German aristocrats collecting too much tax from the traffic on the Rhine to the point that people avoid using the river altogether. In the discussion of literary works and their “owners,” those who are too adamant about their ownership of the original work and prevent free adaptation, translation, and/or reprinting of works can be the best relevant example. In contrast to Kōyō and Sōseki who benefitted from the consideration of publishers who looked beyond profit and loss, Kuroiwa Ruikō is one figure who perhaps has not enjoyed sufficient critical attention, not because of the unimportance of his contributions to literature but because of the lack of his own zenshū—a disservice to literary scholarship caused by precisely this kind of “gridlock” over copyright. In 1935, the critic Yanagida Izumi revealed that he had been approaching publishers about a collection of Ruikō’s works.47 He was almost successful when Shunjūsha agreed in the early 1930s to pursue the project, but in the end “an agreement could not be reached with Fusōsha, which held the publication rights, so things went back where they started.”48 In hindsight, this may have been the biggest missed opportunity in terms of Ruikō’s zenshū saga. Ruikō’s zenshū finally seemed to materialize in 1979–80 as a sixty-volume series from Takara shuppan; however, it was cancelled after seven volumes. As recently as 2006, there have been complaints from literary scholars such as Komori Kentarō that research on Ruikō has been held back because of the continued absence of his zenshū.49 Although Ruikō’s works, especially in the area of detective fiction, are still available only in various senshū (selected anthologies) as of 2017, a zenshū would certainly be helpful to get a bird’s-eye view of his literary achievements. In a sad and frustrating way, Ruikō’s case exemplifies the concern articulated by Tanji Yoshinobu: “I do not know if we can definitively say that copyright is the biggest factor in the expiration of a work in which commercial value is no longer recognized; however, it can certainly be considered one of the main reasons.”50 Today, Ruikō’s

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works have been out of copyright protection for decades—but perhaps their use value already seems too remote to commercially warrant a revival.

Beyond the gridlock economy At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the health of Japanese literature is by no means hale and hearty. Sōseki may be safely ensconced in literary immortality, but many authors and their works are on the verge of obscurity. Even a collaborative author like Kawabata, who embraced liberal adaptation and reuse of his content, faces possible stagnation: the last cinematic adaptation of “Izu no odoriko” was produced in 1974—and as such it is in danger of becoming a work that used to be adapted into cinema. Even in terms of adaptation in kokugo textbooks, the story has been excerpted just twice since 2000.51 But there have also been new movements that can conceivably help the dissemination of almost-forgotten literature. One way in which Ruikō and other lapsed but important authors can “catch up” is through exposure on Aozora bunko (Blue Sky Collection), perhaps the venture that best symbolizes the altruistic nature of the “publishing” endeavor today: a nonprofit website inaugurated in 1997 that publishes exclusively the works for which copyright has expired. In addition, Aozora bunko makes explicit that the users are free to use and reuse their content, even for their own financial gain: “As long as the inputter, the proofer, the file creator, and Aozora bunko receive clear attribution as the sources, then there is no need whatsoever for users to pay fees to or seek permission from Aozora bunko, regardless of whether the material is being used for commercial or noncommercial purposes.”52 For instance, the discount retailer Daisō (known for its chain of 100-yen shops) drew upon texts taken from Aozora bunko to produce their own 30-volume series Daisō bungaku shirīzu (2003; and again in 2014); another publisher Furontia nisen (Frontier 2000) created the Ofuro de yomuhon (Books-for-the-Bath) series by republishing content from Aozora.53 In allowing their work to morph in such ways, Aozora bunko deliberately chooses not to restrict dissemination and expansion of the texts they make available in a new format.54 The naturalness in the metaphor of a “blue sky” suggests limitlessness of expansion as well as an agreement with Heller’s view of gridlock as “a human creation that does not follow from any immutable laws of nature. It is not intrinsic to an economy or culture. Instead, underuse results from mistakes and gaps in economic, legal, and social organization. It is an artifact of

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ownership gone awry.”55 The mind-set of old-school publishers, however archaic, and pre-capitalist it may seem—as well as the awareness that literary works need to be supported in order to achieve immortality or even longevity—may actually be what is needed today to ensure the survival of literature. If literature can be a “cash cow,” then the best way to nurture it and/or even save it might be to let it roam free. Yamada Shōji and the participants of his seminar on the ownership and expansion of culture use the metaphors of “cows” grazing in a grassy enclosure and “villagers” who “think” they own the cows and the grass upon which it feeds. In this framework, the milk is the artistic creation, the villagers are the companies, and the cows are nourished by the lawn. Looking more closely, the milk and the lawn are both creative resources. While the villagers are interested in maximizing what they can glean from the cows and the grass, the cows would obviously think differently. Yamada proposes: Let us change our perspective and consider things from the point of view not of the villagers but of the cows. Cows will jump their fences to eat their favorite grass, when they want and as much as they want, and such cows that have eaten their fill of grass produce copious amounts of milk. The villagers simply need to collect this milk efficiently. The cultural commons function at the cows’ level. We should not define the source of value by confining creative work and artificially producing its scarcity; rather, we can view the commons as a system of market creation in which barriers are removed to allow the creative work to expand outward.56

Those “villagers” who willingly look beyond the potential for profit see the benefit of offering these “cows”—all enablers of art—a more nurturing environment in the form of open space (less restrictive copyright protections), an expansive blue sky (the potential for new audiences), abundant grass (raw material for creative adaptation), and warm sunshine (support among fans and other aficionados). Literature may seem to be “dead” or “dying” in the twentyfirst century, but what we have is a living literary corpus (not a decaying corpse) from the past and present that we should be able to use to achieve new creative ends. These instances from the past show that literature is enlivened when it is used in ways that enhance and expand its value, and such new uses more often than not involve agents other than the author or the original creator— the enterprising producers and engaged audiences discussed in the preceding chapters—who are allured by the potential of literature and are willing to embrace it with curiosity and creativity across boundaries of genre, media, and time. Through imaginative use and reuse, literature has been—and still can be—economically productive and romantically seductive to readers and writers in modern Japan and beyond.

Notes Introduction 1 2

3

4

5 6

7 8 9

See the website of the Natsume Sōseki Memorial Museum at http://soseki-museum .jp/ (accessed on June 12, 2017). A modest monument to Oguri Fūyō stands in the city of Toyohashi, Aichi Prefecture, where he resided for most of his life before and after his time in Tokyo. This stone tablet was erected in 1976 to observe the fiftieth anniversary of his death, but more as a tribute to a hometown son than as a marker of literary celebrity. See http://www.bunzai.or.jp/sannomaru/annai/oguri.php (accessed on September 12, 2016). See Takagi Takeo, Shinbun shōsetsu shi: Taishō hen (Kokusho kankōkai, 1976), 83–92. Shindō Masahiro has a discussion of Uzumaki and its popularity in the Meiji period in “Edo, Meiji/Taishō, soshite gendai: Watanabe Katei Uzumaki,” in Besutoserā no yukue: Meiji Taishō no ryūkō shōsetsu (Kanrin shobō, 2000), 221–42. As publishers need to obtain permission from rightsholders while a work is in copyright, and during the fifty years of protection copyright could be automatically inherited from one rightsholder to the next, it becomes increasingly complicated to line up the required permission. “It is clear that there are major problems in the system of copyright protection whereby the duration is uniformly set at fifty years after the creator’s death. A very small subset of descendants and beneficiaries profit, but for everyone else an enormous cultural asset is hoarded and forgotten.” Tanji Yoshinobu, “Hon no horobikata: hogo kikanchū ni shoseki ga kieteyuku katei to shikumi,” in Chosakuken hogo kikan: enchō wa bunka o shinkō suruka?, ed. Tanaka Tatsuo and Hayashi Kōichirō (Keisō shobō, 2008), 43. Ibid., 33. Tanaka Tatsuo, “Hon no raifusaikuru o kangaeru,” in Chosakuken hogo kikan: enchō wa bunka o shinkō suruka?, ed. Tanaka Tatsuo and Hayashi Kōichirō (Keisō shobō, 2008), 73. According to Tanji, only 27.5 percent of all Nagai Kafū’s works were in active print at the time of his investigation. Tanji, “Hon no horobikata,” 40–41. Ibid., 46. Terry Eagleton, Literary Theory: An Introduction (Somerset, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2011), 181.

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10 See Hirano Ken, Geijutsu to jisseikatsu, in Hirano Ken zenshū, vol. 2 (Shinchōsha, 1975), especially “Mondai no hottan” and “Shishōsetsu no niritsu haihan” (138–42 and 143–63, respectively). 11 Sasanuma Toshiaki, “Kokubungaku” no shisō: sono han’ei to shūen (Gakujutsu shuppankai, 2006), 7. 12 Kurabe Shiki lists four myths about education and employment: “1) Economics majors get good jobs and transferable skills, but literature majors have trouble getting jobs and can’t make a living; 2) science majors are strong in employment but cannot get ahead; 3) earning certifications can be an advantage in employment; and 4) faculties and departments with a high selectivity score [hensachi] do well in job placement.” Kurabe Shiki, Kanban gakubu to kanban daore gakubu (Chūō kōron shinsha, 2012), 181. 13 Sasanuma Toshiaki remains optimistic that literature can be “useful” in the modern world: “If we change our perspective, we might take the opposite view about the dire state of humanities scholarship. The current characterization of literature—not limited to ‘national literature’ but ‘literary studies’ more broadly—as a ‘nuisance’ is gaining traction; however, precisely because it resists the flow of time, both socially and politically, it can be viewed as retaining the potential, the opportunity, and the mission to be reborn as a critical force against contemporary society and the state.” Sasanuma, “Kokubungaku” no shisō, 301. 14 Eagleton, Literary Theory, 181–82. 15 For a historical overview of modern Japanese literature from 1868 to the present, covering a wide range of approaches and contexts, see Part V of Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki, eds., with David Lurie, The Cambridge History of Japanese Literature (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 551–767. 16 Edward Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature: Publishing, Prizes, and the Ascription of Literary Value (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 14–15. 17 Seth Jacobowitz, Writing Technology in Meiji Japan: A Media History of Modern Japanese Literature and Visual Culture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2015), 10. 18 Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki, eds., Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000), 2–3. 19 Michael Emmerich, The Tale of Genji: Translation, Canonization, and World Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 11. 20 Jonathan Zwicker describes how translations of Meiji-period literature, in particular Ozaki Kōyō’s Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon, 1897–1902) and Tokutomi Roka’s Hototogisu (The Cuckoo, 1898–99) circulated well beyond Japan and contributed to their literary longevity; see Practices of the Sentimental Imagination: Melodrama, the Novel, and the Social Imaginary in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), especially 175–94.

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22 23

24

25

26 27

28

29

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For a discussion of the practical aspects of translating modern Japanese fiction (primarily into English) during the postwar period, see Edward Fowler, “Rendering Words, Traversing Cultures: On the Art and Politics of Translating Modern Japanese Fiction,” Journal of Japanese Studies 18, no. 1 (Winter 1992): 1–44. A preliminary exploration of this question appears in Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit, “Pretranslation in Modern Japanese Literature and What It Tells Us about ‘World Literature,’” in Translation and Translation Studies in the Japanese Context, ed. Nana Sato-Rossberg and Judy Wakabayashi, 167–82 (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). There is fertile ground for further scholarly investigation into how modern Japanese creative works (e.g., literature, film, manga, video games) are translated and/or adapted for foreign markets, with a focus on the business dimensions—editorial/ production decisions, marketing strategies, copyright considerations—as well as the implications for audience reception and literary canonization. See Shindō Masahiro, Besutoserā no yukue, especially the section “Naze ryūkō shi, naze wasuresarareta noka,” 6–65. For a summary of the many adaptations of Les Misérables across various media, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adaptations_of_Les_Misérables (accessed on December 7, 2016). The musical debuted in 1985 in London, and has been running ever since: “Seen by more than 70 million people in 44 countries and in 22 languages around the globe, it is still breaking box-office records everywhere” (http://www.lesmis.com/uk; accessed on January 25, 2016). Gina Macdonald and Andrew Macdonald, “Introduction,” in Jane Austen on Screen, ed. Gina Macdonald and Andrew Macdonald (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 1. For a list of movie adaptations of Sōseki’s works, see http://www.jmdb.ne.jp/person/ p0056600.htm (accessed August 8, 2017). For instance, EastPress’s Manga de dokuha (Reading Through with Manga) series includes Wagahai wa neko de aru, Yume jūya, Sorekara, Kokoro, and Meian (Light and Dark, 1916); the best example of a biographical manga of Sōseki’s life may be Kōhi Yura, Sensei to boku: Natsume Sōseki o kakomu hitobito, 4 vols (Kadokawa Media Factory, 2010–12). Mori’s performance was made famous by the somersault she performs during the show. The play’s run was halted in 2009 because of Mori’s declining health and subsequent passing, but in 2015 the actress Nakama Yukie (1979–) took over the lead role, albeit substituting a cartwheel for the somersault in her opening performance on October 14, 2015 (“Hōrōki ‘dengurigaeshi’ wa ‘sokuten’ ni,” NHK “Kabun” Blog, http://www9.nhk.or.jp/kabun-blog/700/229491.html [accessed on June 10, 2017]). Toeda Hirokazu, “Meisaku” wa tsukurareru: Kawabata Yasunari to sono sakuhin (NHK shuppan, 2009), 51.

208 30 31 32 33 34

35 36

37 38

39 40

41 42 43 44

Notes Ibid., 4–5. For a more detailed list and discussion, see ibid., 148–50. J. Hillis Miller, On Literature (New York: Routledge, 2002), 4 and 9. Ibid., 9. Kawabata Yasunari, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” in Kawabata Yasunari zenshū, vol. 33 (Shinchōsha, 1982), 79. Dudley Andrew, “The Economies of Adaptation,” in True to the Spirit: Film Adaptation and the Question of Fidelity, ed. Colin MacCabe, Kathleen Murray, and Rick Warner (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 32. Kawabata, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” 79. Although Kawabata was more attentive to how his works were being translated into English than how they were adapted into film, he appears to have been similarly “hands off ” about the details. Despite his close relationship with his translator Edward Seidensticker (1921–2007), he did not necessarily provide the latter much direct guidance. Seidensticker’s memoir Tokyo Central: A Memoir (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2002) relays an episode in which the translator asked the author about a particular passage: “‘Do you not, my esteemed master, find this a rather impenetrable passage?’ He would dutifully scrutinize the passage, and answer: ‘Yes.’ Nothing more. The sensible thing was to stop asking” (122). When Kawabata won the Nobel Prize in 1968, he famously remarked that half of the prize belonged to his translator. Kawabata, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” 78. Cited in Nishikawa Katsumi, “Izu no odoriko” monogatari (Firumu ātosha, 1994), 198. Originally from Yoshinaga Sayuri, Yume ichizu (Nihon tosho sentā, 2000), 73–80, especially 76. Cited in Nishikawa, “Izu no odoriko” monogatari, 10. Kawabata was not necessarily the only such “flexible” author when it came to adaptations of ongoing writings. The critic Shimura Miyoko suspects that the movie Tōkyō kōshinkyoku (Tokyo March, released on May 25, 1929), despite being an adaptation of Kikuchi Kan’s (1888–1948) work by the same name (serialized June 1928 to October 1929 in the magazine Kingu), influenced the original because it was released prior to the conclusion of the serialization of his novel. Initially, Kikuchi intended the work to be critical of social issues and bourgeois values; however, while the movie version lets the economic and social underdog Orie win the romantic rivalry, in the novel version it is the snobby bourgeois character Sayuriko who steals away the object of their affection. Shimura Miyoko, Eigajin Kikuchi Kan (Fujiwara shoten, 2013), 118–19. Kawabata, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” 77. George Bluestone, Novels into Film (1957; paperback repr., Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), vi–vii. Emphasis mine. Kawabata, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” 79–80. Bluestone, Novels into Film, 62. Emphasis mine.

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45 Kawabata, “‘Izu no odoriko’ no eigaka ni saishi,” 80. 46 Jonathan Abel, Redacted: The Archives of Censorship in Transwar Japan (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2012), 13. 47 Ibid., 148.

Chapter 1 1

2

3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10

11 12 13 14

Uchida Roan, “Ken’yūsha no bokkō to dōtei: Ozaki Kōyō.” Available online at http://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000165/files/49567_53842.html (accessed on December 16, 2016). In one account, the scale of the enpon boom is reported as some 160 publishers publishing approximately 370 zenshū (complete works series), of which around 200 were enpon. See Shimizu Bunkichi, Hon wa nagareru: shuppan ryūtsū kikō no seiritsushi (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 1991), 85. The present day bunko paperback is 148 mm × 105 mm, whereas the kikuban (used in Kaizōsha’s Gendai series and many other enpon) was 218 mm × 152 mm. Daimon Ichiju, Bukka no hyakunen (Hayakawa shobō, 1967), 246. See “The Stability of the Center: Tokyo Publishing and the Great Kantō Earthquake,” in Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature, 51–89. Satō Masataka, Tōkyō no kindai toshokanshi (Shinpūsha, 1998), 106. The Ōhashi Library, established by the publisher Hakubunkan in 1902 in what is now Chiyoda ward, was a private library opened with the purpose of serving the general public. For a general history of the library, see Tsuboya Zenshirō, Ōhashi toshokan yonjūnenshi (Hakubunkan shinsha, 2006; facsimile of 1942 edition). Satō, Tōkyō no kindai toshokanshi, 107. Ibid., 108–10. Among the most sought-after titles at public libraries in pre-1923 Tokyo were works by contemporary authors Kunieda Shirō (1887–1943), Shirai Kyōji, and Nakazato Kaizan (1885–1944), but these titles tended to be checked out and were almost always unavailable. Yomiuri shinbun, February 1, 1926; cited in Nagamine Shigetoshi, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 2001), 27. Satō, Tōkyō no kindai toshokanshi, 70. See “Konogoro mijime na toshokan jigoku,” Jiji, March 17, 1926; cited in Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, 27. Diary entry of August 8, 1891. Higuchi Ichiyō, Nikkihen, vol. 3 of Zenshū Higuchi Ichiyō (Shōgakukan, 1979), 26. For instance, Ōhashi Library started this service in April 1912. See Nitta Muneo, “Dai niki: seichō jidai,” in Tōkyō dentō kabushiki gaisha kaigyō gojūnenshi, ed. Tōkyō dentō kabushiki gaisha (Tōkyō dentō kabushiki gaisha, 1936), 73–113.

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15 16 17

18

19 20

21

22 23

Notes According to the published history of the Tokyo Electric Light Company (Tōkyō dentō), the late Meiji/early Taishō period was a crucial time for illumination. Following the construction of power plants in Senjū and Asakusa during the early 1900s, the company cut rates significantly and started to pay for indoor wiring. Diary entry of August 8, 1891. Higuchi Ichiyō, Nikkihen, 26. Diary entry of April 26, 1910. Ishikawa Takuboku, Nikki (2), vol. 6 of Takuboku zenshū (Chikuma shobō, 1967), 181. According to Kikuchi Megumi, kashihon’ya experienced a resurgence in the 1950s after the prewar decline. For a detailed account of what it was like to run a kashihon’ya in this period, see Hasegawa Yutaka, Kashihon’ya no boku wa manga ni muchū datta (Sōshisha, 1999); for an account of a young reader who frequented kashihon’ya as a customer in this period, see Kikuchi Megumi, Bokura no jidai niwa kashihon’ya ga atta: sengo taishū shōsetsukō (Shinjinbutsu ōraisha, 2008). The female members of Ranpo’s family were ardent patrons of local kashihon’ya, and from their preferences we can get a rare glimpse into what the average kashihon’ya might have stocked in this era. Although his grandmother liked typical kōdan raconteur texts with familiar themes of scandals within various daimyo households (oie sōdō), his mother preferred Japanese translations of Western detective fiction by Kuroiwa Ruikō (1862–1920). Edogawa Ranpo, Tantei shōsetsu yonjūnen (jō), vol. 28 of Edogawa Ranpo zenshū (Kōbunsha, 2006), 25. Ibid., 27–29. Yokomizo Seishi, Tantei shōsetsu mukashibanashi, vol. 18 of Yokomizo Seishi zenshū (Kōdansha, 1975), 163. Originally published in Umi 6, no. 12 (December 1974). The copies of Gankutsuō Yokomizo read were likely the four-volume series from Fusōsha, published in 1905–6 following the story’s serialization in the newspaper Yorozu chōhō in 1901–2. For instance, Ruikō’s Hōtei no bijin (Beauty in the Court; translation of Hugh Conway’s Dark Days, 1884), after its initial serialization in 1888 and book publication in 1889, was not reprinted until in 1912, then again in 1917, and again in 1920. See, for Hōtei no bijin, Itō Hideo, ed., Kaitei zōho Kuroiwa Ruikō: sono shōsetsu no subete (Tōgensha, 1979), 10–13. See also Itō Hideo and Sakakibara Takanori, eds., Kuroiwa Ruikō no kenkyū to shoshi: Kuroiwa Ruikō choyakusho sōran (Nagoya: Nada shuppan sentā, 2001), 47–49. Satō, Tōkyō no kindai toshokanshi, 60. Despite their decline in the prewar period, there is evidence that kashihon’ya reappeared after the Second World War. Kikuchi Megumi reports that he frequented kashihon’ya between 1955 and 1965, around the time when an increasing number of new kashihon’ya supposedly came back into existence. Kikuchi, Bokura no jidai niwa kashihon’ya ga atta, 12.

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24 Andrew Markus, “The Daisō Lending Library of Nagoya, 1767–1899,” Gest Library Journal 3, no. 3 (1989): 8. 25 Yokomizo, Tantei shōsetsu mukashibanashi, 166–67. 26 Kutsukake Isakichi, perhaps the most accomplished researcher on the history of kashihon’ya, comments on the scarcity of materials from the Taishō to the first half of the Shōwa period: “I have been looking for sources for kashihon’ya over the last twenty years, but we have the least amount from the Taishō and Meiji periods.” As possible reasons, he lists changes in readers’ tastes and the increased popularity of private book ownership thanks to mass production, as well as the effects of the earthquake, for the destruction of various records that had existed until then. See Kutsukake Isakichi, “Kashihon’ya no rekishi,” in Kutsukake Isakichi chosakushū, ed. Ikeda Takashi, Sugai Ken’ichi, and Watanabe Haruo (Yashio shoten, 1982), 225–26. 27 They were Fujimori Seikichi’s play Gisei (Sacrifice) and Kurata Hyakuzō’s novel Akai reikon (Red Spirit). Matsubara Kazue, Kaizōsha to Yamamoto Sanehiko (Kagoshima: Nanpō shinsha, 2000), 139. Despite these setbacks, both works were published in other venues soon thereafter. 28 Kimura Ki, Maruzen gaishi (Maruzen, 1969), 261. 29 Kaizōsha adopted a subscription-only (yoyaku hanbai) policy, in which customers paid one yen up front to sign up and then one yen per month thereafter, in order to secure the financial resources necessary to complete the series. It was a common strategy already in the Taishō period for senshū (selected works) series, dictionaries, and encyclopedias. Kida Jun’ichirō, Naiyō mihon ni miru shuppan Shōwashi (Hon no zasshisha, 1992), 11. 30 Matsubara, Kaizōsha to Yamamoto Sanehiko, 146. The deadline for the initial subscription was November 30, 1926. 31 See “Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū no kankō,” in Zasshi “Kaizō” no shijūnen, ed. Seki Chūka et al. (Kōwadō, 1977), 97–108. According to Matsubara Kazue, Fujikawa Yasuo mentioned to Yamamoto that all of the literature zenshū published after the earthquake (to replace volumes lost in the disaster) were too expensive for the average reader. Matsubara, Kaizōsha to Yamamoto Sanehiko, 140. 32 Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature, 96. For accounts of Yamamoto’s tenure as the company president, see the anecdotes by Tokuhiro Iwaki (actual name of Kanbayashi Akatsuki) and other Kaizōsha employees in Sari Kawana, “Write on Demand: Editors, Authors, and the Labor of Literary Publishing in Prewar Japan,” East Asian Publishing and Society 4, no. 2 (2014): 125–54. 33 Yamamoto’s untraditional marketing schemes included publishing Shisen o koete (Crossing the Line of Death, 1920) by Kagawa Toyohiko (1888–1960) as a book without testing its potential in serialization. Another important example was inviting celebrity authors from overseas, such as Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) and Albert Einstein (1879–1955), to promote their works. Even though many

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34

35

36

37

38 39

40 41 42

43

Notes thought that these authors’ works were too erudite to be bestsellers, his advertising campaigns were successful, especially Einstein’s. See Matsubara, Kaizōsha to Yamamoto Sanehiko, 105–24. Sugiyama Kin’ya, “Shōwa kaigen zengo ni okeru ‘Kaizō’ no hen’yō,” in Kaizōsha no media senryaku, ed. Shōji Tatsuya, Nakazawa Wataru, and Yamagishi Ikuko (Sōbunsha shuppan, 2013), 33. Shiozawa Minobu, in a roundtable with Kiyota Yoshiaki and Fujita Masashi, “Besutoserā wa sesō no kagami (1),” http://www.yurindo.co.jp/static/yurin/ back/422_1.html (accessed on December 8, 2016). The starting monthly salary for a higher level civil servant in 1926 was 75 yen, while a manual laborer made somewhere around 2 yen per day. Salaries for manual laborers actually declined slightly over the next decade, going down to 1 yen 50 sen on average, while salaries for civil servants at least remained the same until 1937. Shūkan Asahi, ed., Nedanshi nenpyō: Meiji, Taishō, Shōwa (Asahi shinbunsha, 1988), 67 and 173. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the primary medium of advertising for printed material is still the newspaper, and there are still publishers that run large ads. Washio Ken’ya, Henshū towa dono yō na shigoto nanoka: kikaku hassō kara ningen kōsai made (Toransubyū, 2004), 171. Radio broadcasts started in 1925 with stations in Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya operated by nonprofit corporations supported with private funding; however, after a year of operation, the Ministry of Communications combined the three to create the Japan Broadcasting Corporation with ministry officials in management positions. For the early history of radio broadcasting and amateur radio in Japan, see Yoshimi Shun’ya, “Koe” no shihon shugi (Kōdansha, 1995), especially 198–200 for information about NHK. This advertisement appeared in the Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, October 18, 1926, 6. Similar language—such as “A great revolution in the publishing world!” (shuppankai no daikakumei)—appeared as advertising copy in sample booklets (naiyō mihon) distributed by Kaizōsha (unpaginated; inside front cover). Kida, Naiyō mihon ni miru shuppan Shōwashi, 295. Edward Mack, “The Value of Literature: Cultural Authority in Interwar Japan” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2002), 165; translation Mack’s, except for items three and five (mine). From the first page of the naiyō mihon for the Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū. Kida, Naiyō mihon ni miru shuppan Shōwashi, 11. Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, November 22, 1926, 6. For a complete listing of authors and works included in the Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū, see Kakeno Takeshi, ed., “Kaizōsha Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū sakuhin sōran,” in Kaizōsha no media senryaku, ed. Shōji Tatsuya, Nakazawa Wataru, and Yamagishi Ikuko (Sōbunsha shuppan, 2013), 216–61. Rebecca L. Copeland, Lost Leaves: Women Writers of Meiji Japan (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000), 45.

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44 Ibid., 229. 45 For a concise overview of the state of “women’s writing” in this period, see Joan E. Ericson, “The Origins of the Concept of ‘Women’s Literature,’” in The Woman’s Hand: Gender and Theory in Japanese Women’s Writing, ed. Paul Gordon Schalow and Janet A. Walker (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996), 74–115. For an in-depth study of ladies’ magazines and the cultural context in which they flourished, see Sarah Frederick, Turning Pages: Reading and Writing Women’s Magazines in Interwar Japan (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006). 46 Contemporary media coverage of the enpon boom included photographs of how women were participating in the craze: a two-page spread from the magazine Asahi Graph showed a woman poring over an enpon volume during a train ride, a woman engrossed in her book while sitting in the park, and a woman selling loose enpon volumes in her stall at a night market. “Enpon yo, koko ni ita ka,” Asahi Graph 30, no. 22 (November 1929): 192–93. 47 Nagamine Shigetoshi’s research suggests that class is as productive a category as gender when considering the nature of enpon readership. He asserts that despite the main audience for enpon being middle-class city dwellers and students, there were also groups that had hitherto been unlikely to read—the rural working class, in particular—but had benefited from the boom, especially in the later stages, when prices were pushed even lower than one yen due to competition and remaindering. Notably, working women in the countryside took full advantage of this new access to high-quality reading material. Based on his survey of published contemporary sources, Nagamine uncovers examples—“a daughter of the village sake brewer” who read a soiled and tattered copy of Tolstoy’s Resurrection from the Sekai bungaku zenshū; “a maid in an hot spring spa deep in the mountains” who subscribed to the Sekai bungaku zenshū and particularly enjoyed Les Misérables— demonstrating how enpon changed the everyday reading experiences of the working classes. See Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, especially 144–56. 48 Seki et al., eds., Zasshi “Kaizō” no shijūnen, 105; also cited in Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature, 120. 49 For detailed background on the publishing activities of Shun’yōdō, see Yamazaki Yasuo, Shun’yōdō monogatari: Shun’yōdō o meguru Meiji bundan no sakkatachi (Shun’yōdō, 1969). 50 Cited in Ishikawa Hiroyoshi and Ozaki Hotsuki, Shuppan kōkoku no rekishi, 1895– 1941 (Shuppan nyūsusha, 1989), 183. The naiyō mihon for Gendai twice stresses the same idea (“a complete library of literature for just a little money”). 51 See Uchida Seizō, Nihon no kindai jūtaku (Kajima shuppankai, 1992), 121–25. 52 For a brief discussion of shosai in prewar Japan, see Kawana, “Write on Demand.” 53 Aoyama Takeshi, Subete ga shūsho ni hajimaru (Seieisha, 1985), 50. 54 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, April 16, 1927, 9.

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55 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, April 18, 1927, 6–7. 56 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, May 3, 1927, 3. 57 Readers bought so many series volumes without securing space to properly store them that sometimes they stacked the books in their kitchens. From the Meiji into the Taishō periods, the intended storage style of the book had changed from stacking vertically on the floor to standing upright on a bookshelf. The 30,000 bookcases Kaizōsha gave away certainly contributed to this transition. Ozaki Hotsuki, Shomotsu no unmei (Shuppan ryūtsūsha, 1991), 91. 58 Ads for: Nihon jidō bunko (Arusu), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 28, 1927, 6; Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū (Kaizōsha), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, November 7, 1926, 1; Nihon meicho zenshū (Kōbunsha), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, February 14, 1927, 4–5; Gendai taishū bungaku zenshū (Heibonsha), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 5, 1927, 5; Shōgakusei zenshū (Kōbunsha), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 29, 1927, 5; Gendai chōhen shōsetsu zenshū (Shinchōsha), Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 4, 1928, 3. 59 Jordan Sand, House and Home in Modern Japan: Architecture, Domestic Space, and Bourgeois Culture, 1880–1930 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2005), 203. 60 Ibid., 131. 61 Ibid., 204. 62 Takeuchi Yō, Kyōyō shugi no botsuraku: kawariyuku erīto gakusei bunka (Chūō kōronsha, 2003), 40. 63 Tsutsui Kiyotada argues that Meiji shūyō shugi evolved into Taishō kyōyō shugi. See “Kindai Nihon ni okeru kyōyō shugi no seiritsu,” in Tsutsui Kiyotada, Nihongata ‘kyōyō’ no unmei: rekishi shakaigakuteki kōsatsu (Iwanami shoten, 1995), 1–46. 64 Under the prewar education system, the Higher Schools were university preparatory schools, of which the First Higher School, under principal Nitobe Inazō (1862–1933), was the most prestigious. Nitobe advocated the value of sociality and the importance of creating well-rounded gentlemen who are “capable of harmonizing human relations in an age of materialistic conflict.” See Donald Roden, Schooldays in Imperial Japan (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980), 210; see in particular the chapter “The Spirit of the Taishō Higher Schools: The Triumph of the Personal Self,” 210–29. 65 In 1923, Iwanami Shigeo of Iwanami shoten hoped to launch a new series called Kyōyō sōsho (Intellectualist Library). However, he was advised against it by a young company employee, Kobayashi Iwamu, because the idea of kyōyō was already considered archaic and no longer able to excite people. See Tsutsui, Nihongata ‘kyōyō’ no unmei, 50. This anecdote helps explain the curious absence of the word kyōyō from enpon ads, although the slogans actually uphold the kyōyō ideal of a learned readership. 66 Takeuchi Yō, Gakureki kizoku no eikō to zasetsu, vol. 12 of Nihon no kindai (Chūō kōronsha, 1999), 250. For more details about the reading habits of students of various educational institutions in the prewar period, see ibid., 237–84.

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67 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, January 29, 1927, 6. 68 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, February 15, 1927, 5. 69 Abe Isoo, “Junshin na seinen danjo no kokoro o yashinau shokumotsu,” Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, February 15, 1927, 5. 70 Gendai taishū bungaku zenshū (Heibonsha, 1927), in the unpaginated naiyō mihon. 71 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, February 10, 1927; cited in Ishikawa and Ozaki, Shuppan kōkoku no rekishi, 192. 72 From the naiyō mihon of the Sekai dai shisō zenshū; cited in Ishikawa and Ozaki, Shuppan kōkoku no rekishi, 192. 73 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 12, 1927, 5. 74 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 15, 1927, 5. 75 Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, 132. 76 Ibid. 77 Ibid., 132–33. 78 For instance, the special feature “Primer on General Elections” (fusen kōza) appeared in Tōkyō Asahi shinbun (November 27, 1926, 3) concurrently with Kaizōsha’s campaign for Gendai. 79 For accounts of Hakuhōdō and Dentsū during their early days, see Yamamoto Taketoshi, “Shuppan kōkoku o kaitaku: Hakuhōdō no kensetsu—Seki Hirohisa” and “Kōkoku tsūshingyō keiei de Dentsū sōritsu—Mitsunaga Hoshio,” in Nihon no kōkoku: hito, jidai, hyōgen (Nihon keizai shinbunsha, 1986), 93–111. However, Yamamoto later speculates that Dentsū may have surpassed Hakuhōdō already in the mid-Taishō period. See Yamamoto Taketoshi, “Mitsunaga Hoshio: sekai no Dentsū no sōgyōsha,” in Kindai Nihon media jinbutsushi: sōshisha keieisha hen, ed. Tsuchiya Reiko (Mineruva shobō, 2009), 125. In either case, Hakuhōdō and Dentsū clearly were waging a neck-and-neck battle in this period, and closely monitored each other so that they stayed competitive. 80 Yamamoto Taketoshi, Kōkoku no shakaishi (Hōsei Daigaku shuppankyoku, 1984), 266–74. 81 See “Enpon būmu to kōkoku dairi gyōsha,” in Yamamoto, Kōkoku no shakaishi, 266–75, especially 272. 82 Both ads appeared in Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, March 27, 1927, 9. See also “‘Nihon jidō bunko’ (Arusu)—‘Shōgakusei zenshū’ (Kōbunsha, Bungei shunjūsha),” in Ishikawa and Ozaki, Shuppan kōkoku no rekishi, 202. 83 See “Kōbunsha to pisutoru gōtō jiken,” in Ogawa Kikumatsu, Shuppan kōbō gojūnen (facsimile edition, Seibundō shinkōsha, 1992), 75. Originally published in 1953. 84 Hakushū’s statement “Mantenka no seigi ni uttau” (An Appeal to Justice Throughout the World) appeared in Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, May 25, 1927, 9. Kikuchi’s rebuttal “Mate! Shikoushite miyo” (Wait! Consider This) appeared three days later, in Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, May 28, 1927, 6–7. Arusu’s ad also appears in the same issue, across pages 9 and 10.

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85 “We are honored to have subscriptions from his Highness Prince Sumi [childhood name of Prince Mikasa, 1915–2016], the Higashikuni family, and the Kitashirakawa family.” Such statements appeared in ads as early as May 13, 1927, 9. 86 The Arusu ad listed subscriptions from “his Highness Prince Sumi, his Highness Prince Fushimi, and his Highness Prince Higashikuni” (Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, June 2, 1927, 5). 87 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, June 7, 1927, 5. 88 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun, June 9, 1927, 5. 89 Kida Jun’ichirō speculates that both publishers had been planning their series, but Arusu was perhaps a little closer to execution, and Kōbunsha accelerated its preparations because of the competition. See Kida, Naiyō mihon ni miru shuppan Shōwashi, 24. 90 Ogawa, Shuppan kōbō gojūnen, 75. 91 When Chūō kōronsha president Shimanaka Yūsaku (1887–1949) succeeded Asada Komanosuke (1869–1948), he approached their ad agency Hakuhōdō and demanded a discount, because he had suspected that they had been offering cheaper rates to Kaizōsha. Their negotiations went nowhere, and Chūō kōron terminated its relationship with Hakuhōdō and signed with rival Dentsū. Makino Takeo, Kumo ka yama ka: zasshi shuppan urabanashi (Gakufū shoin, 1956), 42. 92 The styles of business that the two companies developed during the enpon boom—for instance, investing in and/or supporting their publishing clients—were revived after 1945 and continue to be relevant to the present. See Yamamoto, Kōkoku no shakaishi, 274. 93 Satō, Tōkyō no kindai toshokanshi, 108–18. 94 Ibid., 115–16. 95 Ibid., 120. 96 Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, 144–45. 97 Ibid. 98 For example, when Hori Tatsuo (1904–53) was tasked with overseeing the compilation of the zenshū for his late mentor Akutagawa Ryūnosuke from Iwanami shoten for the second time in 1934 for its popular reissue (the original edition had come out in 1927–29), he oscillated between adding glosses (even when the original author Akutagawa did not), not adding them, or adding them only in certain places (in creative works but not in others). In the end, Hori recommended not to add them, but he was overruled by the Iwanami editorial staff. See Toeda Hirokazu, Iwanami Shigeo: hikuku kurashi, takaku omou (Mineruva shobō, 2013), 188–93. 99 Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, 137–38. 100 Around the time of the publication of Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū from Kaizōsha in 1926, Puratonsha was planning to launch a new series of pocket-size paperbacks, which would have sold for five yen per volume. Ono Takahiro, Modanizumu shuppansha no kōbō: Puratonsha no 1920 nendai (Kyoto: Tankōsha, 2000), 86.

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101 Shimizu, Hon wa nagareru, 90. Shimizu identifies this promotional element as one of ten positive contributions of the enpon boom to the Japanese publishing world. 102 See Yamamura Miyoshi, “Enpon narikin no narikin buri,” Fujin kōron (December 1928): 52–56. Some others reinvested their earnings into various literary projects. Mikami Otokichi (1891–1944) dedicated all his royalties to his wife Hasegawa Shigure (1879–1941), who presided over the journal Nyonin geijutsu (Women’s Art) for her various feminist endeavors. Also, Hirotsu Kazuo (1891–1968) used his income to finance the completion of Musanokōji Saneatsu zenshū (The Complete Works of Mushanokōji Saneatsu). Nakamura Murao used his to pay off his debts from publishing Fudōchō (Unsympathizing). According to Yamamura, there are many cases in which the money was used to finance or pay off debts from unsuccessful magazines and publications. When Hirotsu finished publishing the aforementioned Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, he had no more than four or five yen to his name. 103 Yanagida Izumi, “Yoshino Sakuzō sensei to Miyatake Gaikotsu ō” in Yanagida Izumi no bungaku isan, vol. 3, ed. Kawamura Nobuhide (Yūbun shoin, 2009), 340–41. Originally published in 1967. 104 Yoshiya Chiyo, “Nenpu,” in Watashi no mita hito, toki no koe, vol. 12 of Yoshiya Nobuko zenshū (Asahi shinbunsha, 1976), 555; cited in Shimizu Michiko, “Yoshiya Nobuko no shōsetsu ni miru Taishō matsu ~ Shōwa senzenki no jochū zō,” Kansai Kokusai Daigaku kenkyū kiyō 12 (2011): 115. 105 Yamamura, “Enpon narikin no narikin buri,” 52. 106 Nagamine, Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan, 149. It is also rumored that Iwanami shoten also planned their own enpon zenshū of world literature, but since Shinchōsha beat them to it, they decided not to move forward. See also Yamazaki Yasuo, Iwanami bunko monogatari (Hakuōsha, 1962), 12.

Chapter 2 1 2 3 4

5

Kweon Seok-Yeong, “Nihon ni okeru tōsei to puropaganda,” in Iwanami kōza bungaku 2: media no rikigaku, ed. Komori Yōichi et al. (Iwanami shoten, 2002), 231. Abel, Redacted, 1–2. Hatanaka Shigeo, Nihon fashizumu no genron dan’atsu shōshi (Kōbunken, 1986), 17. Writers of detective fiction exemplify this tendency. Kōga Saburō, in “Tantei shōsetsu kyūgyō sengen” (Declaration for Time Away from Detective Fiction) that he published in January 1938, called for authors to respect the urgency of Japan’s national crisis and to offer their services to the state (Shupio [January 1938]: 18–19). For an account of the policing of literature by the Japanese government, see Jay Rubin, “The Military and Thought Police Take Over,” in Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984), 256–78, especially the subsection “The Publishing Industry Polices Itself,” 270–71.

218 6

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8 9 10 11 12 13

14 15 16

Notes I define propaganda as a work that either justifies Japan’s aggressive military policy in East Asia or mobilizes readers to further the cause of Japanese imperialism. At the most fundamental level, I agree with Miki Kiyoshi’s definition of propaganda as “that which influences the masses without their knowing and seeks to generate a certain ideology, opinion, and attitude” (Miki Kiyoshi, “Shin sendenron,” Ōsaka Asahi shinbun, November 9–11, 1937; available online at http://members.jcom.home.ne.jp/ w3c/MIKI/shinsendenron.html [accessed on January 30, 2016]). In the study Age of Propaganda: The Everyday Use and Abuse of Persuasion (New York: Holt Paperbacks, 2001), Anthony Pratkanis and Elliot Aronson also suggest that good propaganda is not forceful, but invites its audience to want to be persuaded spontaneously and actively. The works of Unno Jūza (who will be discussed at greater length in the following pages) satisfy this latter definition as he repeatedly attempts to mobilize the readers to pursue science, both implicitly in his stories and explicitly in his prefaces. In this sense, Unno’s works were ineffective propaganda for Japanese spiritualism—a key component of the Japanese wartime effort—but effective for scientism. Notable exceptions might be the wartime writings of Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, who had undertaken the novel Sasameyuki (The Makioka Sisters) and the modern Japanese translation of Genji monogatari in the early 1940s. Hirano Ken, Shōwa bungakushi (Chikuma shobō, 1963), 216. Ibid., 223. Cited in ibid., 241. Odagiri Hideo, Senji sengo no bungaku, vol. 5 of Kōza Nihon kindai bungakushi (Ōtsuki shoten, 1957), 20. Ibid., 48. Ibid., 55. He also thinks that authors themselves shared some responsibility: “Japanese literature up to the beginning of the war had its share of regressions and setbacks, but there was at least a kind of reluctance [on the part of writers] to turn tail against their will. Everything after that point, however, was a disgrace, a headlong fall … [The actions of writers] were too pitifully desolate even to call them a ‘weakening of literary spirit’” (48). Okuno Takeo, Nihon bungakushi: kindai kara gendai e (Chūō kōronsha, 1970), 178. See Katō Shūichi, “Mittsu no zahyō,” in Nihon bungakushi josetsu 2, vol. 5 of Katō Shūichi chosakushū (Heibonsha, 1980), 537–50. Odagiri Hideo, “Bungaku ni okeru sensō sekinin no tsuikyū,” reprinted in Sengo bungaku ronsō, vol. 1, compiled by Usui Yoshimi, 115–17 (Banchō shobō, 1972); originally published in Shin Nihon bungaku (June 1946). Odagiri’s later silence on this issue could also be explained by his own literary contributions to the war effort. Sakuramoto Tomio points out that Odagiri wrote a piece called “Kimigayo monogatari” in the children’s magazine Shō kokumin no tomo (November 1942) that explained the importance of emperor worship. See Sakuramoto Tomio, Shōkokumin wa wasurenai (Marujusha, 1982), 239.

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17 In this sense, I share Miriam Silverberg’s emphasis on the material continuity between prewar and wartime culture in the face of ideological change. See Miriam Silverberg, Erotic Grotesque Nonsense: The Mass Culture of Japanese Modern Times (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006), 5. 18 For more details on the “Kugunshin,” see James Dorsey, “Literary Tropes, Rhetorical Looping, and the Nine Gods of War: ‘Fascist Proclivities’ Made Real,” in The Culture of Japanese Fascism, ed. Alan Tansman (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 409–31. 19 Jonathan Rose outlines the critical possibilities for a “history of audiences” in “Rereading the English Common Reader: A Preface to a History of Audiences,” Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (January–March 1992): 47–70. 20 For an investigation of the covert warnings against blind jingoism and spiritualism that Unno infused in his seemingly nationalist and militarist tales of Japanese bravery in combat, see Sari Kawana, “Science Without Conscience: Unno Jūza and the Tenkō of Convenience,” in Converting Cultures: Religion, Ideology, and Transformations of Modernity, ed. A. Kevin Reinhart and Dennis C. Washburn, 183–208 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007). My view of the hidden importance of wartime science behind the façade of full-scale emphasis on Japanese spiritualism is amplified by Hiromi Mizuno, Science for the Empire: Scientific Nationalism in Modern Japan (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008); and William M. Tsutsui, Manufacturing Ideology: Scientific Management in Twentieth Century Japan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), especially 90–121. For more on military novels (commonly called nekketsu shōsetsu, or “hot-blooded novels”) during the late Meiji to Taishō periods, see Owen Griffiths, “Militarizing Japan: Patriotism, Profit, and Children’s Print Media, 1894–1925,” Japan Focus, September 27, 2007. http://apjjf.org/-Owen-Griffiths/2528 (accessed on January 30, 2016). 21 Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader,” 51–52. 22 See Sakuramoto, Shōkokumin wa wasurenai. 23 Roger Chartier, Forms and Meanings: Texts, Performances, and Audiences from Codex to Computer (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 93. 24 Unno’s works passed the censors despite their explicit criticisms of the Japanese government’s lack of emphasis on scientific education. Since reactions to these materials were so varied, Unno’s works can be seen as a way out of the oppositional model of wartime Japanese political ideology—pro- or antigovernment—used to gauge the meaning of various wartime cultural phenomena. Critics such as Andō Hiroshi and Kweon Seok-Yeong point out that most scholarship on wartime literary production has focused on determining the value of individual texts and authors according to standards of complicity and resistance. Andō and Kweon also criticize such rigid and one-dimensional measures of literary value as having significantly hampered the study of wartime cultural endeavors beyond discussions of guilt. As a consequence, works produced during the war have been largely ignored, written

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27

28

29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40

Notes off by postwar critics, or suppressed by the authors themselves. The postwar fate of Unno’s works typifies this tendency. His wartime works are almost always discussed (if mentioned at all) in terms of whether they were written in complicity with or resistance against government pressures. Such revisionist criticism also affects individual autobiographies, supposedly genuine accounts of the period. Many postwar writers are affected by this general critical stance, often internalizing the oppositional mindset as they recall their wartime experiences. See Kweon, “Nihon ni okeru tōsei to puropaganda,” 228. Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Randall (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1984), 174. Roger Chartier, “Laborers and Voyagers: From the Text to the Reader,” Diacritics 22, no. 2 (Summer 1992): 49; reprinted in The Book History Reader, ed. David Finkelstein and Alistair McCleery (London: Routledge, 2003), 47. My approach in the following pages borrows some of the strategies in Kate Flint’s study of the reading practices of English women in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. See Kate Flint, The Woman Reader 1837–1914 (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1993), esp. 187–249. Yamamoto Akira, “Shōnen ga kitaishita kūsō kagaku shōsetsu: Unno Jūza ‘Uchū sentai,’” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin: shōnen gunji aikoku shōsetsu no sekai, ed. Yamanaka Hisashi and Yamamoto Akira (Kyoto: Sekai shisōsha, 1985), 241. Diary entry for October 11, 2002. Nosaka Akiyuki, “Tabi no hate nikki,” http:// nosakaakiyuki.com/diary/index45.html (accessed on December 16, 2016). Kida Jun’ichirō, “Koshogai o aruku,” in Koshogai o aruku/Toshokan ga omoshiroi, vol. 3 of Kida Jun’ichirō chosakushū (San’ichi shobō, 1997), 113. Kida, Naiyō mihon ni miru shuppan Shōwa shi, 33. Ushijima Hidehiko, “Edogawa Ranpo no shōnen tantei shōsetsu: Kaijin nijū mensō,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 111–12. Ushijima Hidehiko, “Unno Jūza to ‘shōkokumin,’” Unno Jūza kenkyū 4 (1989): 3 (supplement to Unno Jūza zenshū, vol. 4 [San’ichi shobō, 1989]). Tanabe Seiko, “Kaisetsu,” in Yosano Akiko, Ojima Kikuko, Nogami Yaeko, Yoshiya Nobuko shū, vol. 6 of Nihon jidō bungaku taikei, ed. Senuma Shigeki (Holp shuppan, 1977), 489. Shōnen kurabu (February 1935): 319. Shōnen kurabu (July 1935): 322. Shōnen kurabu (August 1935): 354. Shōnen kurabu (December 1935): 340. A list of furoku for Shōnen kurabu can be found in Ozaki Hotsuki, Omoide no Shōnen kurabu jidai: natsukashi no meisaku hakurankai (Kōdansha, 1997), 242–57. Ushijima Hidehiko, Yume no hōrōsha, Edogawa Ranpo (Mainichi shinbunsha, 1980), 188.

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41 Ozaki Hotsuki, “Watashi no Shōnen kurabu taiken: Tenpei dōji ni furete,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 133. 42 Shōnen kurabu (July 1935): 324–25. 43 Shōnen kurabu (November 1935): 328. There were also letters submitted from readers in São Paulo, Brazil and Hailar, Manchuria (Shōnen kurabu [September 1935]: 354–55). 44 Morinaga Takurō, Kōga Chūichi, and Seisakubu iinkai, eds., Bukka no bunkashi jiten: Meiji, Taishō, Shōwa, Heisei (Tenbōsha, 2008), 143 and 341. 45 See Nagamine Shigetoshi, “Rōdōsha ga Chūō kōron o yomu toki,” in Modan toshi no dokusho kūkan (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 2001), 161–201. 46 Hatanaka, Nihon fashizumu no genron dan’atsu shōshi, 3. 47 Kasei heidan was Unno’s first extended serialization since the cancellation in 1937 of Shupio, the detective fiction magazine he co-founded and co-edited. The voluntary cancellation of this magazine and Unno’s apparent change in tone from politically neutral detective fiction writer to overly passionate military novelist made his colleagues—Edogawa Ranpo, for one—suspect the kind of ideological conversion common among literary figures in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Kawana, “Science without Conscience,” 184. 48 Unno Jūza, Kasei heidan (Kōdansha, 1939), 3. 49 Ibid., 5. 50 Tezuka Osamu, “Waga omoide no ki,” in Zeroman 3, vol. 4 of Tezuka Osamu zenshū (Suzuki shuppan, 1965), 123–24. 51 Kita Morio, “Dokusho ni tsuite,” in Dokutoru manbou shōjiten (Chūō kōronsha, 1963), 3–4. 52 “Sekaiteki ni shirarete iru hansha bōenkyō no daiichininsha Tasaka Ichirō san,” Wakayama-ken sōgō jōhōshi “REN” 5 (2003): 18–19. Available online at http:// www.pref.wakayama.lg.jp/prefg/000200/ren/pdf/ren8/18-19.pdf (accessed on December 15, 2016). 53 “‘Ano hi ga shuppatsuten’ miminari, nanchō … yonjūnenkan hochōki no kairyō kasaneru: hochōki benkyōkai Satō Tadashi san,” http://www.be.asahi.com (accessed on August 21, 2004). 54 Satō Tadao, “Unno Jūza to sono jidai,” Unno Jūza kenkyū 9 (1989): 1 (supplement to Unno Jūza zenshū, vol. 9 [San’ichi shobō, 1989]). 55 Ibid., 1–2. 56 Ibid., 2. 57 The story is available online at http://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000160/ files/3355_14011.html (accessed on October 21, 2016). 58 The military officer who complained to Unno was Navy Captain Hirade Hideo (1896–1948). This episode is mentioned in Kida Jun’ichirō, “Hito to sakuhin Unno Jūza,” in Hae otoko, ed. Unno Jūza (Kōdansha, 1996), 261.

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59 Yamamoto, “Shōnen ga kitaishita kūsō kagaku shōsetsu,” 245. 60 Jay Rubin discusses the contribution of Tanizaki Jun’ichirō—otherwise a writer capable of highly elegant prose and intriguing plotlines—to Tsuji shōsetsu shū (Streetcorner Stories), a wartime publication whose proceeds were supposed to fund the construction of more Japanese battleships. The story Tanizaki contributed consisted of no more than eight lines (suggesting an absence of authorial passion) that read drier than newspaper reportage. For Rubin, Tanizaki’s contribution was a form of passive protest against the interference of the government in aesthetic production. I would suggest that the seemingly ardent words of national pride ring hollow and perhaps serve as a covert signal to the audience to read beyond the lines. See Rubin, “The Military and Thought Police Take Over,” 278. 61 Satō Tadao, Taishū bunka no genzō (Iwanami shoten, 1993), 131. From an essay originally published as “Shōnen no risō shugi ni tsuite: Shōnen kurabu no saihyōka,” Shisō no kagaku (March 1959): 15–31. The historian of prewar Japanese children’s literature Hasegawa Ushio also points out that prewar (especially Taishō) children’s stories (dōwa) failed to inspire the same kind of excitement as more popular stories of battles because of the abstract nature of the conflicts depicted in them. “In short, wars in these stories are not real, and they are fought between countries A and B [kō and otsu] or animals. The battles in these stories lack realism.” Hasegawa Ushio, Jidō sensō yomimono no kindai, vol. 21 of Nihon jidō bunkashi sōsho (Kyūzansha, 1999), 93. 62 Ozaki Hotsuki, Yume o tsumugu: taishū jidō bunka no paionia (Mitsumura tosho, 1986), 25. One of the features of Shōnen kurabu popular with adults was the mame chishiki (trivia) section. The “Letters from the Readers” section constantly featured at least one report of how something the reader learned in the section became useful in real life (and received praise from grownups). On the other hand, educators throughout Japan welcomed the vantage point of Shōnen kurabu. A popular saying among teachers in the prewar period was: “Textbook in the right hand, and Shōnen kurabu in the left” (migite ni kyōkasho, hidarite ni Shōnen kurabu). Katō Takeo, Manga shōnen monogatari: henshūsha Katō Ken’ichi den (Toshi shuppan, 2002), 249. 63 Ozaki Hotsuki, Yume o tsumugu, 297. 64 Ibid., 308. 65 Interview with Matsushita Yoshiyuki, in ibid., 161. 66 Takasaki Ryūji, “Umi no bōken to romansu: ‘Gōyū arawashi kanchō’ e no akogare,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 148. 67 Ibid., 149. 68 Ibid. 69 Ibid., 160. 70 Adachi Ken’ichi, “Satō Kōroku no nekketsu shōsetsu: Aa gyokuhai ni hana ukete,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 56.

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71 Shimizu Seki, “Kūsō kagaku shōsetsu to ‘kagakusuru kokoro’: senjika shōkokumin no kagaku kyōiku,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 180. 72 Interview with Komatsu Sakyō in Tezuka Osamu, “Komatsu Sakyō: Komikku, kako, genzai, mirai,” in Tezuka Osamu taidanshū 4, vol. 396 of Tezuka Osamu manga zenshū (Kōdansha, 1997), 10–11. 73 Ibid., 11. 74 Furukawa Takahisa, Senjika no Nihon eiga: hitobito wa kokusaku eiga o mitaka (Yoshikawa kōbunkan, 2003), 154. 75 Satō, “Unno Jūza to sono jidai,” 3. 76 Ushijima, “Unno Jūza to ‘shōkokumin,’” 8. 77 Yamamoto, “Shōnen ga kitaishita kūsō kagaku shōsetsu,” 242. 78 Ibid. 79 Shimizu, “Kūsō kagaku shōsetsu to ‘kagakusuru kokoro,’” 173. 80 Yamamoto Akira and Yamanaka Hisashi, “Jūgonen sensōka no shōnen gunji aikoku shōsetsu,” in Kachinuku bokura shōkokumin, ed. Yamanaka and Yamamoto, 17. 81 Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader,” 68. 82 Mishima Yukio, cited in Yokoo Tadanori, comp., Kodomo no Shōwashi: shinseiki shōnen mitsurin daigahō, Bessatsu Taiyō (Heibonsha, 1999), 1.

Chapter 3 1

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Mainichi shinbun, July 13, 2003, page 4. Despite this current popularity, contemporary reviews of Kokoro were mixed at best, with even Komiya Toyotaka, Sōseki’s most loyal literary disciple, criticizing the text for leaving unwritten how exactly sensei suffered (cited in Yamamoto Yoshiaki, “Sōseki hyōka tenkanki no bunseki: Higan sugimade kara Sōseki no shi made,” in Bungakusha wa tsukurareru [Hitsuji shobō, 2000], 21–23). In addition to pure intellectual merit, frequent inclusion in school textbooks likely contributes to this status. Between 1949 and 2003, Sōseki was the most “popular” author in the textbook world: in 2003, Sōseki’s works were found to make up 8.1 percent of all literary works excerpted in textbooks, ahead of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (7.9 percent) and Mori Ōgai (6.6 percent). See Anno Izumi, ed., Yonde okitai meicho annai: kyōkasho keisai sakuhin 13000 (Nichigai asoshiaētsu, 2008), vi. The advertising booklet for Shinchō bunko’s summer 2013 list puts Kokoro first in the list of top twenty longest-selling “greatest of the great works that will always be read” (counted from initial publication to the end of March 2013). See Watashi no ichigyō: Shinchō bunko no 100 satsu (Shinchōsha, 2013), 31. The re-serialization was announced on March 22, 2014. Asahi shinbun mimicked the original as much as possible: starting the serialization on the same date (April

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Notes 20, exactly one hundred years from the original start); dividing the work into the same 110 installments; dating the installments “1914” rather than “2014” (in other words, the first installment of the re-serialization was dated “April 20, 1914”); and using the same title logo. Asahi shinbun, April 20, 2014, 8. The re-serialization continued to September 25, 2014. In 1956, the textbook publisher Shimizu shoten included an excerpt from the first section of Kokoro (“Sensei to watakushi”) in their text Kōtō kokugo II, marking its initial inclusion in a school textbook. The later trend to excerpt the third section (“Sensei to isho”) started with Chikuma shobō’s Gendai kokugo II in 1963. For a discussion of the history of Kokoro as textbook material, see Nonaka Jun, “Haisengo bungaku to shite no Kokoro: Sōseki to kyōkasho,” in Yokomitsu Riichi to haisengo bungaku (Kasama shoin, 2005), 278–98. According to Nonaka, Kokoro was not used for this purpose before the Second World War, even though other writings by Sōseki—including Wagahai wa neko de aru and a variety of essays—were readily used. Komachiya Teruhiko et al., Seisen gendaibun (Tōkyō shoseki, 2008), 140. Takemori Ten’yū, et al., Kōtō gakkō kaiteiban gendaibun (Daiichi gakushūsha, 2009), 134. More often than not, the excerpt from Kokoro begins somewhere in part 3 between sections 33 and 36, with the sequence of events in which sensei becomes aware of the possible rivalry with K: when sensei sees Shizu and K walking together in section 33; when sensei, K, Shizu, and okusan (Shizu’s mother) play karuta (a card game) in section 35; or when K confides his feelings for Shizu to sensei in section 36. No textbook prints the novel in its entirety. When Komori was a high school student disgruntled with the textbook explanation, he wondered what Shizu and watakushi would do when they see each other after sensei’s death, and commented so in class, only to be told by the teacher that he did not need to think about such things because they are not stated explicitly in the text—that they lie outside the text. His question earned him the ridicule of a group of female students who belonged to the “literature club” (bungeibu). He (jokingly) explains that this deep resentment has motivated his scholarship on Kokoro. Mentioned in a roundtable between Komori, Oshino Takeshi, Miyakawa Takeo, and Nakamura Miharu, held at Tohoku University on July 25, 1992; transcribed in Komori Yōichi, Nakamura Miharu, and Miyakawa Takeo, eds., Sōryoku tōron Sōseki no Kokoro (Kanrin shobō, 1994), 10. Interestingly, an acquaintance of Komori who works as a high school teacher also mentions the experience of having been challenged by a fellow student over the authenticity of the “by-the-textbook” reading he offered in class. Mentioned in Komori Yōichi, Otona no tame no kokugo kyōkasho: ano meisaku no “abunai” yomikata (Kadokawa shoten, 2009), 10. Komori’s first published suggestion of sensei and Shizu being united appears in Komori Yōichi, “Kokoro ni okeru hanten suru shuki: kūhaku to imi no seisei,” in Kōzō to shite no katari (Shin’yōsha, 1988), 415–37.

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9 Ihara Mitsuo, Sōseki no nazo o toku: Kokoro ron (Keisō shobō, 1989), 138. 10 For instance, Ihara compares Kokoro with Oedipus at Colonus, and declares that sensei was not his parents’ biological son (ibid., 55). In the original myth, Oedipus is an adopted son of Polybus and Merope, King and Queen of Corinth. 11 Ihara points out the absence of “an interpretation that can convince everyone” (ibid., 5). 12 See Komori, “Kokoro ni okeru hanten suru shuki.” For a summary of the literary debates that ensued, see Atsuko Sakaki, “The Debates on ‘Kokoro’: A Cornerstone,” in Recontextualizing Texts: Narrative Performance in Modern Japanese Fiction (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 1999). 13 “In sum, ‘watakushi’ keeps ‘sensei’s secret’ to himself and unnarrated; ‘watakushi’ has kept his promise. He has never broken it.” Imanishi Junkichi, “Kokoro” no himitsu: Sōseki no zasetsu to saisei (Transview, 2010), 15. 14 Komiya Toyotaka suggests: “The reader is struck by the aura of ethicality and highmindedness that radiates [from sensei]” (Sōseki no geijutsu [Iwanami shoten, 1942], 260). 15 For instance, Komori expresses his confusion about K’s suicide since K is depicted as a strong character who pursued his own Buddhist path against the wishes of his adoptive and biological families. Suicide as a self-punishment for his deviation from his original goal is conceivable only in theory; in “reality,” he says that it completely unnatural (roundtable with Ishihara Chiaki and Hasuga Shigehiko, in Komori Yōichi and Ishihara Chiaki, eds., Sōseki o kataru, vol. 2 [Kanrin shobō, 1998], 180–81). 16 Neither the Shinchōsha bunko nor Iwanami bunko versions of Kokoro in circulation as of 2015 include diagrams. One exception is the 1994 edition of the Iwanami shoten Sōseki zenshū, which reprints the diagram from Tamai Takayuki, Sōseki kenkyū e no michi (Ōfūsha, 1988), 90. See Natsume Sōseki, Kokoro, vol. 9 of Sōseki zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1994), 337. 17 Such floor plans contain varying levels of detail: one gives the basic layout of the interior along with approximations of room size (Takemori Ten’yū et al., Kaiteiban gendaibun [Daiichi gakushūsha, 2008], 138), while another depicts not just the floor plan but also the exterior of the house as viewed from the south (Kitahara Yasuo et al., Kaiteiban gendaibun I [Taishūkan shoten, 2008], 251). 18 Willard Huntington Wright [pseud. S. S. Van Dine], “Introduction,” in The Great Detective Stories: A Chronological Anthology, ed. Willard Huntington Wright (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1927), 7. 19 The diagrams can be found in Agatha Christie, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (London: William Collins & Sons, 1926), 63; and S. S. Van Dine, The Greene Murder Case (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1928), 74. 20 See Pierre Bayard, Qui a tué Roger Ackroyd? (Paris: Éditions de Minuit, 1998; reprinted 2002), translated as Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?: The Mystery Behind the

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Notes Agatha Christie Mystery (New York: The New Press, 2000); Enquête sur Hamlet. Le Dialogue de sourds (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 2002); L’affaire du chien des Baskervilles (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 2008), translated as Sherlock Holmes Was Wrong: Reopening the Case of The Hound of the Baskervilles (New York: Bloomsbury, 2008). See Sari Kawana, “A Narrative Game of Cat and Mouse: Parody, Deception, and Fictional Whodunit in Natsume Sōseki’s Wagahai wa neko dearu,” Journal of Modern Literature 33, no. 4 (July 2010): 1–20. Bayard, Sherlock Holmes Was Wrong, 64. Ibid., 59. These circumstances are discussed in Mizukawa Takao, Natsume Sōseki Kokoro o yominaosu (Heibonsha, 2005), 12–15; and Ishihara Chiaki, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei (Misuzu shobō, 2005), 62–65. A notable exception may be Ōtomo Katsuhiro’s manga “Hōmonsha” (Visitors), in which the story is narrated from the protagonist’s point of view: as a result, the protagonist is not seen in the story except for a scene in which there is his reflection on the shiny door knob. Ōtomo Katsuhiro, “Hōmonsha,” in SOS dai Tōkyō tankentai (Kōdansha, 1996), 145; illustration cited in Takeuchi Osamu, Manga hyōgengaku nyūmon (Chikuma shobō, 2005), 88. Bayard, Sherlock Holmes Was Wrong, 65–66. For instance, one of Sōseki’s students Morita Sōhei (1881–1949) is known to have married Iwata Saku, the daughter of the family who ran such a boarding house in Hongō (Noguchi Fujio, Watakushi no naka no Tokyo [Bungei shunjū, 1978], 207). See also Negishi Masazumi, Morita Sōhei no bungaku (Ōfūsha, 1976), 25. All citations from Kokoro will consist of part number and section number used across all Japanese editions; quotations translated into English will include the page number from Meredith McKinney’s translation (Natsume Sōseki, Kokoro, trans. Meredith McKinney [London: Penguin Books, 2010]). Portions of quoted text enclosed in brackets indicate places where I have adjusted the translation to reflect my reading of the original. For instance, Komori uses terms like “hometown relationality” (dōkyō, kakyōteki na kankeisei), “fellowship relationality mediated by mutually held ideals” (kyōtsū no shinnen o nakadachi to shita dōshiteki kankeisei), and “samurai-like ‘homoerotic’ relationality” (samurai-teki “nanshoku” no kankeisei). See “Kokoro ni okeru dōseiai to iseiai,” in Sōryoku tōron Sōseki no Kokoro, ed. Komori Yōichi, Nakamura Miharu, and Miyakawa Takeo (Kanrin shobō, 1994), 141–65, especially 157–58. See J. Keith Vincent, “Sensei’s Bloody Legacy: Sōseki’s Kokoro in the Male Homosocial Imagination,” in Two-Timing Modernity: Homosocial Narrative in Modern Japanese Fiction (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2012), 86–119.

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31 Abe Yoshishige, “Waga tomo o omou,” Dai ichi kōtō gakkō kōyūkai zasshi, no. 137 (May 28, 1904): 36. Cited in Roden, Schooldays in Imperial Japan, 171. 32 Jeffrey Angles writes: “In the minds of many, graduation from school meant that students should also leave behind the adolescent appreciation of boys and enter the ‘adult’ realm of cross-sex desire and family. Late adolescence represented a transition when the male-male desire of youth was generally expected to give way to love between a man and a woman. The two forms of desire might spill over into one another during youth, but as youth gave way to adulthood, society typically expected the two to diverge.” Jeffrey Angles, Writing the Love of Boys: Origins of Bishōnen Culture in Modernist Japanese Literature (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), 34. 33 See Ubukata Toshirō, Meiji Taishō kenbunshi (Chūō kōronsha, 1978), 102. Originally published in 1926. 34 Ishihara, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 100. Ishihara further states that it was a “rite of passage” for sensei to “overcome” (norikoeru) a father-figure, in this case K (ibid., 99–100). Ishihara points to the scene in which sensei sees Shizu pile his kimono onto hers (ibid., 97; part 3 section 18). 35 “K’s nerves seemed to have improved considerably by then. In contrast, I was becoming more and more sensitive” (part 3 section 28; translation mine). 36 Freud’s “Rat Man” had a similar rude awakening when his tutor, whom he trusted as a friend (and an older confidant), was only being friendly because he was romantically interested in one of his sisters. He felt “conned.” See Sigmund Freud, “Notes Upon a Case of Obsessional Neurosis (‘Rat Man’) and Process Notes for the Case Study,” in The Freud Reader, ed. Peter Gay (New York: W. W. Norton, 1989), 309–50. 37 Sekiya Yumiko lists instances where sensei “observes” (kansatsu suru) or “watches” (miru) others in order to figure out their inner emotions/workings. See Sekiya Yumiko, “Kokoro ron: sensei to yobareta otoko,” in Natsume Sōseki “Kokoro” sakuhin ronshū, ed. Inokuma Yūji, vol. 3 of Kindai bungaku sakuhin ron shūsei (Kuresu shuppan, 2001), 121–42, especially 129. 38 See for instance Akiyama Kimio, “Kokoro no shi to rinri: gashū to no sōkan,” in Natsume Sōseki “Kokoro” sakuhin ronshū, ed. Inokuma Yūji, vol. 3 of Kindai bungaku sakuhinron shūsei (Kuresu shuppan, 2001), 87–109. 39 Cited in Arashiyama Kōzaburō, Tsuitō no tatsujin (Shinchōsha, 1999), 42. 40 Moreover, if we are to assume that the directions suggested in the floor plan in the Tōkyō shoseki textbook is accurate, that would have meant that sensei would have had his head closer to K’s room than usual. 41 Nagayama Chōzaburō, “Hanzai sōsa jitsuwa (15): jisatsu ka tasatsu ka,” Hanzaigaku zasshi 8, no. 6 (November 1934): 62. 42 Yanagisawa Yukari analyzes Nichiren’s personality by examining his handwriting in three manuscripts: a copy of Gorin kujimyō himitsushaku (Kakuban, twelfth

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45 46

47 48

49 50

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Notes century) and his own works Risshō ankokuron (1260) and Kanjin honzonshō (1273). See Yanagisawa Yukari, Hisseki no fushigi: rekishijō no jinbutsu no kokoro o tokiakasu (Bungeisha, 2010), 51–62. According to Ishihara Chiaki’s chronology, K’s suicide is supposed to have taken place in 1900 (“Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 152). For a discussion of Fujimura’s suicide and its aftermath, see Hiraishi Noriko, Hanmon seinen to jogakusei no bungakushi: “seiyō” o yomikaete (Shin’yōsha, 2012), 15–32. Nemoto Hiroshi, Hisseki jiken fairu: hisseki kanteinin ga jiken no nazo o toku (Kōsaidō shuppan, 2007), 103. Nemoto explains a case in which a woman who was sending harassment letters hid her identity by using her skills at calligraphy and varying her handwriting. Her crime was uncovered by the examination of the way in which the postal codes were written. Ibid., 105–9. Arashiyama, Tsuitō no tatsujin, 48. The obituary writers included: Ishibashi Shian (1867–1927), Iwaya Sazanami (1870–1933), Hosokawa Fūkoku (1867–1919), Takeuchi Keishū (1861–1942), Maruoka Kyūka (1865–1927), Emi Suiin (1869– 1934), and Hirotsu Ryūrō (1861–1928). Ibid. The case garnered intense attention from the media and the general public, and even years after the conclusion of the trial, there were analyses published in the popular press and in scholarly journals. Although most works did not dispute the ruling of the court, they took pains to describe the unexplained elements of the case and alluded to a truth that had yet to be uncovered. Even works published in legitimate venues featured explicit diagrams and grisly photos that further sensationalized the incident. These and other details of the case are taken from a long-form recap by Yamamoto Nogitarō (1889–1951), who serialized the account well after the trial was completed. “Kofue jiken,” in Meisakuhen 1, vol. 11 of Nihon tantei shōsetsu zenshū (Tōkyō sōgensha, 1996). Originally serialized in Kōbe shinbun and Kyōto Nichinichi shinbun, July 6 to December 28, 1932. Yamamoto, “Kofue jiken,” 212. After the ruling, one more forensic expert, Asada Hajime, a professor at Nagasaki Medical College, joined the second group that saw the rope marks on Kofue’s neck and the state of the body as pointing to suicide. Asada Hajime, “Jisatsu ka tasatsu ka: Kofue jiken,” Hanzaigaku zasshi 2, no. 2 (May 1929): 153. A widely referenced work of criminology at the time was Kosakai Fuboku’s (1890–1929) Satsujinron (1924), which asserted (among other things) how “the cruelty of women at times reaches the level that that of men can never achieve” and how “women are physiologically close to children.” Kosakai Fuboku, Satsujinron (Kokusho kankōkai, 1991), 42 and 44. Hirokawa was also familiar with this text (Yamamoto, “Kofue jiken,” 331). The language is utterly discriminatory as Kosakai, following conventional theories of the time, posits that all females are potential

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53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62 63 64

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criminals. Hirokawa’s defense fully exploited this stereotype, arguing that Kofue killed the three girls and committed suicide in order to incriminate her drifting lover Hirokawa—all because of her innate pathological psychology. Ibid., 388–424. For instance, the magazine Hanzaigaku zasshi (Criminology Magazine) was founded by one of the leading forensic scientists of the day, Furuhata Tanemoto (1891–1975), in 1929. (It is still being published, with only one interruption between 1944 and 1951.) It dedicated the most space to these methods, which were preferred to handwritten documents as sources of evidence because of their “scientific” nature; as such, handwriting analysis is given minimal treatment. An exception is Andō Kason, who cites Cesare Lombroso and generalizes handwriting patterns of “murderers and robbers” and “(petty) thieves.” See Andō Kason, “Hanzainin no bunshin, ingo, keishō moji oyobi hisseki,” Hanzaigaku zasshi 16, no. 3 (May 1942): 72–73. Yamamoto, “Kofue jiken,” 190. Ibid. Ibid., 355–56. Ibid., 191. Ibid., 405. “There may be people who think that because the defendant is well educated he would not commit such a crime, but just because a person is educated does not necessarily mean that they are not capable of criminal acts…. Education may be taken into account with other circumstances as part of the evidence, but education alone cannot serve as proof to the contrary.” Yamamoto, “Kofue jiken,” 385–86. Ibid., 389. Asada, “Jisatsu ka tasatsu ka,” 154. Vincent, “Sensei’s Bloody Legacy,” 99. Ibid. Ishihara, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 108. Ibid., 62–65, 137. The point about the number of letters is explained by Ishihara as an extra letter from Shizu (and not from sensei) from their trip to Nikkō, based on a mention in Sōseki’s raw manuscript (later removed) that the letter seemed to be more in Shizu’s taste. Ishihara Chiaki, “Kaisetsu,” in Sōseki jihitsu genkō Kokoro, by Natsume Sōseki, supplemental booklet (Iwanami shoten, 1993), 4. Ishihara, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 65. Sōseki also discloses in the preface that the “case, outer cover, inner cover, title page, colophon, title lettering, vermilion seal, author’s imprint—all of these things I came up with and designed myself.” See Natsume Sōseki, “Kokoro jijo,” in Hyōron zappen, vol. 14 of Sōseki zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1929), 477. Ishihara compiles the aforementioned list with the view that these inconsistencies are meaningful. Ishihara, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 65 and 137.

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67 Obata Takeshi, Kokoro, by Natsume Sōseki, Aoi bungaku anime komikkusu 2 (Shūeisha, 2010). 68 Dai Nihon kokugo jiten, s.v. “henshi,” comp. Ueda Kazutoshi and Matsui Kanji, vol. 4 (Fuzanbō, 1919), 765. 69 For instance, in his annotated text of Kokoro, Fujii Hidetada cites this definition from Shinpen Daigenkai, but concludes that it could only mean suicide: “Although this is how the term is defined, it is self-evident that this is simply an ambiguous way to talk about ‘suicide.’” See Fujii Hidetada, annot., Kokoro, vol. 12 of Sōseki bungaku zen chūshaku (Wakakusa shobō, 2000), 69. 70 Sekiya, “Kokoro ron,” 314–15. 71 In one scene, Shizu has an emotional outburst and demands to know why she is not allowed to mention K’s name even though he was sensei’s best friend and no stranger as three of them used to live together. In this adaptation, Shizu attempts to explain the unhappiness of their marriage by her husband’s (hidden) sexual orientation. 72 Ishihara Chiaki, “Kaisetsu,” 5. 73 Komori Yōichi hints at this situation in his article “‘Kokoro’ o seisei suru ‘hāto’,” Seijō kokubungaku 1 (March 1985): 51–52. 74 Komori Yoichi, “‘Watakushi’ to iu tasha: kyoyū sarenakatta gengo geemu,” in Komori, Nakamura, and Miyakawa, eds., Sōryoku tōron Sōseki no Kokoro, 141–65, especially 164. 75 Natsume Sōseki, Sōseki jihitsu genkō Kokoro (Iwanami shoten, 1993), unpaginated. 76 Takahashi Yuki, Kokoro, by Natsume Sōseki, Meicho o manga de 4 (Gakken, 2010), 51. 77 Even Imanishi Junkichi, who tends to place utmost priority (or a certain sacredness) on the original text, admits that what sensei promised to reveal to watakushi in the first part is not really disclosed even in the confession. Imanishi believes in the “omnipotent and omniscient author” and thinks that even inconsistencies and contradictions within the text are not glitches but Sōseki’s carefully thought out tricks that are designed to draw the reader’s attention. Imanishi, “Kokoro” no himitsu, 15 and 46. 78 Sōseki apparently bought it during his stay in England, December 17, 1900, and signed it “K. Natsume.” See Sasaki Yasuaki, Natsume Sōseki zōsho (yōsho) no kiroku: Tōhoku Daigaku shozō “Sōseki bunko” ni miru (Kōriyama: Tentōfusha, 2008), 88. 79 Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, Letter 4, August 13th, 17–, Project Gutenberg ebook, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/84/84-h/84-h.htm (accessed on January 21, 2017). 80 The equivalent of Shizu, Elizabeth, is already dead and absent at this point in the story. 81 Victor advises Walton: You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of

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these evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.

82 83 84

85 86

87 88 89

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Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, Letter 4, August 19, 17–, Project Gutenberg ebook, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/84/84-h/84-h.htm (accessed on January 21, 2017). Mizukawa, Natsume Sōseki Kokoro o yominaosu, 14–15. Ishihara, “Kokoro”: otona ni narenakatta sensei, 62–65. Sōseki reports that when the work was being republished in book form, he made a point of elaborating the physical design (as described earlier) and creating the three parts. As such, if he had wished to adjust any of the narrative glitches, he should have been able to do so. Natsume Sōseki, “Kokoro jijo,” 477. Cited in Toeda, Iwanami Shigeo, 53. Takahashi Yuki, Kokoro, 189–90. Komori Yōichi, roundtable with Iida Yūko, Seki Reiko, and Ishihara Chiaki, in Komori Yōichi and Ishihara Chiaki, eds. Sōseki o kataru, vol. 2 (Kanrin shobō, 1998), 224. Ibid., 224–25. Bayard, Sherlock Holmes Was Wrong, 67–68. Sōseki admits that once his characters develop enough and start moving on their own he just lets them be: it was his creative policy to depict “people who can only be seen as living and details that can only be seen as natural.” Natsume Sōseki, “Tayama Katai kun ni kotau,” in Hyōron zappen, vol. 14 of Sōseki zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1929), 150–51. Cited in Mizukawa, Natsume Sōseki Kokoro o yominaosu, 12. Ueno Masahiko, “Ano meikyūiri no shōsetsu ni shinhannin ga ita: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke ‘Yabu no naka’ no shisatsu jiken o kaibō suru,” in “Yabu no naka” no shitai (Shinchōsha, 2005), 33–61. Ibid., 61. For instance, in reality Ichiyō visited her mentor Nakarai Tōsui (1861–1926) on May 9, 1892. However, in the film she visits him as he is writing his novel Kosa fuku kaze (1891), which he would have finished serializing in April 8 of the same year. See Nakagawa Shigemi, Modaniti no sōzōryoku: bungaku to shikakusei (Shin’yōsha, 2009), 188. Ibid., 185–86.

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94 The movie suggests that Ishinosuke had indeed witnessed it, and that the flowers were left by Sangorō (ibid., 194 and 197). 95 Ibid., 201. 96 Satō Izumi, Kokugo kyōkasho no sengoshi (Keisō shobō, 2006), 218.

Chapter 4 1 2 3 4 5

6

7

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Shimizu Bunkichi, Hon wa nagareru, 90. Marc Steinberg, Anime’s Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2012), viii. Adam L. Kern, Manga from the Floating World: Comicbook Culture and the Kibyōshi of Edo Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), 93. See Maeda Ai, “Ondoku kara mokudoku e,” in Kindai dokusha no seiritsu (Iwanami shoten, 2001), 166–210. Originally published in 1962. Ueda Yasuo, in a roundtable with Sano Shin’ichi and Kiyoda Yoshiaki in 2003, published in Ueda Yasuo and Shin bunka henshūbu, eds., Besutoserā no shikakenin: ureru hon wa dono yō ni umareru no ka (Āku shuppan, 2005), 91. This notion of a “canonical universe” is similar to Hibi Yoshitaka’s concept of the ākaibu (archive) of Sōseki’s Wagahai wa neko de aru, which envelops not only the original text as it was printed and reprinted in different editions but also expands to include the countless derivative works and parodies across various media that have appeared over the years. See Hibi Yoshitaka, “Sakuhin no shigo no bungakushi: Natsume Sōseki Wagahai wa neko de aru to sono zokuhen, parody,” in Bungaku no rekishi o dō kakinaosu ka: 20-seiki Nihon no shōsestu, kūkan, media (Kasama shoin, 2016), 92–109. Mentioned in Takagi Takeo, Shinbun shōsetsushi: Meiji hen (Kokusho kankōkai, 1974), 163. Although the design of these billboards is unknown, the reaction of at least one viewer is captured in print. Kōyō’s disciple Tokuda Shūsei (1872–1943) writes that he found the advertisement vulgar when he saw one near Suidōbashi in 1897—even though the end product supposedly had the explicit approval of his master. Itō Sei, Ken’yūsha to Ichiyō no jidai, vol. 4 of Nihon bundanshi (Kōdansha, 1995), 218. For instance, Kōyō draws symbolic characters of birds in his letter to Uchida Roan from March 24, 1890. Ozaki Kōyō, Kōyō zenshū, vol. 12 (Iwanami shoten, 1995), 21. Oka Yasuo, one of the editors of Kōyō’s collected works, praises the beauty of his handwriting as a factor that raises the artistic value of his correspondence: “Even in one postcard, Kōyō’s aesthetics are reflected in the positioning of the text, line breaks, individual characters, and other elements” (ibid., 503). For instance, Kōyō instructed Izumi Kyōka (1873–1939) to use rubi, darker ink, and neater handwriting in order to avoid discrepancies between the manuscript

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and the final printed text. See letter from Ozaki Kōyō to Izumi Kyōka, around 1898 (exact date unclear), Kōyō zenshū, vol. 12, 74. Munakata Kazushige, “Kaidai,” in Ozaki Kōyō, Kōyō zenshū, vol. 6 (Iwanami shoten, 1993), 457–72, especially the section on Tajō takon, 458–62. Also mentioned in Seki Hajime, Shinbun shōsetsu no jidai: media, dokusha, merodorama (Shin’yōsha, 2007), 29. Kōyō himself describes these printing difficulties: “I was not making impossible demands, but they treated as nuisances things that I thought were essential [atarimae no koto]” (“Kōyō sanjin o otozuu,” in Kōyō zenshū, vol. 10 [Iwanami shoten, 1994], 217). He also reports that he had to spend seven months on checking the 505-page manuscript three or four times, but even by the time of he wrote those words, he was still not finished with the project and appeared fed up. For a detailed discussion of Kōyō and book design, see Kōno Kensuke, “Ishō no ideorogī,” in Shomotsu no kindai: media no bungakushi (Chikuma shōbō, 1992), 45–77. See Honda Yasuo, Shinbun shōsetsu no tanjō (Heibonsha, 1998), 41–61. Ozaki Kōyō, “Kōyō-shi no shinbun shōsetsuron,” in Kōyō zenshū, vol. 10, 264. Originally appeared in Yomiuri shinbun, February 13, 1899. Aeba’s stance was described in the “Miscellaneous” (zatsuroku) section of the inaugural issue of Bungei kurabu (January 1895); this entry is reproduced in its entirety in Dekune Tatsurō, Yomiuri shinbun de yomu Meiji: mukashi o tazunete ima o shiru (Chūō kōron shinsha, 2007), 297–98. Providing sketches with instructions to one’s illustrator was not a practice unique to Kōyō. Tsubouchi Shōyō (1859–1935) steered the work of his illustrator Nagahara Shisui (1864–1930) when working on Tōsei shosei katagi (Portraits of Contemporary Students, 1885). For a side-by-side view of Shōyō’s preliminary sketch and Shisui’s final illustration, see Kanagawa bungaku shinkōkai, ed., Bungaku no sashie to sōteiten (Yokohama: Kanagawa kindai bungakukan, 1997), 21. Kōyō writes that the editor from Shun’yōdō came to his home to discuss which illustrations—supposedly the ones drawn based on his sketches—to adopt. Diary entry for April 8, 1902, Kōyō zenshū, vol. 11 (Iwanami shoten, 1995), 279. In one instance, Kōyō's intentions were respected well after his death. In Konjiki yasha emaki (Konjiki yasha Picture Scroll) published in 1911, the illustrator Kaburaki Kiyokata (1878–1972) reveals a discussion he had with Kōyō on the physical traits of O-Miya when they first collaborated during the serialization of zokuhen (sequel). When Kaburaki asked Kōyō what exactly O-Miya looked like, Kōyō showed him a portrait of a geisha—what seemed to be a clipping from a magazine—and told him that he expects O-Miya to be a cross between a thinner version of this geisha and Kōyō’s reported mistress O-En, also a geisha in Shinbashi. Kaburaki allegedly kept the portraits of these two women on his desk ever since this exchange while he worked on Konjiki yasha so as not to stray from the original

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Notes image that the deceased author possessed for his heroine. See “Emaki no ato ni,” in Kaburaki Kiyokata, Konjiki yasha emaki (Shun’yōdō, 1911), unpaginated. Critic Kan Satoko analyzes the evolution of Kōyō’s view of “authorial ownership” and “authorial responsibility” in “Kindai bungaku seiritsuki no ichi sokumen: chosakuken ishiki o shiza to shite,” in Media no jidai: Meiji bungaku o meguru jōkyō (Sōbunsha shuppan: 2001), 11–43. Kan suspects that Kōyō may have been realizing the modern view of copyright in his final years, especially through the experience of editing his own zenshū (33–40). Kōyō reportedly confided so in his wife. See Ozaki Toyono, “Shūto kara kiita Kōyō no omoide,” in Kōyō zenshū, supplement to vol. 6 (Iwanami shoten, 1993), 8. Ozaki Kōyō, “Kōyō sanjin o otozuu,” in Kōyō zenshū, vol. 10, 215. For the full serialization history of Konjiki yasha and its continuations, see Seki, Shinbun shōsetsu no jidai, 55. This is the first date Konjiki yasha appears in the chronologies found in Kawamura Karyō, “Shinpa kyakuhon kōgyō nenpyō,” in Shinpa kyakuhonshū, vol. 38 of Nihon gikyoku zenshū (Shun’yōdō, 1929) and Komiya Kiichi, ed., Kabuki, shinpa, shinkokugeki jōen nenpyō: 1912–1993 (self-published, 1994). This predates a similar production in March 1898. However, since the venue of the two productions appears similar, the actual performances were probably similar as well, if not identical. Fujisawa Asajirō refers to these performances in his essay “Tōkyō-za no rokugatsu kōen: Konjiki yasha,” Shin shōsetsu (July 1903): 244–49. Fujisawa not only wrote the script but also played Kan’ichi. Some theatergoers preferred Kawakami’s performance. See Matsuzaki Tenmin, “Geki to shite no Konjiki yasha: Asahi-za no shin engeki,” Shō tenchi (July 1902): 159. Seki, Shinbun shōsetsu no jidai, 64–65. Matsuzaki, “Geki to shite no Konjiki yasha,” 159. One piece of evidence that Kōyō was not against the idea of theatrical adaptation comes from Kamitsukasa Shōken (1874–1947), a Yomiuri employee from 1897 to 1920, who describes an episode in which Kōyō pushed to win a popularity contest hosted by U-shinbun (a thinly veiled reference to Yomiuri). Out of three novels, the one with the most votes was to be adapted by kabuki actors and performed at the Kabuki-za as their March program. Kōyō’s Natsu kosode (Summer Robe, 1892) was one of the contenders, and apparently he staged a fierce campaign to win the participants’ hearts so that his work, already once adapted by a shinpa troupe, would be selected. This contest was actually rigged as Yomiuri staged this contest without consulting Kabuki-za and had already decided the program. When he leaned that he did not win, the author was visibly disappointed. The entire incident is described in detail in Kamitsukasa Shōken, “U-shinbun nendaiki,” in Kosugi Tengai, Kinoshita Naoe, Kamitsukasa Shōken shū, vol. 31 of Nihon gendai bungaku zenshū, ed. Itō Sei (Kōdansha, 1968), 365–69.

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27 The creators of the Osaka Asahi-za version in June 1902 debated whether to treat this incident as reality or dream. In the end, they seem to have decided to treat O-Miya’s suicide as reality, and depict the ascendance of her spirit to heaven (Fujisawa uses the word uchū) in the form of a butterfly (as Kan’ichi cries in despair). For more on this adaptation, see Fujisawa, “Tōkyō-za no rokugatsu kōen,” 244–49, especially 246. 28 Seki, Shinbun shōsetsu no jidai, 68. 29 The most popular theatrical adaptation of Konjiki yasha during Kōyō’s lifetime was actually the Asahi-za production in June 1902. Although it was reportedly put together hastily, it would come to be regarded as the standard for all later Konjiki yasha theatrical productions. It had notable actors (especially Takada Minoru [1871–1916], who played Arao Jōsuke), and successfully shifted the focus of the story from themes of money to love (Seki, Shinbun shōsetsu no jidai, 70). 30 Ozaki Kōyō, “Tōkyō-za no Konjiki yasha o mite,” Kōyō zenshū, vol. 10, 329. Originally appeared in Kabuki, July 1903. 31 Fujisawa, “Tōkyō-za no rokugatsu kōen,” 246–47. 32 “Terebi ga tsukuru okuman chōja,” Asahi shinbun, May 2, 1978, 23. Morimura, Yokomizo, and Matsumoto earned approximately 623 million, 404 million, and 305 million yen, respectively. 33 Satō Kichinosuke, ed., Subete ga koko kara hajimaru: Kadokawa gurūpu wa nani o mezasu ka (Kadokawa Group Holdings, 2007), 26 and 50. 34 Kadokawa Haruki came up with this particular slogan during the ad campaign for Morimura Seiichi’s novel Nigen no shōmei (Proof of the Man, 1977), following the Yokomizo campaign. See Kadokawa Haruki and Shimizu Takashi, Itsuka giragirasuru hi: Kadokawa Haruki no eiga kakumei (Kadokawa Haruki jimusho, 2016), 55. This was among the numerous notable catchphrases that Kadokawa Haruki thought up in this period (Kadokawa Haruki, Waga tōsō: furyō shōnen wa sekai o mezasu [EastPress, 2005], 142). 35 Steinberg, Anime’s Media Mix, 153. 36 Ibid., 154. 37 Ibid. 38 Kida Jun’ichirō, “Bunko no kako, genzai, mirai,” in Nippon bunko taizen, ed. Kida Jun’ichirō, Taniguchi Masao, Okazaki Takeshi, and Mohara Yukihiro (Daiyamondosha, 1997), 7. 39 Yokomizo himself admits this: “I am an author who was once forgotten by the public and the mass media” (Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke [Kadokawa shoten, 1984], 36). 40 Interview with Kadokawa Haruki, in Kojima Yūko and Bessatsu Da Vinci henshūbu, eds., Kindaichi Kōsuke: The Complete (Media fakutorī, 2004), 208.

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41 Interview with Kadokawa Haruki, in Kojima Yūko and Bessatsu Da Vinci henshūbu, eds., Kindaichi Kōsuke: The Complete, 207–8. Kadokawa Haruki also underlines the connection between the two campaigns in Kadokawa and Shimizu, Itsuka giragirasuru hi, 26. 42 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 36. 43 This is emphasized in Kadokawa and Shimizu, Itsuka giragirasuru hi, 42. 44 For instance, he ran a cluster of ads in Yomiuri shinbun on September 19, October 4, October 13, with provocative invitations like: “Uniquely weaving together the strange and the romantic into outstanding entertainment, the narcotic attraction of this bewitching work will soon start an explosive boom!” (September 19, 1975, evening edition, 7); “And how many have you already read? [anata wa ima nansatsu oyomi desuka?]” (October 4, 1975, 2; the same copy also appeared October 13, 1975, 2). 45 Interview with Kadokawa Haruki, in Kojima and Bessatsu Da Vinci henshūbu, eds., Kindaichi Kōsuke: The Complete, 211–12. See also Kadokawa and Shimizu, Itsuka giragirasuru hi, 39. 46 Speech by Kadokawa Haruki from July 10, 1984; cited in Kadokawa, Waga tōsō, 148. 47 Kadokawa, Waga tōsō, 135. 48 Prior to the Yokomizo covers, Sugimoto had designed the jacket for another author’s book at Kadokawa Haruki’s request. Sugimoto was surprised to be brought onto the Yokomizo reissue, as he presumed that the author was long dead. See Morumotto Yoshida and Makaino Motohiro, “Interview: Sugimoto Ichibun,” in Eiga hihō EX: Kindaichi Kōsuke eizō tokuhon, ed. Eiga hihō henshūbu (Yōsensha, 2014), 204. 49 These covers are viewable online at various sites. One comprehensive resource is Kadokawa bunkoban Yokomizo Seishi hyōshi-e gyararī, http://bcbweb.bai.ne.jp/ mixed_up/yokomizo_gara_index.htm (accessed on November 11, 2016). Moreover, the Sugimoto covers were so powerful and influential that they helped to shape the subsequent image of Yokomizo’s works. For example, the manga version of Inugamike no ichizoku (The Inugami Clan, 1950–51) published in 1995 reproduces almost exactly the image of the creepy woman on the bunko cover (presumably the killer of the story Inugami Matsuko); its 2004 renewed edition also retained this cover. 50 Iwanami Shigeo, “Dokushoshi ni yosu: Iwanami bunko hakkan ni saishite,” http:// www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/001119/files/42753_16113.html (accessed on January 21, 2017). 51 Shiga Naoya had a similar aversion to seeing his works adapted into theater and other forms. Shiga Naoya, conversation with Gosho Heinosuke, in Kida Shō, Shiga Naoya, eiga ni iku: Ejison kara Ozu Yasujirō made mita otoko (Asahi shinbun shuppan, 2015), 333. Originally published in Josei kaizō (September 1949): 27.

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52 Edogawa Ranpo, “Zakkan,” in Akunin shigan, vol. 24 of Edogawa Ranpo zenshū (Kōbunsha, 2005), 171. Originally published in 1925. 53 Shiozawa Minobu, Shuppansha no unmei o kimeta issatsu no hon (Ryūdō shuppan, 1980), 205. 54 Kadokawa, Waga tōsō, 137. 55 Interview with Kadokawa Haruki, in Kojima and Bessatsu Da Vinci henshūbu, eds., Kindaichi Kōsuke: The Complete, 207. According to Nakagawa Yūsuke, the final gross may have been more than 1.3 billion yen (Kadokawa eiga: 1976–1986 Nihon o kaeta 10 nen [KADOKAWA, 2014], 50). For the history of ATG, see Satō Tadao, “ATG sanjūnen no ayumi,” in ATG eiga o yomu: 60 nendai ni hajimatta meisaku no ākaibu (Firumu ātosha, 1991), 388–403. 56 Mentioned in Shiozawa, Shuppansha no unmei o kimeta issatsu no hon, 205. 57 For further details on the establishment of the Kadokawa Haruki jimusho and the production of Inugamike, see Kadokawa and Shimizu, Itsuka giragirasuru hi, 29–43; Satō Kichinosuke, ed., Subete ga koko kara hajimaru, 53–59. 58 On Hara’s suggestion, see Kadokawa and Shimizu, Itsuka giragirasuru hi, 36; on Kadokawa Haruki’s participation (starting with the screenplay), see Kadokawa, Waga tōsō, 139. 59 Hayami Yūji, “‘Kamisama’ Ishizaka Kōji to ‘ningen’ Furuya Ikkō,” in Kindaichi Kōsuke: The Complete, ed. Kojima and Bessatsu Da Vinci henshūbu (Media fakutorī, 2004), 218. 60 Shiozawa, Shuppansha no unmei o kimeta issatsu no hon, 207. 61 For a chronological list of film and television adaptations of Kindaichi Kōsuke works, see Bessatsu Takarajima henshūbu, ed., Bokutachi no suki na Kindaichi Kōsuke, Bessatsu Takarajima 1375 (Takarajimasha, 2006), 126–27. For further details, see also the listing in Eiga hihō henshūbu, ed., Eiga hihō EX: Kindaichi Kōsuke eizō tokuhon (Yōsensha, 2014), 220–23. 62 Bessatsu Takarajima henshūbu, ed., Bokutachi no suki na Kindaichi Kōsuke, 127. 63 There were also radio dramas of the Kindaichi Kōsuke stories, most notably Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku in August 1975 (twelve 15-minute installments, NHK) and Akuma no temariuta (August 1976, again twelve 15-minute installments, NHK). A list of broadcasts is available at Kindaichi Kōsuke Museum, “Kindaichi Kōsuke shichōkaku shitsu: rajio dorama, kasetto bunko, hoka,” http://www.yokomizo.to/ movie/radio.htm (accessed on January 13, 2017). 64 Considering the fact that the Kindaichi movies boosted sales of their corresponding books (though this is counterintuitive, since the movie could be a “spoiler” for the book), the critic Kasuga Ta’ichi suggests that the movies worked to invite viewers to explore the stories in multiple forms and repeatedly savor the subtle (and not so subtle) differences between them. See Kasuga Ta’ichi, Ichikawa Kon to Inugamike no ichizoku (Shinchōsha, 2015), 151–52.

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65 See Yamada Seiji, “23 nin no Kindaichi Kōsuke,” in Eiga hihō EX: Kindaichi Kōsuke eizō tokuhon, ed. Eiga hihō henshūbu (Yōsensha, 2014), 114–16. 66 Mentioned in Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 37. 67 In an essay written toward the end of his career, Yokomizo admits that ideally he would have liked the film adaptations of his works to be more faithful to the original stories. He also mentions that he received advice from Edogawa Ranpo in the early postwar period about the right mind set with which to approach adaptations of his works. Yokomizo Seishi, Kindaichi Kōsuke no monorōgu (Kadokawa shoten, 2003), Kindle edition, location 1175. Originally published in the January 1977 special issue of Bessatsu mondai shōsetsu. 68 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 45. 69 Isoda Tsutomu, "Daburu no sūtsu ni sofuto bō, Chiezō ban Kindaichi no naritachi," in Eiga hihō EX: Kindaichi Kōsuke eizō tokuhon, ed. Eiga hihō henshūbu (Yōsensha, 2014), 58–59. 70 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 19. Similarly, when Ichikawa Kon proposed to change the killer in the film Gokumontō, Yokomizo gave his blessing. See Ichikawa Kon and Mori Yūki, Kanpon Ichikawa Kon no eiga tachi (Yōsensha, 2015), 303–7. 71 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 15. 72 In his essays, he repeatedly mentions his fear of riding trains and other modes of public transportation. The only exception was automobile travel, but even then he would carry a small bottle of whiskey to use as an emergency relaxant. In addition, Yokomizo confesses that drinking before getting in a car would also make him want to urinate, so if he was to go out at three in the afternoon he would stop taking in any liquid at noon. See ibid., 40. 73 Mentioned in Kanbayashi Akatsuki, “Seishun jigazō,” in Kanbayashi Akatsuki zenshū, vol. 8 (Chikuma shobō, 1966), 366. Akutagawa once revealed to one-time Bungei shunjūsha editor Sasaki Mosaku (1894–1966) that he never liked to be photographed or be written about as an individual. Sasaki Mosaku, “Issakujitsu no hanashi,” in Sasaki Mosaku (Bungei shunjū, 1967), 100. Despite this aversion, Akutagawa agreed to appear in a promotional film for Kaizōsha’s Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū a few months before his suicide, most probably because it was directed by his good friend Kume Masao (1891–1952). Kanbayashi Akatsuki (the pen name of editor Tokuhiro Iwaki) discusses the circumstances for the filming of Akutagawa and other authors’ portions in Kanbayashi, “Seishun jigazō,” 356–59. 74 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 41. 75 Ibid., 38. 76 This was especially the case when his friend Kikuchi Kan suggested the use of an exotic animal like a camel to get an edge over their competitors during his bitter feud in 1927 against Arusu (as described in Chapter 1). The anecdote is mentioned in Kaneko Katsuaki, Rekishi toshite no Bungei shunjū (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 1991), 174–75.

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77 Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 98. 78 In fact, when Yokomizo inquired about this to Kadokawa shoten, they guessed that half the audience would be coming to the story for the first time with the movie, and the other half would be familiar with the story. Yokomizo, Shinsetsu Kindaichi Kōsuke, 98. 79 Critic Shindō Masahiro speculates this. See Shindō, Besutoserā no yukue, 82–83. 80 Other such continuations include: Kaede Sei, Shōsetsu shin konjiki yasha (1909); Shinohara Reiyō, Katei shōsetsu: shin konjiki yasha (1909); Yamada Rohō, Shōsetsu onna konjiki yasha (1910); Momoha Sanshi, Shin konjiki yasha (1910); Kurobōshi, Arao Jōsuke (1912); Kurobōshi, Hazama Kan’ichi (1912); Oguri Fūyō, Arao Jōsuke (1912); Oguri Fūyō, Kōhen Arao Jōsuke (1914). 81 For instance, Senuma Shigeki compares Kan’ichi from Konjiki yasha and Ruriko from Shinju fujin and calls Shinju fujin “a new version of Konjiki yasha”; Maeda Ai more overtly calls it “the Taishō version of Konjiki yasha.” Senuma Shigeki, “Katei shōsetsu no tenkai,” Bungaku, December 10, 1957; reproduced in Katayama Hiroyuki, comp., “Shinju fujin hyōkashi kō,” in Shinju fujin: chūkai, kōsetsu hen, ed. Kikuchi Kan kenkyūkai (Kanrin shobō, 2003), 195. Maeda Ai, “Taishōki tsūzoku shōsetsu no tenkai: fujin zasshi no dokushasō,” Bungaku, June–July 1968; reproduced in Katayama, comp., “Shinju fujin hyōkashi kō,” 202. 82 Yamamoto Yoshiaki thinks that such incorporation of contemporary elements (that the shipping industry recently experienced a “bubble” of sorts and there were overnight nouveau riche) was essential to the popularity of Shinju fujin. He locates the charm of Shunju fujin in its “veracity” (hontō rashisa) that “contributes to the excitement of the plot.” See Yamamoto Yoshiaki, “Kikuchi Kan Shinju fujin ron: ‘omoshirosa’ to ‘hontō rashisa,’” Gakushūin Daigaku bungakubu kenkyū nenpō 50 (2003): 77–101. Shōda Kappei, the distasteful nouveau riche who forces Ruriko into a loveless marriage, is supposed to have made his fortune during the shipping boom during the early years of Taishō period. Their marriage—an aged man buying himself a beautiful young wife from a declining family—is modeled after the marriage of Tanaka Mitsuaki (1843–1939, a Meiji politician) and Kobayashi Takako, which raised eyebrows since Tanaka was in his 60s and Takako was in her early 20s. 83 The details of the Kokusai katsuei version, including the names of the actors and director(s), are largely unknown. Some have speculated that the film was released on November 28, 1920 at Asakusa Taishōkan; however, others have argued that Asakusa Taishōkan did not yet exist at that time. See “Jōei sakuhin nenpyō,” in Shinju fujin: chūkai, kōsetsu hen, ed. Kikuchi Kan kenkyūkai, 232–37. 84 In a way, Shinju fujin found in daytime television the contemporary medium closest to the newspaper serializations (shinbun shōsetsu) that defined print publication in previous years. The hirumero was spread over 65 installments of 30 minutes each and was aired on weekdays.

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85 Numbers mentioned in Shūkan Asahi, May 31, 2002, 159. 86 The editor at Bungei shunjūsha’s bunko division Shōno Otohiko attests that they only found out about the television series in April 2002, and did not bother to republish the story since the editing of a bunko conventionally takes about four to five months and would not be finished in time to publish it before the end of the television series. In the end, when faced with the series’ popularity, they were able to produce the bunko version within two months. Shōno’s comment is cited in “Shinju fujin gensaku yomitai: dorama owatte mo, nao ninki,” Asahi shinbun, July 9, 2002, evening edition, 5. 87 According to the database of the National Diet Library, the work was published four times after 1945: once in 1950 as a summarized version, twice in the Kikuchi Kan zenshū (in 1960 and 1994; the former edited and published by Bungei shunjūshinsha and the latter edited by Takatsu-shi Kikuchi Kan kinenkan), and once in 2001 in a general Taishō literature collection. 88 Mentioned in Asahi shinbun, July 9, 2002, evening edition, 5. 89 For example, the municipal library in Suginami Ward owned only an abridged version of the text; nonetheless, the waiting list to check it out numbered as high as fifteen at one point. Mentioned in the evening edition of Asahi shinbun, July 9, 2002, 5. 90 According to the site, there were more than 300 requests over a period of four and a half months, and 90 percent of the requests came from women. Mentioned in Asahi shinbun, July 9, 2002, evening edition, 5. 91 As mentioned, Shinchōsha was the original publisher of the book version in 1920 (which was before Kikuchi established Bungei shunjūsha). After Kikuchi disbanded Bungei shunjūsha in 1946, his former subordinates Sasaki Mosaku and others reestablished it as Bungei shunjū shinsha soon thereafter. 92 Sachimi’s version was serialized in the magazine Eregansu ibu from December 2002 to November 2003. It was subsequently edited into a three-volume book published by Akita shoten in 2003 and 2004. The other manga version, Manga shinju fujin, was published as a single volume by Hakusensha in 2003. 93 Kikuchi claimed that he most often accepts requests for adaptation “unconditionally” (hotondo mujōken de shōdaku shiteiru) and does not interfere with the adapted version unless the director, screenwriter, or playwright specifically asks for his input. He explained that he feels like he only lets them borrow “plot and theme” (sutōrī to tēma) and once they are executed in a different medium it has very little to do with him: “So even when my novel is adapted into cinema, more often than not I don’t go see it. Even if I go see it I rarely stay until the end. I most often can’t stand it and burst out of the theater halfway through.” Kikuchi Kan, “Gensakusha to shite,” in Kikuchi Kan zenshū, supplementary vol. 2 (Musashino shobō, 2002), 104. Originally appeared in Nihon eiga, December 1940.

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For examples of Kikuchi’s involvement in adaptations of his works, see Shimura Miyoko, Eigajin Kikuchi Kan, particularly her discussions of Daini no seppun (The Second Kiss, 1926), Tōkyō kōshinkyoku (Tokyo March, 1929), and Utsukushiki taka (The Beautiful Eagle, 1937). Shimura points out that unlike other authors whose ultimate purpose with cinema was incorporating its techniques into their literature, Kikuchi was more interested in the “commercialism growing out of media mix in the movie industry” and in “actively granting the film rights to his works, moving them across different formats like newspapers, magazines, and movies, so that he could circulate the ‘Kikuchi Kan’ brand and establish his status in the movie world” (14). Tsuru’s comment appears in Asahi shinbun, July 9, 2002, evening edition, 5. The historical setting was changed reportedly to cut production costs. Mentioned in Asahi shinbun, March 18, 2002, evening edition, 18. The new version also made Minako, one of Ruriko’s two stepchildren, another villain. In the original, Minako is as innocent as Ruriko—which is how the reader can find plausible Ruriko’s mission to protect her as a “surrogate mother” after the sudden death of the main villain Kappei. On the other hand, Minako in the television version is nothing but detestable for a good part of the series. Some other seemingly unnecessary and unfortunately under-utilized details are added in the drama version. For instance, Kappei is supposed to have worked for Ruriko’s family as a servant at their summer home and even once carried an injured Ruriko to the doctor. Such a backstory makes his present conquest of Ruriko a realization of an old fantasy and possibly a kind of revenge by the formerly oppressed against the old ruling class. However, the creative possibilities of such details remain largely untapped in the drama version. Yet the most radical alteration entails Ruriko becoming the madam of the aforementioned brothel upon the death of her husband. She is supposedly forced to do so, as she gives up her inheritance and other sources of income to Kappei’s longtime mistress (the former manager of the brothel and Minako’s mother). In the television drama, Ruriko’s decision to become the madam is explained by her sense of duty toward the two stepchildren— especially to Tanehiko, the disturbed stepson who killed his own father in order to protect her. Such a decision is in accordance with Ruriko’s character in the original story, where she has a developed sense of parental duty, but it also removes her from her original mission of exacting revenge on society and men who think nothing of commodifying women’s bodies. The Heisei Shinju fujin ends in a very different way as Ruriko, though she suffers from a terminal case of cancer and has only limited time to live, is able to consummate her relationship with her true love Naoya once his wife commits suicide. The universe of the canon is further expanded when the original work is translated into other languages. A decade after Kōyō’s death, a Korean translation of Konjiki

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yasha appeared in the Korean newspaper Maeil sinbo with characters assuming new Korean names and various key sites transferred to their native settings fitting their new identity. See Jonathan Zwicker, Practices of the Sentimental Imagination: Melodrama, the Novel, and the Social Imaginary in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), 175–76. 98 For more details of this incident, see Kan Satoko, “Kindai bungaku seiritsuki no ichisokumen,” 18–22. 99 Of Kyōka’s works currently available in bunko format, many have been adapted into films or plays. These include: Onna keizu (A Woman’s Pedigree, 1907), Kusa meikyū (The Grass Maze, 1908), Yashaga ike (Demon Pond, 1913), and Tenshu monogatari (Tale of Himeji Castle, 1917). 100 Azuma Hiroki, Dōbutsuka suru posutomodan: otaku kara mita Nihon shakai (Kōdansha, 2001), 63. 101 Asahi shinbun, September 25, 2002, morning edition, 25.

Chapter 5 1

Helene Hanff, letter to Cecily Farr, April 10, 1950. Helene Hanff, 84, Charing Cross Road (New York: Grossman Publishers, 1970), 13. 2 David Burke, Writers in Paris: Literary Lives in the city of Light (Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint, 2008), 4. 3 Ibid., 226. 4 Ibid., 239–40. 5 An early example is the travel diary Kaidōki (A Record of Travel on the Coast Road), in which the author visits the landmark sites from Ise monogatari. 6 Masubuchi Toshiyuki, Monogatari o tabisuru hitobito: kontentsu tsūrizumu to wa nani ka (Sairyūsha, 2010), 30. 7 Recent publications on such literary journeys to the north include Mitsuta Kazunobu, Bashō to tabisuru “Oku no hosomichi”: aruita rūto jun ni meiku o ajiwau (PHP kenkyūjo, 2013) and Ikkojin henshūbu, ed., “Oku no hosomichi” o tabisuru (Besutoserāzu, 2011). 8 “This book follows in the footsteps of Higuchi Ichiyō, who lived in Tokyo for most of her short life of 24 years and 8 months; this will be a guide and ‘walking book’ to help readers rediscover the charms of Ichiyō as a person and Tokyo as a city.” Fujii Keiko, foreword to Noguchi Seki, Higuchi Ichiyō to aruku Meiji, Tōkyō (Shōgakukan, 2004), 5. 9 Ibid., 14, 39, 67, respectively. 10 Literary museums have been on the rise elsewhere in recent decades: in 1972, 145 institutions across Europe dedicated themselves to the memory of poets and writers. In 2007, France alone could boast more than 200 maison d’écrivains and an

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14

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active association for the promotion of literary heritage, the Fédération des maisons d’écrivain et des patrimoines littéraires (http://www.litterature-lieux.com/). In Italy, there are more than 60 such institutions, of which 40 percent were established after 1990. See Harald Hendrix, “Writers’ Houses as Media of Expression and Remembrance: From Self-Fashioning to Cultural Memory,” in Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory, ed. Harald Hendrix (New York: Routledge, 2008), 2. Jinbōchō bungaku sanpo kurabu, Tōkyō bungaku sanpo: meisaku no butai to bungō yukari no chi o meguru (Meitsu shuppan, 2010), 42. Takahashi Yasuo and Tamura Keiko, eds., Bungō no ie (Ekusu narejji, 2013). Masubuchi, Monogatari o tabisuru hitobito, 11. Movies and television dramas generate this fascination perhaps most visibly today—Japanese tourists have gone on tours in Korea to visit the sites immortalized in the drama Winter Sonata (originally aired in Korea in 2002; in Japan 2003 and 2004); for anime fans, Saginomiya shrine in Saitama Prefecture for Raki☆suta (2004–) may be the best example. The desire of fans to enter the world of their favorite story is strong: a poll from Location Japan reports that 87.2 percent of 1,117 respondents (men and women in their 10s to 60s) answered “yes” to the question “Have you ever wanted to eat food that appeared in a movie or television drama?” Location Japan, no. 54 (December 2012), 10. Sasaki Hidehiko, Komyuniti myūjiamu e: “Edo tatemono en” saisei no genba kara (Iwanami shoten, 2013), 105. Sasaki also summarizes other shifts in the museum industry: basic theme (from building to operating); users (from consumers to stakeholders); staff (from curation to outreach); approach (from service to hospitality); activity (from providing to interacting); operation (from isolation to collaboration). Ibid., 107. Samantha Matthews, “Making Their Mark: Writing the Poet’s Grave,” in Literary Tourism and Nineteenth-Century Culture, ed. Nicola J. Watson (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 35. For instance, previously unknown manuscripts by Sōseki (Mon, discovered in 2012) and Edogawa Ranpo (Ōgon kamen, missing in the 1980s and rediscovered in 2013), as well as correspondence by Tanizaki Jun’ichirō (discovered in 2015), all made headlines in the 2010s when their existence became known. The Edo Seikichi Collection, discovered by “accident” during the aftermath of the Great Tōhoku Earthquake, is especially significant. See http://www.kahoku.co.jp/ tohokunews/201502/20150204_15019.html (accessed on February 4, 2015). In addition, Atomi Women’s University bought the manuscript for Mori Ōgai’s Maihime for approximately ¥46,000,000 in 2015. http://www.nikkei.com/article/ DGXLASDG28H85_Y5A420C1CR8000/ (accessed on November 2, 2016). Antoine Compagnon, Literature, Theory, and Common Sense, trans. Carol Cosmam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 194.

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18 Tsugaru Yuki, ed., Meisaku tabiyaku bunko 4: Tōkyō shitamachi “Takekurabe” Higuchi Ichiyō (JTB Publishing, 2009), 4. 19 Yasuda Noboru, Shintai kankaku de “Bashō” o yominaosu: “Oku no hosomichi” nazotoki no tabi (Shunjūsha, 2012), i–ii. 20 Ibid., ii. 21 Kawamoto Saburō, Kafū to Tōkyō: Danchōtei nichijō shichū (Toshi shuppan, 1996), 514. 22 Ibid. Kawamoto also went to Lyon, France, in 1999 to trace Kafū’s stay there in 1907. See also Kawamoto Saburō, “Riyon, Pari no ashiato o tazunete,” in Kafū kōjitsu (Iwanami shoten, 2002), 188–98. Originally published in the February 1999 issue of the Japan Airlines inflight magazine Winds. 23 “Oboegaki,” in Noda Utarō, Noda Utarō bungaku sanpo: Shin Tōkyō bungaku sanpo, supplementary volume 1 (Bun’ichi sōgō shuppan, 1979), unpaginated. 24 Noda Utarō, Tōkyō bungaku sanpo no techō (Matoba shobō, 1954), 1. 25 See Maeda Ai, “BERLIN 1888,” in Toshi kūkan no naka no bungaku (Chikuma shobō, 1982), 213–49; originally published in the September 1980 issue of Bungaku as “Berurin 1888 nen: toshi shōsetsu to shite no ‘Maihime’.” 26 Maeda Ai, “Higashi Berurin no Maihime,” in Kindai Nihon no bungaku kūkan: rekishi, kotoba, jōkyō (Shin’yōsha, 1983), 194. 27 Ibid., 199. 28 Tomita’s anecdote is mentioned in Yaguchi Shin’ya, Sōseki zenshū monogatari (Seieisha, 1985), 200. 29 Ueda Yasuo, in a roundtable with Sano Shin’ichi and Kiyoda Yoshiaki in 2003, in Ueda Yasuo and Shin bunka henshūbu, eds. Besutoserā no shikakenin, 91. 30 Donna Dailey and John Tomedi, Bloom’s Literary Guide to London (New York: Checkmark Books, 2007), 1. 31 Kashima Shigeru, Bungakuteki Pari gaido (Chūō kōron shinsha, 2009), 82. 32 Miyoshi Risako suspects the intentionality of destroying the past by the Meiji and subsequent governments in Miyoshi Risako and Komatsu Kazuhiko, Tōkyō makai annai: mitsukeyō “kakusareta miryoku” o (Kōbunsha, 2003), 53. 33 Kawazoe Noboru, Tōkyō no genfūkei: toshi to den’en no kōryū (NHK bukkusu, 1979), 120–21. For more on the effects of the anti-Buddhism movement on various cultural artifacts and architecture, see Morimoto Kazuo, Bunkazai no shakaishi: kingendaishi to dentō bunka no henkan (Sairyūsha, 2010), particularly “Kindai no makuake to haibutsu kishaku,” 20–40. 34 Kawazoe, Tōkyō no genfūkei, 130–31. 35 Since then, the Osaka-based pharmaceutical company Morishita jintan constructed (in 1932) and reconstructed (in 1954) a new tower nearby in imitation of the original tower, but the reconstructed building was taken down in 1986. See Tanaka Satoshi, Meisho tanbō: chizukara kieta Tōkyō isan (Shōdensha, 1999), 31. 36 A restaurant stands at the site with no vestiges of its past glory (ibid., 28–30).

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37 The essayist Hirose Chika says of the building: “If a two-story Western-style wooden house like that existed now, it would be designated a cultural asset left behind by a literary icon.” Hirose Chika, Watashi no Kafū ki (Nihon kosho tsūshinsha, 1989), 2. 38 Mizutani Yoshio et al., Bunshitachi no yado: sakka to meisaku no mōhitotsu no monogatari (Sankaidō, 1999), 85. 39 For instance, as part of the exhibition “Tezuka Osamu x Ishinomori Shōtarō: manga no chikara” (Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo, June 29 to September 8, 2013), a re-creation of Tokiwasō, the shabby run-down inn where the two would-be manga giants once lodged, was exhibited as one of the major spatial display objects (kūkan tenji). Such recreations are also displayed at the Fujiko F. Fujio Museum in Kawasaki and the Ghibli Museum in Mitaka. 40 Sasaki Hiroyuki, “Bungakusha ga shishukushita ‘Hongō kikufuji hoteru’ towa?” in Tōkyō-to nazotoki sanpo 23-ku hen, ed. Higuchi Kunio (Shin jinbutsu ōraisha, 2012), 85. 41 Ibid. 42 “Ueno, Hongō, Koishikawa, Ochanomizu,” in Noda Utarō, Noda Utarō bungaku sanpo, 13–14. 43 “Nakasu,” in Noda Utarō, Tōkyō bungaku sanpo no techō (Gakufū shoin, 1955), 61. 44 Mizutani et al., Bunshitachi no yado, 105. 45 When Noda Utarō tried to confirm the status of the building in the early postwar era, his only clues to its location were the old address—number 47 Yokoteramachi—under the Meiji system and the description of the property in Tokuda Shūsei’s work Wakai (Reconciliation, 1933). In the novel, Shūsei and Izumi Kyōka, former students of Kōyō and then estranged friends, decide to visit Tochimadō together after thirty years. They point out that the surroundings hadn’t changed, though the area at back of the residence, including the Shiseidō dormitory where they stayed as students and colleagues, had been demolished and replaced by newer houses. The house itself had been unoccupied at that point. In their conversation, Kyōka mentions that there indeed was talk of preserving the residence as a “famous destination in Ushigome,” but the idea dissipated because of the foreseen difficulty of maintenance. Kyōka also mentions that he was urged to live in the house (as part of the maintenance), but he was too scared to work in Kōyō’s study. Full text of this story is available online at: http://www.aozora.gr.jp/ cards/000023/files/3512_13503.html (accessed on January 8, 2016). 46 Kidoura Toyokazu, “Sōseki bunko ni tsuite,” in Bungō Natsume Sōseki: sono kokoro to manazashi, ed. Edo Tokyo hakubutsukan and Tōhoku Daigaku (Asahi shinbunsha, 2007), 130. See also Matsuoka Yuzuru, “Aa Sōseki sanbō,” in Aa Sōseki sanbō (Asahi shinbunsha, 1967), 271–97. 47 Komiya Toyotaka writes that the attendees of ceremony marking the 23rd anniversary of Sōseki’s death had routinely discussed over the years how best to preserve Sōseki’s study and book collection, but that night they did not mention

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50 51

52 53

54 55

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Notes the topic since it had become more and more unlikely that they ever would reach a consensus. In addition, the house had naturally been physically transformed by the surviving family members since Sōseki’s death except for the study and guest room, and in order for the house to be an authentic museum it needed to be restored, which meant considerable expense to the Natsume family that they simply could not afford at the time. Though Komiya wished to preserve his master’s home for posterity, in the end he decided to remain silent and leave the issue untouched because he could not take on the responsibility. Komiya Toyotaka, Sōseki Torahiko Miekichi (Kadokawa shoten, 1952), 142. Originally published in 1938. Mori Mayumi, Ōgai no saka (Shinchōsha, 1997), 266. Okano Hiroyuki, “Bungakukan no kensaku shisutemu no genjō to kadai,” Jōhō media kenkyū 7, no. 1 (March 2009): 42. The plan for their opening was ratified in 1947. From the MMJL webpage: http://www.bungakukan.or.jp/about/origin/ (accessed on January 16, 2014). Mori Masato points out that starting the end of the 1960s, the sense of urgency about the “loss of Japan” [Nihon sōshitsu] became increasingly stronger because of the end of the period of rapid economic growth, the deterioration in Japanese health tied to industrial pollution, and the decline of traditional Japanese culture. Mori Masato, Shōwa ryokōshi: zasshi “Tabi” o yomu (Chūō kōronshinsha, 2010), 185. Fujioka Wakao, quoted in Mori Akihide, Disukabā Japan no jidai: atarashii tabi o sōzōshita, shijō saidai no kyanpēn (Kōtsū shinbunsha, 2007), 24. Emphasis added. The similarity, according to Fujioka, was coincidental. Nonetheless, Fujioka did ask Kawabata for permission to use the slogan as such, which Kawabata willingly allowed. The author even provided the epigraph (daiji) for the campaign. See Mori Akihide, Disukabaa Japan no jidai, 34. Kihara Naohiko, Bungakukan: kita minami, expanded and revised edition (Sapporo: Hōkkaidō shinbunsha, 1995), 312. A comprehensive list of literary museums in Japan can be found at Bungakukan kenkyūkai, “Bungakukan ichiran,” http://literarymuseum.net/lm-list.html (accessed on January 16, 2016). “That a literary museum devoted to a writer as prominent as Tanizaki Jun’ichirō and situated in an area as affluent as Ashiya still faces this kind financial situation suggests that such literary museums are nothing but a burden to local governments.” “Ashiya-shi Tanizaki Jun’ichirō kinenkan: Hyōgo-ken Ashiya-shi” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, vol. 5 of Nakamura Minoru chosakushū (Seidosha, 2005), 462. Nakamura’s visit was on February 12, 1997. Yamagishi Ikuko also refers to the generally low attendance at various literary museums in her article, “‘Shigen’ to shite no bungaku,” Sangȳo keiei purojekuto hōkokusho 35, no. 2 (March 2012): 17. Also available at

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59 60 61 62

63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

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http://www.eco.nihon-u.ac.jp/center/industry/publication/report/pdf/35/35-2-2. pdf (accessed on November 21, 2016). Sakakibara mentions that it costs about 1,000 yen to properly classify and catalogue each book. Sakakibara Hiroshi, Bungakukan tansaku (Shinchōsha, 1997), 273–74. Ibid. Sakakibara reports the case of the actress Yamada Isuzu (1917–2012), who had to donate her collection of about 1,000 books to the Japanese program at the University of Geneva rather than a library in Japan (274). Sataki Yoshihiro, “Sekai isan” no shinjitsu: kajō na kitai, ooinaru gokai (Shōdensha, 2009), 248. “Tayama Katai kinenkan: Gunma-ken Tatebayashi-shi,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 299. Ibid., 299. Nakamura’s visit was on January 14, 1996. Museum administrator Sasaki Hidehiko points out that this vagueness of mission plagues many museums in Japan, especially public ones. For most museums, there are firm bylaws that were put in place upon their establishment, but in many cases these do not inform the daily operations of the institutions: “To create a museum— this in itself becomes the goal of the bylaws. There is vagueness about what happens after the museum is established: what to do, how to do it, what kind of results to expect. It is not clear how to approach such things. It may be an exaggeration to say that there is no mission, but it is certainly vague.” Sasaki, Komyuniti myūjiamu e, 61. “Kanagawa kindai bungakukan: Kanagawa-ken Yokohama-shi,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 351. Nakamura’s visit was on July 11, 1996. “Tayama Katai kinenkan: Gunma-ken Tatebayashi-shi,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 299. Asahi shinbun gakugeibu, ed., Fumikura: Nihon no bunko annai (Shuppan nyūsusha, 1979), 3. Kansaku Kōichi, ed., Zenkoku “bunko/kinenkan” gaido (Kōdansha, 1986), 3. Tankōsha henshūkyoku, ed., Nihon no bungakukan hyakugojussen (Tankōsha, 1999). Komatsu Ken’ichi, Sakka no fūkei: bungakukan o meguru, 2 vols. (Shiraishi shoten, 2001). Sasaki, Komyuniti myūjiamu e, 12. Tōson kinenkan, “Tōson kinenkan no gaiyō,” http://toson.jp/publics/index/2/ (accessed on February 20, 2014). Ever since he disclosed his infamous affair with his biological niece in his novel Shinsei (New Life, 1919), Tōson had a wide array of critics—including Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, who called the protagonist of Shinsei, Tōson’s double, “the most cunning hypocrite” (rōkai na gizensha) in his short story “Aru ahō no isshō” (A Fool’s Life, 1927). When newspapers reported that the model of Shinsei’s heroine, Shimazaki Komako, fell ill and was placed in a sanatorium in March 1937, some nineteen years after the publication of Shinsei, fellow writers like Hayashi Fumiko

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73 74 75 76 77

78 79

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Notes urged Tōson in an open letter to come to the rescue of his niece and former lover. For Komako’s biography, see Morita Akiko, Shimazaki Komako oboegaki (Bungeisha, 2006), especially 19. However, since then the coverage of Tōson’s works gained momentum, especially in 1947 when the preface (jijo) to his collection of poetry (Tōson shishū, 1904) was included in a new high school Japanese textbook. See Satō Izumi, Kokugo kyōkasho no sengoshi, 53–61. Komatsu Kazuhiko, Kami ni natta hitobito (Tankōsha, 2001), 225. Komatsu gives the example of Shibusawa Shrine, which praises the achievements of Shibusawa Eiichi (1840–1931) and his grandson Keizō (1896–1963). Ibid., 229. Kawamoto Saburō, “Fūkei no mukō ni aru Tokyo,” in Tōkyō haikara sanpo, by Noda Utarō (Kadokawa Haruki jimusho, 1998), 281. Sasaki Hidehiko, Komyuniti myujiamu e, 11–12. Tsukada Miki, “Kigen e no akogare o tenjisuru,” in Tenji no seijigaku, ed. Kawaguchi Yukiya (Suiseisha, 2009), 270. “Tōkyō-to kindai bungaku hakubutsukan: Tokyo-to Meguro-ku,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 472. Nakamura’s visit was on March 8, 1997. Morimoto, Bunkazai no shakaishi, 3. See Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1935), especially Section V. English translation available at: https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/works/ge/benjamin.htm (accessed on July 27, 2015). Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Beyond: Encounters and Conversations, trans. Arnold Pomeranz (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), 51. Other contemporary scientists share such romanticism. For instance, Fukuoka Shin’ichi (1959–), a molecular biologist and one of the bestselling authors of scientific journalism in Japan today, reveals that he felt a sense of excitement when the head of his research lab at Rockefeller University in New York, where he was a postdoctoral fellow, told him that just one floor up in the same building was the lab of pathbreaking bacteriologist Oswald Avery (1877–1955). Fukuoka decides to visit the floor one evening: “One night I was working late on an experiment, and I went up the spiral staircase to the sixth floor. The empty hallway was silent, and the lights shone dimly on the linoleum floor. Only the refrigerator for storing experiment samples emitted a low hum. More than forty years after Avery spent his last days here, the hallway and walls have surely been redone, and there is no trace of that time. But even so, I thought I caught a glimpse of Avery’s shadow.” Fukuoka Shin’ichi, Seibutsu to museibutsu no aida (Kōdansha, 2007), 41–42. Nakamura Minoru, Bungakukan o kangaeru: bungakukangaku josetsu no tame no esukisu (Seidosha, 2011), 20.

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82 Ann Rigney, “Abbotsford: Dislocation and Cultural Remembrance,” in Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory, ed. Harald Hendrix (Routledge, 2008), 76–77. 83 Ibid., 77. 84 Cited in Negishi Masazumi, Morita Sōhei no bungaku, 23. Originally in Morita Sōhei, “Ichiyō joshi no kyūkyo,” in Sōseki sensei to watakushi, vol. 1 (Rironsha, 1947), 76–96. 85 Nakamura, Bungakukan o kangaeru, 26. 86 “Ashiya-shi Tanizaki Jun’ichirō kinenkan: Hyōgo-ken Ashiya-shi,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 463. Nakamura’s visit was on February 12, 1997. 87 David Parker, “Literary Museums: Present Opportunities,” in Literary Memorial Museums: Some Examples, ed. Wolfgang Barthel and Max Kunze (Frankfurt and Berlin: ICOM National Committee of the German Democratic Republic, 1986), 28. Originally presented at a literary museum conference in the United Kingdom in 1979. 88 Shigesato Tetsuya, Bungakukan e no tabi (Mainichi shinbunsha, 2007), 218. 89 Nagai Hisamitsu, Chichi Kafū (Hakusuisha, 2005), 33. 90 Ibid., 92. 91 Ibid., 35. 92 Nagai Hisamitsu was aware of the identity of the thief, and he was able to get back the certificate for burial (maisō sho) that was stolen with the beret. The thief is thought to have been the owner of a local used bookstore (ibid., 18). Samantha Matthews points out that literary grave visitors often “intervene,” meaning that they take something away from the site as a token of their visit: “These interventions include removing souvenirs (grass, leaves, flowers, stones, even fragments of the memorial), mementoes to stimulate memories of the visit, and leaving other traces of the visitor’s presence at the sate, notably wreaths, flowers, commemorative inscriptions, even occasionally graffiti.” See Matthews, “Making Their Mark,” 27. 93 Matsumoto Hajime, Nagai Kafū to iu ikikata (Shūeisha, 2006), 48. This manuscript is now made public only when there is a special exhibition on Kafū at a major literary museum (43). 94 Kawamoto, Kafū to Tōkyō, 515. 95 Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (New York: Schocken Books, 1968), 61. 96 Parker, “Literary Museums,” 27. 97 Shirakawa Hiroshi, personal interview with the author, April 19, 2016. 98 Komatsu Ken’ichi and Dazai Osamu, Dazai Osamu to tabisuru Tsugaru (Shinchōsha, 2009), 93. 99 Ibid.

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100 Komatsu Kazuhiko, “Kaisetsu: ‘makai,’ sorewa ‘watashi’ o kōchiku suru tame no shudan de aru,” in Tōkyō makai annai: mitsukeyō “kakusareta miryoku” o, ed. Miyoshi Risako and Komatsu Kazuhiko (Kōbunsha, 2003), 278. 101 Yoshida Sarasa, Otera de asobu Tōkyō sanpo (Shinjuku shobō, 2006), 8–9. 102 Sano Mayuko, Ōrukokku no Edo: shodai Eikoku kōshi ga mita bakumatsu Nihon (Chūō kōron shinsha, 2003), 254. 103 Ibid. 104 Kawamoto Saburō, Taishō gen’ei (Chikuma shobō, 1997), 14. 105 Bungei sansaku no kai, ed., Bungō no aishita Tōkyō Yamanote (JTB Publishing, 1996), 31. 106 Masubuchi, Monogatari o tabisuru hitobito, 26. 107 Ueshima also describes a “holy site” as a central place through which the “axis mundi passes” and that “functions like a kind of memory bank.” Ueshima Keiji, Seichi no sōzōryoku: naze hito wa seichi o mezasu no ka (Shūeisha, 2000), 5–6. 108 Suzuki Ryōtarō, quoted in Aoki Yoshihide, Hirooka Yūichi, and Kanda Kōji, eds., Kankō nyūmon: kankō no shigoto, gakushū, kenkyū o tsunagu (Shin’yōsha, 2011), 127. 109 For instance, Nakamura reports how the Nakahara Chūya Memorial Museum in Yamaguchi underwent a period of “correction” after the official opening. Nakamura also criticizes the decision to paste excerpts from Nakahara’s poems all over the exhibit without any context or even source information. “Nakahara Chūya kinenkan: Yamaguchi-ken Yamaguchi-shi,” in Nakamura Minoru, Kikō: bungaku to bungakukan, 383. Nakamura’s visit was on September 21, 1996. 110 Kazuyoshi Yoshikawa and Noriko Taguchi, “Avant-propos,” in Comment naît une oeuvre littéraire? Brouillons, contexts culturels, evolutions thématiques, ed. Kazuyoshi Yoshikawa and Noriko Taguchi (Paris: Honoré Champion Editeur, 2011), 7. 111 Natsume Fusanosuke, Mago ga yomu Sōseki (Jitsugyō no Nihonsha, 2006), 62–63. 112 Kobayashi Hideo, “Dentō to hangyaku,” in Kobayashi Hideo taiwashū, ed. Gunji Katsuyoshi (Kōdansha, 1966), 11. The comment was made in a conversation with Sakaguchi Ango in August 1948. 113 Harada Munenori, in Zenkoku bungakukan kyōgikai, ed., Zenkoku bungakukan gaido, revised and expanded edition (Shōgakukan, 2013), 83. 114 Shigesato, Bungakukan e no tabi, 121.

Conclusion 1

This kind of “enclosure” refers to the “literal ‘fencing-in’ of property for which ownership is unclear and asserting that the land belongs to an individual.” Yamada Shōji, Komonzu to bunka: bunka wa dareno monoka (Tōkyōdō shuppan, 2010), 7.

Notes 2

3 4

5

6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

251

United States Patent Office, Protection Extended to Patents, Designs, Trade-Marks, and Copyrights in China, Japan, and Korea, prepared by Albert W. Pontius (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1909), 5; cited in Miyata Noboru, Hon’yakuken no sengoshi (Misuzu shobō, 1999), 380. Morishita Uson, “Sekai tantei shōsetsu zenshū ni tsuite,” Shinseinen 10, no. 8 (July 1929): 135. Kimura Ki, Meiji bunka no hanashi: mawari tōrō (Inoue shobō, 1959), 29. Kimura states that for his own translations of Byron by André Maurois, Lenin by Ferdynand Antoni Ossendowski, and The Mystery of No. 1 by Sydney Horler, which were published well before the war, the translation fees were paid in advance of his undertaking the work (ibid., 30). Miyata claims to have seen the actual signed contract in his correspondence with Adrian Doyle, the executer of his father’s estate after the latter’s passing in 1930. Miyata Noboru, Shin Hon’yaku shuppan jijō (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 1995), 8–11. Miyata mentions that it was also included in their Doiru zenshū (Collected Works of Doyle, 1931–33), but this appears to be an error on his part. Miyata Noboru, Hon’yaku shuppan no jitsumu, 4th edition (Nihon editā sukūru shuppanbu, 2008), 205. “Chosakuken jōyaku kara dattai no undō, bundan no ikkaku ni okoru,” Yomiuri shinbun, February 3, 1934, 3. Ian Condry, The Soul of Anime: Collaborative Creativity and Japan’s Media Success Story (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013), 161. Ibid., 163. Ibid., 164. Senoo Akio, “Ōsuchin o osou,” in Akuma mokushiroku: “Shinseinen” 1938 tantei shōsetsu ankoku no jidai e, ed. Misuterī bungaku shiryōkan (Kōbunsha, 2011), 71. Originally published in 1938. Ibid., 73. Ibid., 77. Edogawa Ranpo, Tantei shōsetsu yonjūnen, vol. 28, 466. Michael Heller, Gridlock Economy: How Too Much Ownership Wrecks Markets, Stops Innovation, and Costs Lives (New York: Basic Books, 2008), xiv. Condry, The Soul of Anime, 162. Ibid., 184. Tanji, “Hon no horobikata,” 46. Most recently, Natsume Kazuto (1972–), one of Sōseki’s descendants, tried in 2009 to reopen the request to trademark Sōseki’s name and to establish an “ordinary foundation” named after his illustrious ancestor (Ippan zaidan hōjin Natsume Sōseki) to control the rights to Sōseki’s image and works. (These attempts drew

252

21 22 23

24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31

32 33

Notes widespread criticism from other family members and the general public; as a result, later that year the foundation was dissolved and the trademark request withdrawn.) See “Natsume Sōseki dare no mono? Shōzōken nado o kanri, himago ra ga zaidan; ‘Bunkazai da’ Fusanosuke san ra igi,” Asahi shinbun, July 25, 2009, 34. The article reports: “Fusanosuke appealed to his relatives: ‘So as to maintain Sōseki as a cultural presence into the future, and to encourage new imagination through the abundant appreciation and criticism [of his works], we should not allow any particular party to impose their rights or to interfere.’ Six family members, including the essayist Handō Mariko (daughter of Sōseki’s daughter), expressed agreement with Fusanosuke and stated that ‘they have no ties to the foundation and are opposed to its establishment.’” Yaguchi, Sōseki zenshū monogatari, 96. Yomiuri shinbunsha bunkabu, ed., Sengo bundan jikenshi (Yomiuri shinbunsha, 1969), 92. Ibid., 93. Also given here is the justification for the rejection of the 28 terms: “The requested trademarks consist of words indicating titles of publications, the author’s name, and the author’s pen name, and simply describe the content of those publications or identify the author; because they do not possess the expressive power to suggest that they are commercial products related to a specified person’s words, it is difficult to distinguish them as commercial products, and it is not possible to recognize in them any special prominence.” Natsume Fusanosuke, Mago ga yomu Sōseki, 42. Ibid., 42 Ōshita Yoshiyuki, “Shārokku Hōmuzu kara kangaeru saisōzō,” in Chosakuken hogo kikan: enchō wa bunka o shinkō suruka?, ed. Tanaka Tatsuo and Hayashi Kōichirō (Keisō shobō, 2008), 90. For a detailed study of the numerous parodies and sequels of Sōseki’s works, see Seki Megumi, Zoku Sōseki: Sōseki sakuhin no parodi to zokuhen (Senshū Daigaku shuppankyoku, 2010). Natsume Fusanosuke, Mago ga yomu Sōseki, 43. Yamazaki Yasuo, Shun’yōdō monogatari: Shun’yōdō o meguru Meiji bundan no sakkatachi (Shun’yōdō, 1969), 153. Ibid., 154. Ibid., 155. Anonymous, Bungei shunjū, March 1927. Cited in Matsumura Ryō, “Kakusan suru ‘enpon’ jōkyō,” in Kaizōsha no media senryaku, ed. Shōji Tatsuya, Nakazawa Wataru, and Yamagishi Ikuko (Sōbunsha shuppan, 2013), 65. Kaizōsha printed in the original promotional sample for Gendai that this material was still “under negotiation.” Naiyō mihon, p. 4. Mentioned in Yamazaki Yasuo, Chosha to shuppansha (Gakufū shoin, 1954), 256. The zenshū volume was actually supposed to be a collection of travel essays, but

Notes

34 35 36

37 38 39

40 41

42 43 44

45 46 47 48

253

Tōson’s Haru and Arashi are included as “supplements” (411–531 and 532–58, respectively). Matsumoto Keiko, trans., Kumo no naka no satsujin, vol. 9 of Kurisuchī tantei shōsetsu shū (Dainippon yūbenkai kōdansha, 1956), 254. Yaguchi, Sōseki zenshū monogatari, 116. These were: Natsume Sōseki sakuhin zenshū (Sōgeisha; bunko edition, 12 volumes), Natsume Sōseki zenshū (Sōgeisha; 12 volumes and 1 supplementary volume), Natsume Sōseki shōsetsu zenshū (Shun’yōdō; 7 volumes and 1 supplementary volume), Natsume Sōseki bunko (Chūō kōronsha; 10 volumes), Fukyūban Natsume Sōseki zenshū (Sōgeisha; 12 volumes and 1 supplementary volume), Natsume Sōseki sakuhinshū (Sōgeisha; shinsho edition; 11 volumes), and Shinpan Natsume Sōseki sakuhinshū (Tōkyō sōgensha; 10 volumes and 1 supplementary volume). Listed in ibid., 140. Cited in ibid., 203–4. Yaguchi, Sōseki zenshū monogatari, 87–99. The endorsement appears in “Suisenbun: ‘Genji monogatari’ no kankō ni yosete,” printed in the March 1939 issue of the magazine Tosho (Books). Cited in Yamazaki Yasuo, Iwanami bunko monogatari (Hakuōsha, 1962), 171. Yamazaki Yasuo, Chosha to shuppansha, 189. Shimanaka later revealed the nature of their meeting: “Mr. Kadokawa visited my sickbed to apologize, but this could be described not so much as an expression of regret [betsudan wabirareru wake mo naku] as the aggressiveness of a new enterprise surpassing the passivity of an old shop. As company president, I am ashamed” (ibid., 190). Ibid., 191. During the personal interview, Shimanaka offered to show this letter to Yamazaki, but the latter declined (ibid.). The company established a special webpage to mark the “Tanizaki Jun’ichirō Memorial Year” (http://www.chuko.co.jp/special/tanizaki_memorial/zenshu.html [accessed on June 11, 2017]). Nagae Akira, “Hon ga urenai” to iukeredo (Popurasha, 2014), 6. Yamamoto Yoshiaki, Kane to bungaku: Nihon kindai bungaku no keizaishi (Shinchōsha, 2013). Yanagida Izumi, “Kuroiwa Ruikō choyaku shōsetsu mokuroku (miteikō)” in Zuihitsu Meiji bungaku 1: seiji hen, bungaku hen (Shunjūsha, 1936), 212. Yanagida does not name the publisher who did not concede the copyright, but Itō Hideo reveals that it was Fusōsha. See Itō Hideo, “Kuroiwa Ruikō choyakusho sōran,” in Kuroiwa Ruikō no kenkyū to shoshi: Kuroiwa Ruikō choyakusho sōran, ed. Itō Hideo and Sakakibara Takanori (Nada shuppan sentā, 2001), 43.

254

Notes

49 Komori Kentarō, “Kaidai,” in Kuroiwa Ruikō tantei shōsetsu sen, vol. 1 (Ronsōsha, 2006), 254. 50 Tanji, “Hon no horobikata,” 46–47. 51 As of 2008, it has been adapted in Shinpen gendaibun (Sanseidō) in 2000 and in Kokugo sōgō (Taishūkan shoten) in 2003. See Anno Izumi, ed., Yonde okitai meicho annai: kyōkasho keisai sakuhin 13000 (Nichigai asoshiētsu, 2008), 169. 52 For works that are still in copyright, the operators of Aozora bunko state: “On works for which copyright has not expired, the policy of Aozora bunko is to link to the website of the creator of the copyrighted content, and to indicate that ‘reproduction and redistribution of the content beyond private use is not permitted without the approval of the rightsholder.’” Noguchi Eiji, ed., Intānetto toshokan: Aozora bunko (Haru shobō, 2005), 54. 53 Ibid., 53. 54 To some extent, Aozora bunko might be considered a later Japanese analogue to Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org/), founded in 1971 to preserve and disseminate public domain works in digital format, and as an early kindred spirit to Creative Commons (https://creativecommons.org/), founded in 2001 to facilitate the licensing and fair use of creative works. 55 Heller, Gridlock Economy, 187. 56 Yamada, Komonzu to bunka, 40.

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Index Aa gyokuhai ni hana ukete (Ah! Flowers in the Jewel Encrusted Cup) (Satō Kōroku) 72 Abe Isoo 38 Abe Yoshishige 85–6 Abel, Jonathan 13, 49 Adachi Ken’ichi 72 adventure stories (bōken shōsetsu) 54, 68, 69, 74–5, 76 advertising 13, 14, 16, 17–48, 57, 124, 125, 136, 137, 139, 140, 144–5, 149, 150, 168, 197 Aeba Kōson 128 Aisho shumi (Bibliophilia) (magazine) 46 Ajia no akebono (Dawn of Asia) (Yamanaka Minetarō) 67 Akai tori (Red Bird) (magazine) 69 Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku (The Devil Comes and Plays the Flute) (film/ television adaptation) 141, 143 Akuma no temariuta (The Devil’s Handball Rhyme) (Yokomizo Seishi) (film/television adaptation) 141, 144 Akuryōtō (Island of Evil Spirits) (Yokomizo Seishi) (film adaptation) 141 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke 119, 143, 164, 166 Alcock, Rutherford 183–4 Andrew, Dudley 10 anime 107, 124, 136, 157, 193, 195 Ansei Earthquake 164 anti-Buddhism movement (haibutsu kishaku) 164 Aoi bungaku (young literature) 107, 108, 109 Aozora bunko (Blue Sky Collection) 203 Apology (Plato) 123 Ara Masahito 162, 199 Arashiyama Kōzaburō 101 Arusu 34, 36, 41–4 Asada Hajime 105

Asahi shinbun (newspaper) 1, 2, 32, 77, 83, 128 Asakusa kurenaidan (The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa) (Kawabata Yasunari) 10 Asia-Pacific War. See Pacific War ATG (Art Theater Guild) 140–1 Austen, Jane 8 Austin, F. Britten 194–5 author worship 4, 78, 156–7, 158, 176–82, 186 autobiographies 8, 54, 71, 75 Azuma Hiroki 151 Balzac, Honoré de 153 Barūba series (Minami Yōichirō) 75 Bayard, Pierre 15, 82–4, 118 Benjamin, Walter 179 Berne Convention 190–2 bestsellers 7, 8, 15, 16, 46, 123–6, 135–7, 146, 148–9, 151–2, 192 Bluestone, George 11 Bōken Dankichi (Adventures of Dankichi) (Shimada Keizō) 69 Bond, James (character) 141 bookcase 32–7, 57, 59, 61 Botchan (Sōseki) 2, 8, 118–19, 155, 157, 159 “Bungaku ni okeru sensō sekinin no tsuikyū” (The Pursuit of War Responsibility in Literature) (Odagiri) 51–2 Bungei shunjū shinsha 43, 137, 148, 197 bunko (paperbacks) 1, 3, 16, 18, 34, 36, 42, 77, 129, 135, 136, 137–42, 145–6, 148, 159, 169–70, 203 “Bunpai” (Distribution) (Shimazaki Tōson) 46 Burakku Jakku (Black Jack) (Tezuka Osamu) 65 Burke, David 153–4 Burroughs, Edgar Rice 75 Byōinzaka no kubikukuri no ie (The Hanging House on Hospital Hill) (film adaptation) 141, 143

272

Index

canon canonical texts 6–7, 82 canonical universe 15, 16, 126, 143, 145–52 canonization 41–2, 47 Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, The (Arthur Conan Doyle) 191–2 “cash cow,” literature as 189–90, 204 censorship 13–14, 25–6, 49–50, 52–4, 57, 64–73, 76, 142 Charles Dickens Museum 163, 177 Chartier, Roger 55 children’s literature 42, 44, 69–72 Christie, Agatha 81, 82, 118, 144, 192, 198 Chūjō (Miyamoto) Yuriko 29 Chūō kōron (Central Review) (magazine) 44, 64, 137, 200–1 Collins, Wilkie 191 commercialism 43 communism 20 Compagnon, Antoine 159 Condry, Ian 193, 195 contemporary reader (gendai dokusha) 66, 76, 101, 125–6, 136, 143, 146, 149–50, 162 Copeland, Rebecca 29–30 copyright 2, 4, 16, 126, 130, 151, 189–204 Copyright Convention, Japan–United States 190 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. See Gankutsuō covers/cover design 139–40, 145 Critique of Practical Reason (Immanuel Kant) 123 critique policière (detective criticism) 15, 82–3, 118–21 cultural capital 13, 17, 40 cultural inflation 13, 19, 38, 42 cultural literacy 20, 34, 38–9, 42, 47, 124 “culture life” (bunka seikatsu) 37 Cuore (Edmondo di Amicis) 61

“dark energy” 193 Dazai Osamu 159, 180–2, 187 Dazai Osamu Wartime Evacuation House (Dazai Osamu sokai no ie) 180, 182, 185 de Certeau, Michel 55 Dentsū 41–4, 168 detective fiction 16, 23, 53, 58, 81, 125, 135, 139–45, 191, 193 di Amicis, Edmondo 61 Dickens, Charles 163 “Discover Japan” campaign 137, 168–9 Dokuritsu (magazine) 194 Doyle, Adrian Conan 192 Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan 82, 154, 191–2 Dumas, Alexandre 154

Daidokoro taiheiki (The Maid’s Story) (Tanizaki Jun’ichirō) 201 Dailey, Donna 163 Daimon Ichiju 18 Daisō bungaku shirīzu 203 Danchōtei nichijō (Dyspepsia House Days) (Nagai Kafū) 160, 162, 179 d’Angers, David 153–4

“fansub” culture 193, 195, 196 films adaptations 123–52, 154 wartime propaganda 73, 76 Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus (Shelley) 115–16 Freedom and Liberation Movement 132, 133

Eagleton, Terry 3, 4 Edogawa Ranpo 23, 57, 139, 142, 194–5 Edo period 18, 124, 155, 164, 165, 183 Emmerich, Michael 6–7 enpon boom 12–13, 17–48 advertising agencies’ rivalry 41–4 advertising strategies 26–30 children’s series 34–6, 58 copyright issues 191 historical backdrop 17–20 home library and promotional strategies 30–7 impact of Great Kantō Earthquake 18–21 Kaizōsha’s idea 25–6 legacy of 44–8 pricing/packaging/promotion strategies 17–20 and women 29–30, 47 Everyman’s Library 25, 39 Evil Under the Sun (Agatha Christie) 198 expansionism, stories about colonial 63, 67, 69, 75

Index Fuefuki gawa (The Fuefuki River) (Ozaki Kōyō and Tayama Katai) 128–30 Fujikawa Yasuo 26 Fujimori Seikichi 25 Fujimura Misao 100–1 Fujioka Wakao 168 Fujisawa Asajirō 133, 134 Fukagawa Library 21, 45 furoku 61, 63, 70–1 Furukawa Takahisa 73 Furuya Ikkō 141 Fusōsha 202 Fūten rōjin nikki (Diary of a Mad Old Man) (Tanizaki Jun’ichirō) 201 Futon (The Quilt) (Tayama Katai) 170 Gaboriau, Emile 191 Gan (Wild Goose) (Mori Ōgai) 162, 166–7 Gankutsuō (translation of The Count of Monte-Cristo) (Kuroiwa Ruikō) 23 Gansaku “Botchan” satsujin jiken (Yanagi Kōji) 118–19 Gendai chōhen shōsetsu zenshū 40, 47 Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Contemporary Japanese Literature) 12–13, 25, 27–31, 197 Gendai taishū bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Contemporary Popular Fiction) 38, 58 Genji monogatari (The Tale of Genji) 6–7, 154, 200, 201 gesaku fiction 23 Gikeiki (Record of Minamoto no Yoshitsune) 155 “Giketsu kyōketsu” (Blood of Justice, Blood of Gallantry) (Izumi Kyōka) 151 Gojira (Godzilla) (film) 76 Gojūnotō (The Five Story Pagoda) (Kōda Rohan) 162, 165 Gokumontō (Hell’s Gate Island) (Yokomizo Seishi) 139 film/television adaptation 141 Golden Age detective fiction 81, 193 “Gōyū arawashi kanchō” (The Brave and Wild Eagle Captain) (Minami Yōichirō) 71, 75 Great Depression 17 Great Kantō Earthquake 18–21, 25, 45, 49, 164, 166, 168

273

Greene Murder Case, The (S. S. Van Dine) 81 gridlock, concept of 195, 196, 198–9, 202–4 Gridlock Economy (Michael Heller) 195, 202 Gubijinsō (The Poppy) (Natsume Sōseki) 162 guidebooks 16, 153–7, 159, 161–3, 166, 167, 169–72, 177, 187 haiku 29 Hakai (The Broken Commandment) (Shimazaki Tōson) 198 Hakubunkan 70, 191, 192, 194, 197 Hakuhōdō 41–4 Hamlet 82 Hanabusa Ryūgai 133 handwriting 98–102, 103–5, 116, 158, 171, 175, 179, 186 Hanff, Helene 153, 163 Hanska, Eveline 153–4 Hara Masato 140 Harada Munenori 186–7 Haru (Spring) (Shimazaki Tōson) 198 Haru no ushio (Itō Sachio) 159 Harvard Classics 25 Hashimoto Shinobu 119 Hatanaka Shigeo 64 Hayakawa shobō 191, 198 Hayashi Fumiko 8, 159 Hayashi Tatsuo 51 Heibonsha 38, 40, 57–8, 191 Heike monogatari (The Tale of Heike) 154–5 Heisenberg, Werner 175 Heller, Michael 195, 202, 203 Henty, G. A. 74–5 heterosexuality 84–9, 90, 91, 106, 111 Hibiya Metropolitan Library 20, 21 Higuchi Ichiyō 22, 29, 120, 155–6, 158, 159, 162, 164, 171, 176–7 Higuchi Ichiyō (film) 120 Higuchi Ichiyō to aruku Meiji Tōkyō (Walking Tokyo of the Meiji Era with Ichiyō) 155 Hirano Ken 50 Hirata Shinsaku 67, 69 Hirose Takeo 53 Hisa Yoshitake 142–3

274

Index

hodoku (literary ambulation) 16, 157–69, 170, 173–4, 175–6, 178, 182–7 Hokkaidō Museum of Literature 169 Holmes, Sherlock (character) 82, 141, 154, 163 home libraries 30–7, 56–7 homicide. See murder homoeroticism 84–91, 110, 111 Honjin satsujin jiken (Murder at the Main Manor) (Yokomizo Seishi) 140 film adaptation as Sanbon yubi no otoko (The Three-Fingered Man) 142 television adaptation 141 Hooper, Tom 8 Hori Tatsuo 159 Hōrōki (Diary of a Vagabond) (Hayashi Fumiko) 8, 159 Hound of the Baskervilles, The (Arthur Conan Doyle) 82 Hugo, Victor 8, 154 Ichikawa Kon 86–7, 108, 110–11, 117, 140, 143, 144 Ichiyō Memorial Museum 156, 177 Ie (The Family) (Shimazaki Tōson) 198 Ihara Mitsuo 78 Ikebe Ryō 147 Imanishi Junkichi 79 Imperial University system 20 Inaka kyōshi (Country Teacher) (Tayama Katai) 170 Inoue Chiyoko 53 intellectual property 16, 189 Inugamike no ichizoku (The Inugami Clan) (Yokomizo Seishi) (film/television adaptation) 140, 141, 143, 144 Ise monogatari (Tales of Ise) 154 Ishihara Chiaki 88, 106, 110, 116–17 Ishikawa Jun 51, 165 Ishikawa Takuboku 22, 162 Ishikawa Torakichi 43 Ishizaka Kōji 141 Itō Sachio 159 Iwanami Shigeo 47, 139, 196, 199–200 Iwanami shoten 57–8, 77, 137, 179, 196, 199 Iwasaki Shunka 133 Iwazu katarazu (Needless To Say) (Ozaki Kōyō) 128

“Izu no odoriko” (Dancing Girl of Izu) (Kawabata Yasunari) 9, 10 Jacobowitz, Seth 6 Japanese National Railways 168 jinbutsu kinenkan (personal memorial museums) 156, 172 Joōbachi (The Queen Bee) (Yokomizo Seishi) (film) 141 Kabashima Katsuichi 74, 123 kabuki 124–5 Kadokawa Gen’yoshi 136, 200 Kadokawa Haruki 15–16, 125, 135–41, 143–6, 150, 152 Kadokawa Haruki jimusho 140–1 Kafū zenshū 179 Kagemaru Jōya 137 Kaichōtei (Mysterious Bird Ship) (Unno Jūza) 74 Kaigun (The Navy) (magazine) 69 Kaiyō bōken monogatari (Tale of Adventures at Sea) (Minami Yōichirō) 75 Kaizō (magazine) 25 Kaizōsha 12–13, 21, 25–34, 37–8, 40–1, 44–7, 191–2, 197–8 Kanagawa Museum of Modern Literature 171 Kanikōsen (Kobayashi Takiji) 159 kanshi poetry 29 Kant, Immanuel 123 Kasei heidan (Martian Army) (Unno Jūza) 64–6, 67 kashihon’ya (rental library) 17, 18–19, 22–4 Kataoka Chiezō 142 Kataoka Teppei 8–9 katei shōsetsu (family novel) 147 Katō Shūichi 51 Katsushika Hokusai 194 Kawabata Yasunari 8–9, 10–12, 137, 142, 169, 190 Kawakami Bizan 97, 101–2, 105 Kawakami Otojirō 132–3, 151 Kawakami troupe 133 Kawamoto Saburō 160, 163, 167, 173, 179, 183 Kaze tachinu (Hori Tatsuo) 159 Kida Jun’ichirō 27, 58

Index Kihara Naohiko 169 Kikuchi Kan 22, 43, 45, 47, 58, 125, 139, 146, 147, 148–50, 152, 197 Kikuchi Yūhō 1 “Kikyorai” (Going Home) (Dazai Osamu) 180 Kimura Ki 47, 191 Kindaichi Kōsuke 125, 140–4 Kindaichi Kōsuke no bōken (The Adventure of Kindaichi Kōsuke) (film) 141 Kingu (magazine) 68 Kishi Keiko 144 Kita Morio 66 Kitahara Hakushū 42–4 Kitahara Tetsuo 42–3 Kitamura Tōkoku 29 Kobayashi Hideo 51, 186 Kobayashi Takiji 159 Kōbunsha 34–5, 42–4 Kōda Rohan 47, 162, 165, 182 Kōdansha 64, 70, 137, 198 Kofue Incident 84, 102–5 Kokoro (Natsume Sōseki) 1, 2, 77–121 critique policière (detective criticism) 82–4, 118–21 homoerotic elements 84–9 textbook excerpts 77–81 visual adaptations 83–4, 86–9, 107–11, 117, 118–21 Kokumin shinbun (newspaper) 97 Kokusai katsuei 147 kokusaku eiga (national policy films) 73 “Kokyō” (Hometown) (Dazai Osamu) 180 Komatsu Kazuhiko 173, 183 Komatsu Sakyō 72 Komori Yōichi 78–9, 111, 118 Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon) (Ozaki Kōyō) 125, 130, 146–7, 152 theatrical adaptations 132–5 Koto (The Old Capital) (Kawabata Yasunari) 9 Kōza Nihon kindai bungakushi (Lectures on Modern Japanese Literary History) (Odagiri Hideo) 50 “Kugunshin” (Nine Gods of War) 53 Kurisuchī tantei shōsetsu shū (Detective Fiction Works by Agatha Christie) 198 Kuroiwa Ruikō 23, 202–3

275

Kurosawa Akira 119 “Kūshūka no Nihon” (Japan Under Air Attack) (Unno Jūza) 68 “Kūshū keihō” (Air Raid Siren) (Unno Jūza) 68 “Kūshū sōsō kyoku” (Air Raid Funeral March) (Unno Jūza) 68 Kyara makura (The Aloeswood Pillow) (Ozaki Kōyō) 127 Kyōbashi Library 20, 21, 45 Kyōka zenshũ (Complete Works of Izumi Kyōka) 57 kyōyō shugi (self-improvement) 17, 19–20, 37–8, 124 Le mystère de la chambre jaune (The Mystery of the Yellow Room) (Gaston Leroux) 81 Leroux, Gaston 81 Les Misérables (Victor Hugo) 8 L’Illustration (magazine) 81 literary ambulation. See hodoku literary criticism 3–4, 118, 174, 185, 186 literary museums 1, 16, 156, 158, 167–83, 185–6 Little Lord Fauntleroy (translated as Shōkōshi by Wakamatsu Shizuko) 29 Lupin, Arsène (character) 58 Macdonald, Andrew 8 Macdonald, Gina 8 Mack, Edward 5, 20, 26 Maeda Ai 125, 127, 161, 163 Maeda Toshinari 167–8 Maihime (The Dancing Girl) (Mori Ōgai) 161–2 Mainichi shinbun (newspaper) 128 Mainichi shōgakusei shinbun (newspaper) 65 Majutsushi (The Magician) (Edogawa Ranpo) 194–5 manga 8, 12, 15, 58, 65–6, 72, 75, 83, 92, 93, 107–9, 111, 113, 117, 121, 123, 137, 140, 148–50, 157, 186, 196 Markus, Andrew 23 Marxism 17, 27, 37–8 Masubuchi Toshiyuki 157, 185 Matsuda Sadatsugu 142 Matsumoto Hajime 179–80 Matsumoto Keiko 198

276

Index

Matsumoto Seichō 135, 137 Matsumoto Tai 198 Matsuo Bashō 155, 160 Matsuoka Yuzuru 166 Matsushita Yoshiyuki 70 Matsuyama Hideo 142 McKinney, Meredith 110 media mix (media mikkusu) 46, 124, 126–37, 138, 144–6, 148–50, 152 Meiji (Emperor) 84 Meiji Taishō bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of the Meiji and Taishō Periods) 31, 33, 57–8 Meisaku tabiyaku bunko (Guided Tours of Literary Classics) 159 memoirs 14, 52–4, 85 Meoto zenzai (Oda Sakunosuke) 159 merchandising 2, 46, 124, 155, 187 Midori no mujintō (Green Deserted Island) (Minami Yōichirō) 75 militarism 44, 49–76 Miller, J. Hillis 9–10 Minami Yōichirō 71, 75 Mishima Yukio 76, 164, 171 Mitsuchi Chūzō 43 Mitsurin no ōja (King of the Impenetrable Jungle) (Minami Yōichirō) 75 Miyatake Gaikotsu 47 Miyata Noboru 191–2 Miyazaki Ichiu 53 modernization 5, 158, 163, 164 modern Japanese literature 5–7, 12, 50, 51, 52, 56, 77, 79, 125, 165, 167–8, 171, 186, 191 modern reader (kindai dokusha) 125–6, 127, 160 Mon (The Gate) (Natsume Sōseki) 1 Moonstone, The (Wilkie Collins) 191 Mori Mayumi 167 Mori Mitsuko 8 Mori Ōgai 161–2, 166, 167, 175, 182, 184 Mori Ōgai Memorial Museum 167, 175 Morimoto Kazuo 174 Morishita Uson 191 Morita Sōhei 176–7 Mr. Holmes (film) 154 murder 91–8, 121 Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The (Agatha Christie) 82, 198

Murder on the Orient Express (Agatha Christie) (film) 144 Museum of Modern Japanese Literature 167–9, 171, 172, 177 mystery (genre). See detective fiction Nagae Akira 201 Nagai Hisamitsu 178–9 Nagai Kafū 3, 156, 160, 162, 164, 165, 173, 178–9, 183, 184 Nagamine Shigetoshi 40, 45, 47, 64 Nagayama Chōzaburō 99 naiyō mihon (sample booklets) 27–8, 32, 34 Nakamura Keiu 192 Nakamura Minoru 169–72, 174–7, 183, 185 Nakane Komajūrō 198 Nakano troupe 133 Namiki Kyōtarō 120 Nasanu naka (The Stepchild) (Yanagawa Shun’yō) 1 National Diet Library (Tokyo Library) 22 nationalism 44, 66, 68, 69, 73, 74 Natsume Fusanosuke 186, 196–7 Natsume Sōseki 1–2, 8, 15, 57, 77–121, 123, 155, 159, 162, 166, 173, 182, 186, 195–9, 202, 203 Naturalism 4, 147 Nemoto Hiroshi 101 neoliberalism 189 neurosis 89–91 New Sensation School (Shin kankaku-ha) 8 NHK 9 Nichibei miraisen (Future War Between Japan and the United States) (Miyazaki Ichiu) 53 Nihon bungaku hōkoku kai (Association of Japanese Writers in the Service of the Nation) 50 Nihon Herald eiga 140 Nihon kindai bungakukan. See Museum of Modern Japanese Literature Nihon jidō bunko (Japanese Children’s Library) 34, 36, 42 Nikkatsu 147 “Ningen isu” (Human Chair) (Edogawa Ranpo) 139 Nishida Masaji 141–2 Nishikawa Katsumi 10

Index Nobel Prize 8, 9, 169 Noda Utarō 161, 165, 173, 183 Nogami Yaeko 29, 177 Nogiku no haka (Itō Sachio) 159 Nogi Maresuke 84 Nogi Shizuko 84 noontime melodrama (hirumero) 148–9 Nosaka Akiyuki 57–8 novel vs. film 11, 16 Oda Sakunosuke 159 Odagiri Hideo 50, 51–2 Oedipus Rex 82 Ofuro de yomuhon (Books-for-the-Bath) series 203 Ogawa Mimei 69 Ōgiku shoin 196, 198–9 Oguri Fūyō 1, 147 Ohanashi denkigaku (Fun Stories of Electronics) (Unno Jūza) 66 Ōhashi Library 20, 22 Okada Michiyo 170 Okamoto Ippei 58 Oku no hosomichi (Narrow Road to the Interior) (Matsuo Bashō) 155, 160 Okuno Takeo 51 Ōsaka Mainichi shinbun (newspaper) 1–2, 146, 147 “Osoroshiki sakugo” (Horrifying Misunderstanding) (Edogawa Ranpo) 139 “Ōsuchin o osou” (Raiding Austin) (Senoo Akio) 194 Ozaki Hotsuki 31, 61–3, 70 Ozaki Kōyō 15–17, 125, 126–35, 137, 139, 142, 146–8, 151, 166, 197, 202 Ōzora makan (Enchanted Battleship in the Sky) (Unno Jūza) 74 Pacific War 13, 44, 49–51, 66, 147, 149, 161, 164–5, 167, 180, 183, 194 Parker, David 177–9, 185 parody 7, 55, 77, 119, 196 Phillipe-Auguste 163 Plato 123 pocket edition books. See bunko (paperbacks) popular consciousness 8, 14, 25, 135, 141, 146, 151, 176

277

promotional strategies 7–12, 16, 17–48, 117, 124, 127, 135–8, 144–5, 148, 157 Proust, Marcel 154 public libraries 17–19 impact of Great Kantō Earthquake 20–2, 25 inconveniences of using 20–2, 34 patron-friendly improvements 45 publishing industry 5, 6, 13, 16, 19, 20, 29, 41–2, 46, 49, 128, 145, 148, 201 pulp fiction 4, 23, 76 puppet drama 124–5 Puratonsha 46 radio 9–10, 27, 38, 125 Rashōmōn (film) 119 Reclam 39 rental libraries. See kashihon’ya Rigney, Ann 176 risshin shusse (self-attained success) 69, 71, 72, 123–4 River Sumida, The (Nagai Kafū) 184 Rose, Jonathan 53, 54, 75 royalties 46–7, 190–93, 197–8 Russo-Japanese War 53, 86 Ryoshū (Loneliness on a Journey) (Yokomitsu Riichi) 9 Sachimi Riho 148, 150 Saitō Mokichi 66 Sakaguchi Ango 165 Sakakibara Hiroshi 170 Sand, Jordan 37 Sano Mayuko 183 Sanshirō (Natsume Sōseki) 162 Sasaki Hidehiko 157, 172, 174 Sasaki Hiroyuki 165 Sasameyuki (The Makioka Sisters) (Tanizaki Jun’ichirō) 200 Sasanuma Toshiaki 4 Sataki Yoshihiro 170 Satō Giryō 198 Satō Haruo 47, 165 Satō Kōroku 69, 72 Satō Tadao 67, 69, 73 Satō Tadashi 66 Satomi Ton 47 science fiction 53, 64–9, 72, 73–4, 76 Scott, Sir Walter 176, 177

278

Index

Sekai bijutsu zenshū (Complete Works of World Art) 40 Sekai bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of World Literature) 38, 58 Sekai dai shisō zenshū (Complete Works of Major World Ideologies) 39–40 Sekiya Yumiko 108–9 Self-Help (Samuel Smiles) 192 Senbazuru (Thousand Cranes) (Kawabata Yasunari) 9 Senoo Akio 193–4 Shanghai (Yokomitsu Riichi) 9 shared collections 17 in public libraries 20–2 in kashihon’ya 22–4 and working-class readers 45 Shayō (The Setting Sun) (Dazai Osamu) 180 Shelley, Mary 115–16 Sherlock (TV series) 154 Sherlock Holmes (film) 154 Sherlock Holmes Museum 154, 163 Shiga Naoya 47, 83, 117 Shigesato Tetsuya 177–8, 187 Shikitei Sanba 124–5 Shimada Keizō 69 Shimanaka Hōji 200–1 Shimanaka Yūsaku 200 Shimazaki Tōson 47, 50, 167, 172, 197, 198 Shimizu Bunkichi 124 Shimizu Seki 72, 74 Shinchōsha 38, 39, 40, 47, 58, 77, 137, 146, 148, 152, 198 Shindō Masahiro 7 Shinju fujin (Madame Pearl) (Kikuchi Kan) 125, 146–52 film/theatrical/television adaptations 147–51 Shinseinen (New Youth) (magazine) 70, 139, 142, 191, 194 Shinseinen ban sekai tantei shōsetsu zenshū (Shinseinen edition Complete Works of Detective Fiction) 191 Shirai Kyōji 10 Shirakawa Hiroshi 180–2, 185, 187 Shirane, Haruo 6 Shōchiku Kamata 147 Shōgakusei zenshū (Complete Works for Elementary School Students) 34–6, 42, 58 Shōhakukan 39

Shōjo no tomo (Girls’ Friend) (magazine) 59 Shōkokumin shinbun (newspaper) 65 Shōnen Keniya (A Boy from Kenya) (Yamakawa Sōji) 75 Shōnen kurabu (magazine) 57–64, 69–72 Shōnen magajin (magazine) 137 Shōnen sekai (magazine) 70 Shōwa bungakushi (Literary History of the Shōwa Period) 50 Shōwa bungaku zenshū (Complete Works of Shōwa Literature) 200 Shōwa yūgekitai (Flying Squadron Shōwa) (Hirata Shinsaku) 67 Shunjūsha 39, 202 Shun’yōdō 31–4, 38, 40, 57, 130, 131, 191, 197 “Shusse” (Social Advancement) (Kikuchi Kan) 22, 45 shūyō shugi (moralism) 37 silent reading 19, 32, 157 Smiles, Samuel 192 socialism 20, 38, 75 Sorekara (And Then) (Natsume Sōseki) 1, 162 Sōseki kenkyū nenpyō (Chronology of Sōseki) (Ara Masahito) 162, 199 Sōseki zenshū (Complete Works of Natsume Sōseki) 57, 162, 195–6, 199 Steinberg, Marc 124, 136 subscription publishing (yoyaku shuppan) 27 Sugimoto Ichibun 138–9 suicide note 98–105, 108 Surugadai Library 45 Suzuki, Tomi 6 Taguchi Noriko 186 Taiheiki (Taiheiki: A Chronicle of Medieval Japan) 155 Taiheiyō majō (Magic Castle in the Pacific Ocean) (Unno Jūza) 65, 67 Tajō takon (Tears and Regrets) (Ozaki Kōyō) 127–31 Takamine Mieko 147 Takasaki Ryūji 71–2 “Takekurabe”(Child’s Play) (Higuchi Ichiyō) 120, 156, 159 Takeuchi Keishū 127, 128 Taki no shiraito (The Water Magician) (Kawakami Otojirō) 151

Index Tamura Toshiko 29 Tanabe Seiko 59 Tanaka Giichi 43 Tanaka Tatsuo 3 Tanizaki Jun’ichirō 25–7, 47, 58, 169, 175, 177, 199–200 Tanizaki Jun’ichirō Memorial Museum of Literature 175, 177 Tanji Yoshinobu 2, 3, 195, 202 tanka 29 Tankai (Sea of Stories) (magazine) 70 Tasaka Ichirō 66 Tayama Katai 128, 170, 171, 175 Tayama Katai Literature Museum 170, 171, 175–6 Tekichū ōdan sanbyakuri (300 Miles into Enemy Territory) (Yamanaka Minetarō) 67 “Tekki dai shūrai” (Enemy Planes Attack) (Unno Jūza) 68 television 9, 16, 124–6, 136, 138, 141, 144, 145, 148–50, 152, 154, 157, 168 Terasaki Kōgyō 130 Tetsuwan Atomu (Astro Boy) (Tezuka Osamu) 65, 136 textbooks 12, 14–15, 38, 42, 77–81, 83, 91, 106, 111, 117–18, 120–1, 170, 203 Tezuka Osamu 65–7, 186 theatrical adaptations 8, 15, 132–4, 147, 151 Toeda Hirokazu 8–9 Tōkai dōchū hizakurige (Hoofing It Along the East-Sea Highway) 154–5 Tōkai Television Broadcasting Company 148, 149 Tokuda Shūsei 162 Tōkyō Asahi shinbun (newspaper) 1, 43, 77 Tōkyō bungaku sanpo (Tokyo Literary Strolls) 157 Tokyo Imperial University Library 20, 47 “Tōkyō kūbaku” (Aerial Bombardment of Tokyo) (Unno Jūza) 68 Tokyo Metropolitan Library system 20, 21 Tōkyō Nichinichi shinbun (newspaper) 128, 146, 147 Tōkyō no hito (People of Tokyo) (Kawabata Yasunari) 10 Tomedi, John 163 Toshi kūkan no naka no bungaku (Maeda Ai) 161 Tōson Memorial Museum 167, 172, 173

279

tourism, literature and 9, 12, 16, 26, 153–87, 189 translations 6–7, 16 copyright issues 190–8 Tsubota Jōji 69 Tsugaru (Dazai Osamu) 159 “Tsuma no hinan” (My Wife’s Accusation) (Kikuchi Kan) 139 Tsuru Keijirō 149 Tsushima Bunji 180 tsūzoku shōsetsu (popular novel) 147, 148 Ubukata Toshirō 86 Uchū senpei (Space Troopers) (Unno Jūza) 68 Uchū sentai (Space Squadron) (Unno Jūza) 68–9 Ueda Yasuo 125 Ueno Library 21, 34 Ueno Masahiko 119 Ueshima Keiji 185 Ukabu hikōtō (Unno Jūza) 65, 67, 73–4 Unno Jūza 53, 57, 64–9, 74, 123 Uno Chiyo 165 Uno Kōji 165 use value, idea of 3–7, 12, 15, 48, 53, 57, 73, 74, 76, 77, 78, 123, 124, 125, 145, 152, 189, 195 Ushijima Hidehiko 58–9, 61, 63, 73 Utsukushiki machi (Beautiful Town) (Satō Haruo) 165 Uzumaki (Vortex) (Watanabe Katei) 2 Van Dine, S. S. 80–1, 191 Vincent, J. Keith 85, 106 visual adaptations 7–12 and collaborations 123–52 visual media 8, 15, 135, 145, 151 Wada Ume 197 Wagahai wa neko de aru (I Am a Cat) (Natsume Sōseki) 2, 82, 162 Wakamatsu Shizuko 29 wartime Japanese literature and national policy films 72–3 propaganda and intensive censorship 13–14, 49–56 repetitive and nostalgic reading 56–64 Watanabe Katei 1–2 Watt, AP 192

280 whodunit 80, 141, 144, 145 women enpon writers 46 vs. male writers and readers 29–30 Yaguchi Shin’ya 199 Yamada Shōji 189, 204 Yamakawa Sōji 74, 75 Yamamoto Akira 57, 58–9, 68, 73–4 Yamamoto Kajirō 8 Yamamoto Kanae 43 Yamamoto Nogitarō 103 Yamamoto Sanehiko 25–6, 41, 198 Yamamoto Taketoshi 42 Yamamoto Yoshiaki 201–2 Yamanaka Hisashi 74 Yamanaka Minetarō 57, 67, 69 Yamazaki Yasuo 197, 200 Yanagawa Shun’yō 1 Yanagida Izumi 47, 202 Yanagi Kōji 118–19 Yasuda Noboru 160 Yatsuhaka mura (The Village of Eight Tombs) (Yokomizo Seishi) 137, 138, 139

Index film adaptation 141 manga adaptation (Kagemaru Jōya) 137 Yokomitsu Riichi 8–9 Yokomizo Seishi 16, 23, 125, 135–7, 140–6, 190 Yomiuri shinbun (newspaper) 127, 128–33 yose storytelling 7 Yoshikawa Eiji 57 Yoshikawa Kazuyoshi 186 Yoshinaga Sayuri 10 Yoshiya Nobuko 47, 59 Yukiguni (Snow Country) (Kawabata Yasunari) 9 Yume jūya (Ten Nights’ Dream) (Natsume Sōseki) 8 zenshū (complete works) 3, 13, 18, 25–45, 47, 57–8, 139, 148, 162, 179, 191–202 “Zenta to kasha” (Zenta and the Train) (Tsubota Jōji) 69