liehtzu
Reader
"I’ve never understood how Soseki, the first great Japanese novelist, could be virtually unknown to English-language readers; all of his late books, with their splendidly self-aware protagonists overwhelmed by the paradoxes of modernity, are wonderful." - Susan Sontag
Kusamakura is "a haiku-style novel, that lives through beauty," according to the author, who also claimed to have written it in a week. Coming towards the beginning (1906) of an incredible ten-year run that ended with the author's early death in 1916, it represents the author's attempt to use traditional Japanese literary style to write a modern novel. Meaning: much detailed description, much philosophical and artistic musing, not much plot. This is the sort of thing that is not going to be many peoples' cups of tea. I do not find it entirely successful, and Soseki may have felt the same because he never attempted another book quite like this. As a glimpse into an era of tremendous change in Japanese society - and the longing for a return to olde Japan - as well as a look at the author's own psyche, torn as he was between the traditional and the modern (Western), it's a fascinating book. There are several rambling monologues contrasting Western and Japanese culture; Soseki's narrator tends to lean towards the latter while maintaining an appreciation for the former. This is not always the case, however.
Not a single Western food has a color that could be called beautiful - the only exceptions I can think of are salad and radishes. I'm in no position to speak of its nutritional value, but to the artist's eye it is a thoroughly uncivilized cuisine. On the other hand, artistically speaking, everything on a Japanese menu, from the soups to the hors d'oeuvres to the raw fish, is beautifully conceived. If you did nothing more than gaze at the banquet tray set before you at an elegant restaurant, without lifting a chopstick, and then go home again, the feast for the eyes would have been more than sufficient to make the visit worth your while.
A nameless young artist who, like the author, is much more familiar with Western culture than most Japanese at the time (Soseki spoke English and lived in London awhile, the lonely chronicle of which can be found in letters in Spring Miscellany in English), goes deep into the mountains to search for a subject. There he stays at a mountain inn, meets a few of the eccentric villagers, and becomes a touch smitten with the innkeeper's mysterious daughter. That's it. A short book, full of descriptions and digressions. Like many classic Japanese novels the romance that's hinted at never occurs. The novel has been translated once before, as The Three-Cornered World, and I can't comment on that one, but this far more recent one reads rather well.
A small book for a contemplative mood, that can be read in one sitting.
The road now divides in two, and I turn left, with the white-walled house off to one side. I glance back and discover a girl in a red skirt climbing the hill behind me. The skirt gives way to a pair of brown shins, below which is a pair of straw sandals, advancing steadily towards me. Petals from the mountain cherries tumble about her head. At her back she bears the shining sea.
Kusamakura is "a haiku-style novel, that lives through beauty," according to the author, who also claimed to have written it in a week. Coming towards the beginning (1906) of an incredible ten-year run that ended with the author's early death in 1916, it represents the author's attempt to use traditional Japanese literary style to write a modern novel. Meaning: much detailed description, much philosophical and artistic musing, not much plot. This is the sort of thing that is not going to be many peoples' cups of tea. I do not find it entirely successful, and Soseki may have felt the same because he never attempted another book quite like this. As a glimpse into an era of tremendous change in Japanese society - and the longing for a return to olde Japan - as well as a look at the author's own psyche, torn as he was between the traditional and the modern (Western), it's a fascinating book. There are several rambling monologues contrasting Western and Japanese culture; Soseki's narrator tends to lean towards the latter while maintaining an appreciation for the former. This is not always the case, however.
Not a single Western food has a color that could be called beautiful - the only exceptions I can think of are salad and radishes. I'm in no position to speak of its nutritional value, but to the artist's eye it is a thoroughly uncivilized cuisine. On the other hand, artistically speaking, everything on a Japanese menu, from the soups to the hors d'oeuvres to the raw fish, is beautifully conceived. If you did nothing more than gaze at the banquet tray set before you at an elegant restaurant, without lifting a chopstick, and then go home again, the feast for the eyes would have been more than sufficient to make the visit worth your while.
A nameless young artist who, like the author, is much more familiar with Western culture than most Japanese at the time (Soseki spoke English and lived in London awhile, the lonely chronicle of which can be found in letters in Spring Miscellany in English), goes deep into the mountains to search for a subject. There he stays at a mountain inn, meets a few of the eccentric villagers, and becomes a touch smitten with the innkeeper's mysterious daughter. That's it. A short book, full of descriptions and digressions. Like many classic Japanese novels the romance that's hinted at never occurs. The novel has been translated once before, as The Three-Cornered World, and I can't comment on that one, but this far more recent one reads rather well.
A small book for a contemplative mood, that can be read in one sitting.
The road now divides in two, and I turn left, with the white-walled house off to one side. I glance back and discover a girl in a red skirt climbing the hill behind me. The skirt gives way to a pair of brown shins, below which is a pair of straw sandals, advancing steadily towards me. Petals from the mountain cherries tumble about her head. At her back she bears the shining sea.
