waalkwriter
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I recently came across someone who, following my statement that I found Yukio Mishima (the controversial militarist Japanese writer, who, following the spectacular, and tragically stupid stage play he carried out, wherein he urged the army to overthrow the democratic government and reinstall the emperor in an affirmation of traditional values, committed ritual seppuku—right down to death poems and being beheaded—) charming, blurted out, “But how? His writing is just so stupendously bad.” I, a fan, could only nod in agreement.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I like Mishima in spite of his writing—rather than for it. Without twisting words or tangoing with the point, Mishima makes stylistic gaffes so gross that they can only be described as juvenile—the mistakes of a juvenile writer still getting a grasp of the basics. The baffling quality of the matter is just this: they are such juvenile mistakes and Mishima does show an otherwise clean and sharp prose and capable of writing very beautiful, and often powerful scenes.
So why then, does Mishima make such silly errors of judgment elsewhere? I have no answers for why he uses the same lazy phrasing, (in works like Confessions of a Mask he has a habit of constantly setting up another scene by saying, in essence, ‘and another time I had this experience’), why he tends to slip up and start condescending towards a particular character in his writing, or to make unsubtle judgments, or to suddenly inject himself, the writer, into passing commentary in a third person novel (though this worked for Confessions, a very personal novel written in the first person), or worst of all his ability to create some really cringe-inducing lines amidst works that are, as a whole, quite good. Case in point, “Of course the boy was not so articulate, and his way of speaking was confused and disconnected, but this is roughly what he told Hatsue in this moment of rare fluency. (Pg. 53)”
A line so incompetent, so unsophisticated, and so out of place, that I simply had to close the book for that day out of frustration (and it’s a problem I don’t have with Kobo Abe, Kawabata Yasunari, Kenzaburo Oe, or Haruki Murakami). It is specifically the kind of mistake I’d expect a very young writer, lacking confidence and just getting his sea-legs in the art of storytelling, so to speak, to make—not someone with Mishima’s considerable talent and reputation.
But despite myself, I have a soft spot for him, especially for The Sound of Waves, which I enjoyed and was able to become completely engrossed in. As an individual I have little respect for him of course; his emotionality was histrionic, and was hardly an intellectual. Kenzaburo Oe is most definitely a more sophisticated and intelligent author—no, he is vastly moreso, and is considerably more interested in expanding his own issues into a frame that says larger things about society as a whole. But at the end of the day, there’s something thoroughly enjoyable about Mishima as well; what he lacks in intensity and subtlety, is more than made up for by his honesty and peculiarly straightforward style of writing.
The Sound of Waves is a tender love story between Shinji, the son of a poor, widowed pearl diver and Hatsue, the only remaining child of the wealthiest man on the island, Terukichi Miyata. Mishima, himself one of the most open and noted homosexuals not just in Japan, but in the world at that time (though he did later marry and have a, by all accounts, very happy family), creates an elegant heterosexual romance (and having read Confessions of Mask I get the feeling that Shinji, honest, innocent, sensitive, brusque and hard-working is Mishima’s sort of ‘ideal man’).
It is the most perfect pastoral novel I have read thus far—and therein lies its greatest accomplishment. A pastoral novel is something that appears quite easy and simple, but to capture the essence and beauty of the ordinary lifestyle—the vivid images—and do it while never losing the tone or linguistic clarity of the work is very difficult indeed. Yukio Mishima was able to capture this. I was struck at the power with which he could create a character.
The other side of the coin is the environment that Mishima paints around his characters. It is a beautiful backdrop, with a keen and close connection to nature and a simplicity in the interactions with it that brings pangs to my heart—that I in my life have lost so much that basic understanding of my place and relationship with the world around me. The stunning clarity and sharpness of his description creates a setting of amazing nearness and great beauty, turning such a simply story into an enthralling read. Paragraphs like “The wind came blowing, and the pine braches set up a clamor. It was a gust of wind that raised solemn echoes even in the dark interior of the shrine. Perhaps it was the sea-god, accepting the boy’s prayer. (Pg. 25)” make all the occasional digressions into bad writing worth it—they shine all the more for it.
A short, and very basic story (my version is only 183 pages long, with an ordinary typeset) that packs a big punch, a filling and story that seems much longer than it is. By the time Mishima writes
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I like Mishima in spite of his writing—rather than for it. Without twisting words or tangoing with the point, Mishima makes stylistic gaffes so gross that they can only be described as juvenile—the mistakes of a juvenile writer still getting a grasp of the basics. The baffling quality of the matter is just this: they are such juvenile mistakes and Mishima does show an otherwise clean and sharp prose and capable of writing very beautiful, and often powerful scenes.
So why then, does Mishima make such silly errors of judgment elsewhere? I have no answers for why he uses the same lazy phrasing, (in works like Confessions of a Mask he has a habit of constantly setting up another scene by saying, in essence, ‘and another time I had this experience’), why he tends to slip up and start condescending towards a particular character in his writing, or to make unsubtle judgments, or to suddenly inject himself, the writer, into passing commentary in a third person novel (though this worked for Confessions, a very personal novel written in the first person), or worst of all his ability to create some really cringe-inducing lines amidst works that are, as a whole, quite good. Case in point, “Of course the boy was not so articulate, and his way of speaking was confused and disconnected, but this is roughly what he told Hatsue in this moment of rare fluency. (Pg. 53)”
A line so incompetent, so unsophisticated, and so out of place, that I simply had to close the book for that day out of frustration (and it’s a problem I don’t have with Kobo Abe, Kawabata Yasunari, Kenzaburo Oe, or Haruki Murakami). It is specifically the kind of mistake I’d expect a very young writer, lacking confidence and just getting his sea-legs in the art of storytelling, so to speak, to make—not someone with Mishima’s considerable talent and reputation.
But despite myself, I have a soft spot for him, especially for The Sound of Waves, which I enjoyed and was able to become completely engrossed in. As an individual I have little respect for him of course; his emotionality was histrionic, and was hardly an intellectual. Kenzaburo Oe is most definitely a more sophisticated and intelligent author—no, he is vastly moreso, and is considerably more interested in expanding his own issues into a frame that says larger things about society as a whole. But at the end of the day, there’s something thoroughly enjoyable about Mishima as well; what he lacks in intensity and subtlety, is more than made up for by his honesty and peculiarly straightforward style of writing.
The Sound of Waves is a tender love story between Shinji, the son of a poor, widowed pearl diver and Hatsue, the only remaining child of the wealthiest man on the island, Terukichi Miyata. Mishima, himself one of the most open and noted homosexuals not just in Japan, but in the world at that time (though he did later marry and have a, by all accounts, very happy family), creates an elegant heterosexual romance (and having read Confessions of Mask I get the feeling that Shinji, honest, innocent, sensitive, brusque and hard-working is Mishima’s sort of ‘ideal man’).
It is the most perfect pastoral novel I have read thus far—and therein lies its greatest accomplishment. A pastoral novel is something that appears quite easy and simple, but to capture the essence and beauty of the ordinary lifestyle—the vivid images—and do it while never losing the tone or linguistic clarity of the work is very difficult indeed. Yukio Mishima was able to capture this. I was struck at the power with which he could create a character.
Mishima creates such an image that I can the grizzled old man, who has worked hard, and not let it crush his body or mind. When he cracks out his pipe or cigarettes to smoke, or pulls in a fish, fillets it, cleans the filets in vinegar, and then prepares them a little fresh lunch, his character shines through, and because of it the scene has a wonderful immediacy, a vivacity that is the joy of the novel.
The other side of the coin is the environment that Mishima paints around his characters. It is a beautiful backdrop, with a keen and close connection to nature and a simplicity in the interactions with it that brings pangs to my heart—that I in my life have lost so much that basic understanding of my place and relationship with the world around me. The stunning clarity and sharpness of his description creates a setting of amazing nearness and great beauty, turning such a simply story into an enthralling read. Paragraphs like “The wind came blowing, and the pine braches set up a clamor. It was a gust of wind that raised solemn echoes even in the dark interior of the shrine. Perhaps it was the sea-god, accepting the boy’s prayer. (Pg. 25)” make all the occasional digressions into bad writing worth it—they shine all the more for it.
A short, and very basic story (my version is only 183 pages long, with an ordinary typeset) that packs a big punch, a filling and story that seems much longer than it is. By the time Mishima writes
the story feels as if it has been a long and slow journey. In brevity he still manages to pack a filling and meaty story, with a satisfying conclusion. In spite of occasionally poor writing, I truly enjoyed this novel—far moreso than Confessions of Mask and The Temple of the Golden Pavilion. I give it five stars out of five. *****
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