On Japanese Literature (and Nonfiction)
I have waaayyyyyy too many Japanese literature and nonfiction books.
Over 110 at last count.
And, yes, I’ve read them all. They’re currently straining the structural integrity of a bookcase tucked away in the corner near the front door. The shelves are reserved for paperback fiction. There, you will find Mishima squished against Murakami, Kawabata snuggled up against Kawakami (both of them), Miyazawa stacked on his side, and Akutagawa and Yoshitomo acting as bookends.
On the top, in three stacks, are hardback fiction and all my nonfiction. Japanese and Western names intermingle, each offering a unique interpretation. There’s still plenty of space between them and the ceiling, an open invitation to add a few more volumes.
It’s an impressive sight, at least to me. That said, I think it’s time to step back and reflect on what all this reading has taught me about a nation and its people.
The Books and How They Got There
The book that started it all was The Makioka Sisters by Junichiro Tanazaki. It was assigned by my 11th-grade English teacher, Mrs. Tuttle. (I always think of her when I see the books on my shelf published by the company of the same name.) Although 11th-grade English was meant to be American literature, I and the other International Baccalaureate students needed a well-rounded, presumably international education. I figure The Makioka Sisters was one of her favorite books by a foreign author.
I remember liking the novel well enough. Most of the minutia went over my head, as I knew nothing about Osaka, merchant families, or the stresses Japanese society faced in the late 1930s.
Still, I held onto the book, and once I decided to major in East Asian studies at Vanderbilt, I picked up Mishima’s Sea of Fertility tetralogy to challenge myself. Some of the prose wasn’t to my liking, but it was my first real attempt to tackle serious literature without an essay due the following week.
After Mishima came Murakami, whose Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World became my favorite book for a while. Preparing to study abroad in Tokyo, I mentioned it in a letter I wrote to potential host families. It might have been the deciding factor, as the little room I ended up living in for four-and-a-half months featured a first-edition hardback in the closet. Either the husband or wife must have been a fan of it in their youth. For me, Murakami is best in small doses, meaning I could never get into his longer novels. I’ve read everything else, though, including all his short stories and translated nonfiction.
After graduating college, I didn’t read much Japanese literature for a long time. Switching gears from East Asian studies to teaching did that, I figure. What did happen in those years was that a lot more Japanese fiction and scholarship was coming out in translation. There was a silent backlog building up, but it would take a spark to reignite my passion.
That spark was the Tubbs Fire.
Losing my original little library was devastating. It was only twenty or so books, including that weathered copy of The Makioka Sisters, its copper paint cover green from oxidation, but the loss left a hole larger than the original books could fill. After moving into my own place in 2019, I set out to expand my collection.
Second-hand sellers on Amazon and eBay were a godsend, and sometimes I splurged for a new book on Amazon. However, the Sonoma County Library was usually my best bet, a great way to try out a novel or nonfiction work without spending a penny. And, if I finished the book, a used copy from a random seller ended up on my shelf.
I also replaced the Japanese nonfiction I had read for my college history and culture classes. I expanded my nonfiction section with books about war and peace, prosperity and stagnation, etc. The Bells of Nagasaki and The Rape of Nanking opened my eyes to topics I had neglected in my undergraduate education.
What is Japanese Literature?
Japanese literature is fiction Japanese people write. And that’s true…most of the time.
The grave of Lafcadio Hearn in Tokyo, Japan
My literature section has all Japanese names, save one - Lafcadio Hearn. He is perhaps the only Western fiction writer whose works are part of the Japanese literary canon. Hearn, born in Greece to a Greek mother and Irish/English father, not only died a Japanese citizen but preserved much of the country’s fading oral tradition in his final years.
Understanding Hearn is crucial to understanding what makes Japanese literature Japanese literature. It’s a sensitivity to the culture and shared experience, something that race alone cannot provide. For example, I would hardly call Kazuo Ishiguro a Japanese writer. He is a British subject, through and through. Just read Remains of the Day.
An Aside: Besides Hearn, the only other person worthy of such a position in the Japanese literary canon would be David Mitchell. His Cloud Atlas is a perfect rebuke to Mishima’s Sea of Fertility tetralogy. However, unlike Hearn, Mitchell decided to move back to Ireland.
As for the nonfiction side of things, I’d point to Donald Keene as the only Western historian the Japanese adopted as one of their own. He found a group of people he wanted to dedicate his life to and, in doing so, helped them understand themselves a bit better than before.
The exceptions aside, Japanese literature, at least modern literature, presents the reader with a window (sometimes big, sometimes small, sometimes cloudy/opaque/etc.) into the Japanese experience.
The Lessons
The books have taught me a few things. The greatest lesson is that people are people. There’s nothing new under the sun, even in the Land of the Rising Sun, and cultural differences between us are about as much of a barrier as an apple’s skin.
Still, those differences, as thin as they are, make us who we are. Culture, even on its most superficial level, has a massive sway on how people live, love, hate, and just get through the day. And if there’s one echo present in the many fictional stories I’ve read, it’s that an undercurrent of nervousness drives just about everything in Japan. Nervous about what others think of them, nervous about who they are, etc.
It’s a broad statement and perhaps not wholly correct. Still, it’s a feeling that defines the modern (e.g., post-1868) Japanese literary experience. Imagine if you went into a bookstore and there was a section called “What are Americans?” It would seem kind of out of place, wouldn’t it? But that kind of section, Nihonjinron, exists in nearly every major Japanese bookstore. Nihonjinron attempts to answer biting questions/anxiety surrounding identity, history, and purpose most educated Japanese people feel at some point in their lives.
But just as a collection of books can’t fully reveal your culture’s true nature, another set of books can’t do the same for a foreign culture.
So, that said, maybe it’s best to enjoy a nation’s literature and nonfiction, think deeply about the stories, and use the experience to grow as an individual.
That’s what I will continue to do. :)