Tony's Reading List

After looking at several review copies (and making a couple of visits to Genjiland), I finally found time a while back to get around to another of my latest crop of library books, and where my first choice had me checking out a minor work by a Nobel Laureate, today’s selection… well, has me checking out a minor work by a different Nobel Laureate (variety is the spice of life, after all).  This one’s a rather more domestic affair, so let’s pay a visit to a writer, and his family, with today’s choice the work of a man who believes in writing about rather personal affairs.

*****
Kenzaburō Ōe’s A Healing Family (translated by Stephen Snyder) is a collection of essays, first published together in Japanese in 1995, shortly after his Nobel win.  What we’re presented with here is a mixed bag, fifteen pieces on a range of topics, with some more personal than others.  They’re all beautifully written, and brought into English wonderfully by Snyder, making it a perfect book to dip into when you have a spare minute or ten.

Ōe is a writer with a keen interest in the wider world, and a number of the essays originate from talks he was asked to give on various topics.  For example, ‘Acceptance’ stems from a presentation on medical rehabilitation, discussing the idea of how the family goes through the journey just as much as the patient.  There’s a similar approach taken in ‘Disabled Persons Decade’, in which the writer reflects on how the disabled are, and should be, treated by society.

Another of the writer’s common topics (c.f. Hiroshima Notes) is the atom bomb, and in ‘Perfect Timing’, we’re told of his work on an NHK television programme to commemorate the forty-fifth anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing.  Ōe takes the opportunity here to introduce us to Fumio Shigeto, a doctor who treated as many people as he could in the aftermath of the attack.  This piece is a fascinating short history of a man going above and beyond, and yet another reminder of just how heavy a price the ordinary Japanese people paid at the end of the war.

In truth, though, A Healing Family is far more about the personal than the public.  Anyone with more than a passing interest in the writer’s work will know that one of the biggest influences on his writing is his son, Hikari, whose traumatic early days were fictionalised in A Personal Matter, and who was a prominent figure in Rouse Up O Young Men of the New Age!.  Once again, Hikari is a focal point of these pieces, with many exploring the relationship between father and son.  For instance, ‘It’s the Same in Every Family’ has as its starting point a birthday card Hikari writes, and the essay develops with his father poring over the short text inside, teasing out the message he believes his son is trying to convey.

Of course, Ōe is far from a perfect father, and as is the case in his fiction, he’s never reluctant to point out his own failings.  One of the more memorable pieces is ‘Compassion’, describing a shopping trip he made when his son was still a child.  Hikari refuses to go where his father wants him to, dragging his feet (and his father’s arm) until the writer suddenly snaps:

I can remember even now the strange sense of disembodiment I felt at that moment, as if I were being plucked right out of reality itself, which I assume is one of the side effects of sudden anger.  In any case, for some reason I simply let go of Hikari’s hand and went straight to the new building to do the shopping I’d come to do.
‘Compassion’, p.32 (Kodansha International, 1996)

It’s a scene that comes as a shock, but if we’re honest, which parent hasn’t at least felt like doing this at some point in their life…

While there are several essays that focus on Hikari’s disability, and his health issues, perhaps the main theme running through A Healing Family is the son’s musical career.  The boy is interested in music from an early age (as discussed in ‘”Bebe” and “Unpa”‘), eventually becoming a composer, and we’re treated to a number of insights into this world.  “‘Let’s Just Get on With It'” takes us to Ōe’s home town in Shikoku (mentioned on many occasions in his fiction) where a large crowd has gathered to attend a performance of Hikari’s work, with the composer himself enjoying the concert and the attention.

More insights into the music come in ‘Well-Chosen Words’, in which during a recording session, Hikari and the pianist discuss the approach to be taken.  Ōe describes the conversation, and the way music brings people together:

This kind of immediate, crystal-clear communication between the pianist and Hikari was made possible by a shared language of “well-chosen words” based directly on music itself; and thanks in large part to this sort of refreshingly smooth and unambiguous exchange, everyone – the technicians included – seemed to enjoy the session, lengthy though it was.
‘Well-Chosen Words’, p.85

Alas, not everyone is so kind.  In the closing piece ‘”It’s Was All Awful”‘, the family receives hate mail, with the anonymous writer claiming that it’s only Ōe’s fame that has allowed Hikari to have his work published and performed at all…

A Healing Family is perhaps at its best when concentrating on father and son, and the music, and the highlight for me was the trip to Europe described in two linked essays towards the end of the book.  ‘To Salzburg and Vienna’ has mum, dad and Hikari flying off to Europe on a once-in-a-lifetime musical odyssey, while in ‘Seiji Ozawa’s Chair’, we enjoy a stay at their hotel, and are shown a chair the Japanese composer Ozawa used when he stayed there.  To finish off the holiday, we’re off to Paris to watch a concert conducted by Ozawa himself, which Hikari is rather pleased about (and who can blame him?).

I wouldn’t say A Healing Family is among Ōe’s best works, but there’s a lot to admire in this collection of assorted texts, both for frequent fliers and readers new to the writer.  It’s makes for a nice introduction to the author and his themes as well as providing interesting background information for those who already have a good grounding in his (auto)fictional world.  At any rate, I thoroughly enjoyed my time with this healing family, and (as you may have guessed) it’s given me another incentive to get back to more of Ōe’s fiction, too – I’ll be sure to let you know if and when that happens

In the wake of Han Kang’s literary success, a wider variety of Korean writers and styles have begun to make it into English, with speculative fiction one genre having its day in the sun.  I’ve already tried works by Bora Chung, Bae Myung-hoon and Djuna, and today sees me adding another writer to that list.  Here we have a collection of stories with its eyes firmly on the future, but even if some of the technology is out of this world, the themes at times are certainly closer to home.

*****
Kim Choyeop’s If We Cannot Go at the Speed of Light (translated by Anton Hur, review copy courtesy of MacLehose Press) is a collection of seven stories, all concerned with what might happen (many) years from now.  All the stories are different, existing in their own world, with little connecting them apart from their focus on the future, and where it might take us.

The opening piece, ‘Symbiosis Theory’, ushers readers into Kim’s world nicely.  This one begins by introducing us to a woman whose art is based on a planet only she knows about, and which captures the imagination of a global audience:

Before she died, Ludmilla authorized the free use of all her work by anyone in any way they saw fit.  Many simulations and games appeared based on Ludmilla’s planet.  Audiences immersed themselves in the nostalgia of the Planet and talked about it as their utopia, a world that could never be, but the imagining of which was solace enough.  Ludmilla may have passed away, but the world she had created would surely live on forever in everyone’s hearts.
‘Symbiosis Theory’, p.15 (MacLehose Press, 2026)

As it turns out, though, she isn’t the only one who knew about the planet, just the only one who remembered, and as the story develops, we’re treated to a bizarre, and slightly chilling, theory as to what really makes us human.

In fact, several of the stories use the speculative fiction setting to discuss common themes.  ‘The Materiality of Emotions’ looks at social pressure and the familiar idea of an online fad, albeit one that’s slightly different to the usual run on Korean cosmetics.  Meanwhile, ‘Archival Loss’ imagines a world in which libraries no longer house books but the memories of the dearly departed, with family members dropping by to chat to avatars of their loved ones.  What begins as something from Blade Runner actually develops into a story of a woman reexamining her memories of her family, the realisation that her mother might be gone forever prompting her to seek her out.

For me, though, Kim is at her best when venturing out into the universe, and there are plenty of great examples of that here.  In ‘Pilgrims’, we’re taken to an out-of-the-way location and told of a rite-of-passage ceremony, one in which those becoming adults are sent away on a pilgrimage, from which not everyone returns.  Cleverly, in a story that examines genetics and eugenics, our expectations are upended when we discover just where the travellers are heading to, and the reason why some of the pilgrims never come home.

A couple of the stories examine pioneers, even if their work isn’t always appreciated by those who follow.  ‘Spectrum’ has the narrator telling the story of her grandmother, the true initiator of first contact, and in a fascinating tale of a struggle to communicate with beings whose language is more visual than verbal, we learn why many aliens would rather be left alone.

Then there’s ‘My Space Hero’, in which a young Korean woman aiming to take part in a dangerous and ground-breaking mission learns that the woman who inspired her to begin this journey wasn’t quite who she thought she was.  While there’s a lot of the future here in the form of genetic modification and travel through space tunnels, much will (sadly) be familiar to contemporary readers, with the intrepid astronaut subject to rampant racism and sexism.  Plus ça change…

However, my favourite story would have to be the one lending the collection its name, a wonderful piece set on a space station set to be decommissioned.  A man gets talking to an old woman, and over the course of their conversation, we learn all about advances in human society and technology, as well as her own work and research (and the affect it had on her family life).  More a short play than a story, this one’s a two-person drama in which information is drip-fed, leading to a dramatic conclusion.

What I enjoyed about this story is the way Kim skilfully reveals her imagined future of human travel and space colonisation in the space of one conversation, between two people who aren’t revealing all their cards.  Near the end, the old woman laments:

“We still can’t reach the speed of light.  But people are acting like we’ve conquered the universe.  When all we’ve conquered is what the universe allows us – to travel though its wormholes.  What if that method didn’t work anymore, like the warp drive we threw away when wormholes were stabilized?  What if we had to abandon even more of humanity out there because of it?”
‘If We Cannot Go at the Speed of Light’, p.69

The closing scene’s a lovely one, with the woman deciding it’s finally time to make her final journey, allowing us to see just how big and scary space really is.

I’m more of a dabbler than a frequent (star-ship) flyer when it comes to speculative fiction, but I had great fun with Kim’s collection, and I’m sure many of you out there would, too.  Like all the best examples of the genre, it explores what might be without forgetting what is, and manages to entertain us all along the way.  You see, no matter how far we travel in space, or what mysteries we might find, humans are humans, and as long as they are, there’ll always be stories to tell – and, of course, readers to enjoy them, too

In many countries around the world, the football season is drawing to a close, and as I bask in the reflected glory of my hometown team Coventry City’s glorious return to the English Premier League (and look forward with trepidation to this northern summer’s World Cup Finals), I’ve been adding a little football-themed twist to my reading, too.  I’ve already covered one book recently, all about FIFA’s big show, but today’s choice is a slightly broader work, exploring a number of different facets of world football.  Come with me, then, as we learn all about analytics, ACLs and a lot more besides, all the different factors making up a game that, truth be told, can sometimes be rather ugly…

*****
Nicholas M. Watanabe is an American academic specialising in sports analytics, and The Beautiful Game? The Stories Shaping the Future of Soccer (review copy courtesy of Bloomsbury Australia) is a fascinating collection of extended essays on various aspects of the sport.  In nine instalments, the writer casts his eye over a wide array of different topics, in the process taking us all over the world and providing insights into areas both familiar and uncharted.  Most of the essays run to around twenty pages or so and won’t take up too much of your time, making it an ideal book to have lying around for when you have a spare half-hour or so.

With an American writer, it’s unsurprising that there’s a bit of an American focus, such as the opening piece on Lionel Messi’s transfer to Inter Miami in the MLS.  It’s an interesting examination of how they got him there, with just as much information about team co-owner David Beckham and the details of his own MLS contract as about the Argentinian superstar.  Watanabe explores the contract negotiations and thinking outside the box required to attract true legends of the game to a relatively minor league, showing how a little imagination can go a long way.

The following essay follows some Americans overseas, but the business shenanigans here aren’t always quite so positive.  Take, for example, the way US businessman Malcolm Glazer went about buying Manchester United:

This purchase was completed using a leveraged buy-out of around $1 billion, which is a fancy way of saying that Glazer bought United by using the club’s assets as collateral for the debt while putting in very little of his own money.
‘The Americans: Who are the Owners Taking Over the World’s Top Clubs?’, p.28 (Bloomsbury Academic, 2026)

It’s enough to provide serious pause for thought, and Watanabe goes on to take a look at other Americans getting involved in clubs overseas, with several accused of what can charitably be described as ‘dubious practices’.

Still, it’s not all negative.  ‘Who to Support? Which Clubs Deserve Our Attention?’ is an excellent piece looking at several case studies of clubs who do (or claim to do) things differently.  Borussia Dortmund, one of my favourite teams, is surprisingly shown to have stumbled over to the dark side thanks to a sponsorship deal with a company specialising in arms manufacturing.  However, fellow Germans St. Pauli, with their community-owned model and left-leaning politics are highlighted as good guys here, along with AFC Wimbledon, whose rise from the ashes of the original club’s shift away from London had me thinking of Coventry’s own extended Wanderjahre…

Much of this will be familiar to seasoned football followers, but over the course of the book, the writer guides us through several less common issues.  For example, there’s an excellent investigation into why female footballers are more prone to ACL injuries than their male counterparts, with Watanabe discussing physiological differences, unsuitable training methods copied from men, air travel and a backlog of tournaments owing to the COVID pandemic.  Another essay has a focus on analytics (including the much-maligned xG), and how the sport is really playing catch-up when it comes to data-driven decision-making.

Unfortunately, though, the uglier side of the beautiful game can’t be ignored, and several of the essays delve into some of its murky business practices. While the look at Saudi Arabia’s Pro League is fairly positive, the final essay, in which the country’s bid for the 2034 World Cup Finals is examined, points an accusing finger in a particular direction:

In my mind, it feels like FIFA is the real guilty party in all of this.  They have the ability to say no, they could demand more from host nations and show themselves as a true leader in the soccer industry.  Indeed, FIFA had the opportunity after their major corruption scandal to reform themselves into a pillar of the international sport community.  Instead, they have become a bureaucratic engine of monetization focused on extracting as much wealth from the sport that we all love.
‘The World’s Game: Who Is Taking Over Soccer?’, p.208

Watanabe explains how the awarding of the 2034 finals was a triumph of manipulation and sportswashing, with the sport’s governing body showing itself to be more interested in a quick buck than in standing up for the game (Trump and the FIFA Peace Prize, anyone?).

Given all the politics and the bribery, it’s hardly surprising that things aren’t entirely rosy in football.  In ‘Too Much Soccer: Is Expansion Killing Sport?’, Watanabe discusses market saturation:

Every club wants to have fans watching their matches, but due to the limited supply of attention from viewers – who also have the ability to switch between matches with ease – broadcasters must constantly seek ways to prevent fans from jumping to another game.
‘Too Much Soccer: Is Expansion Killing Sport?’, p.147

While the solution to a lack of interest (in FIFA’s eyes, anyway) is to simply increase the supply, it’s not as easy as just making more product, and there are several examples here of players literally run into the ground by the demands of non-stop football.

I really enjoyed Watanabe’s collection of essays, a mix of familiar and relatively uncharted topics.  Overall, there’s a fairly pessimistic mood, with much to worry about, but fortunately, football isn’t all darkness.  One of my favourite essays, ‘The Pyramid: What is Happening in the Lower Tiers of Soccer?’, is all about the English league system, where clubs can theoretically progress from local park Sunday warriors to the Premier League.  It’s not something that’s possible everywhere in the world, which perhaps explains the attraction of following a team’s bid to scale the footballing heights (such as in the documentary Welcome to Wrexham).

This one would be an excellent read at any time, but serendipity made it even better for yours truly.  You see, on the day I read the essay, Rochdale and York met on the final day of the National League (fifth-tier) season, and – well, let’s just say that anyone who has fears for the soul of football will have been overjoyed at how this one played out.  It had everything you need from a title-decider, and more, and I’m sure it’s one Watanabe would have loved.  Vive la pyramide, and long live (grass-roots) football

April, despite being the second month of autumn here in Melbourne, has been rather summery of late, with temperatures in the mid- to high-twenties – which makes the fact that I currently have a stinking cold even more annoying.  While the sun is shining, all I can do is sit at home, binge-watch shows on my various watchlists and (of course) pick up some books.  The weather doesn’t have a great impact on my reading, and last month was once again an enjoyable month, with a mix of interesting books…

…which you’ll hear all about after the stats

*****
Total Books Read: 13
Year-to-Date: 43

New: 8
Rereads: 5

From the Shelves: 6
Review Copies: 6
From the Library: 1

Novels: 5
Novellas: 0
Short Stories: 4
Non-Fiction: 3
Poetry: 1

Non-English Language: 11
(3 Japanese, 3 German, 2 Korean, 2 French, Russian)
In Original Language: 3 (3 German)

The Tale of Genji – Chapter by Chapter
25 – Hotaru
26 – Tokonatsu

*****
Books Reviewed in April were:
1) The Traitor by Kōbō Abe
2) The Old Fire by Elisa Shua Dusapin
3) The World Cup by Clemente A. Lisi
4) The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa by Yasunari Kawabata
5) Art on Fire by Yun Ko-eun
6) Other Shepherds by Nina Kossman & Marina Tsvetaeva
7) Self-Worth by Emma Tholozan

Tony’s Turkey for April is: Nothing

Lisi’s book was a bit of a plod at times, but not enough to label it as a turkey, and there was nothing else that really stank the place out in April – the search for the first turkey of 2026 continues…

Tony’s Recommendation for April is:
Kōbō Abe’s The Traitor

Commendations go to Dusapin’s story of cleaning out the family home and Yun’s bizarre residency at a foundation run by a dog, but my winner this month was well ahead of the pack.  Abe’s quasi-historical novel about a man who may (or may not) have sold out his colleagues was a wonderful surprise, a book I enjoyed immensely.  Less surprising, perhaps, is the fact that this is the fourth Japanese monthly winner from four in 2026.  Let’s see if that streak holds next month…

*****
And speaking of May, I suspect there’ll be the usual mix of review copies, something from the shelves and the odd trip or two to Rokujō.  I do still have a number of books I borrowed from the library, though, so those will need to be fitted in at some point.  Sigh – a reader’s work is never done…

After an extended visit to the Rokujō Estate over the past few posts, today’s recap will see us venturing up the road, but only once we’ve checked in with Genji and Tamakazura again.  There’s a new girl in town, making this a tale of two sisters, but as you’ll see, they’re very different young women.  In addition, we’re reminded of the long-standing rivalry between the Shining One and his former BFF, but once again, no matter what happens, everything seems to go Genji’s way – let’s find out how…

*****
In Chapter 26, ‘Tokonatsu’ (‘Wild Pinks’ in the Dennis Washburn translation), it’s a hot summer’s day, and Genji is relaxing under the cover of his fishing pavilion with his son, Yūgiri, and some of the sons of his old frenemy, Tō-no-Chūjō.  This scene of the men hanging out at the water’s edge is the one chosen to represent the chapter in The Tale of Genji Album, and as they nibble on fish and chilled rice in an attempt to beat the heat, Melissa McCormick makes an astute observation as to the chapter title, and the young visitors:

The word is a homophone for ‘endless summer’ as well as for the phrase ‘remembered bed’ (toko natsukashiki), as it is used in Genji’s poem.  The allusions are to Genji’s past affair with Yūgao and suggest how mother and daughter [Tamakazura] mingle in his mind as he is reminded of his youthful passion.  The young men depicted in the album painting are roughly the age Genji was when he met Yūgao and provide yet another connection between past and present.
p.127 (Princeton University Press, 2018)

We’re reminded once more here of the passing of time, with the next generation now at the same stage of their lives as Genji was during the first few chapters of the Tale, and the man himself can’t help but reflect on how much water has passed under the bridge (or his fishing pavilion), especially given that he’s now playing host to that dead lover’s daughter.

Speaking of whom, after a few hours by the lake, Genji takes his son and co. up to the north-eastern quarters where he pays a visit to Tamakazura (one deliberately intended to arouse interest in her on the part of her unsuspecting half-brothers).  While the young woman is still rather wary around her supposed guardian, ‘Tokonatsu’ continues the trend of recent chapters by having Tamakazura opening up to the Shining One ever so slightly (in Washburn’s words):

He pressed her to play, but she wouldn’t touch the instrument, ashamed that she might make mistakes.  After all, she had learned to play off in a remote corner of the provinces, her only teacher an old woman who had vaguely announced herself, without providing much in the way of details, as a former denizen of the capital.  He should play a little more… I could learn so much just by listening to him, she thought, frustrated that he had stopped.  Though she normally tried to keep her distance from him, she was now so eager to learn that she sat right next to him.
p.467 (Norton, 2021)

Her recognition of Genji’s superior talents brings a softening of her attitude towards him, and while she’s far from letting down her defences, you sense that this is no longer an impossibility.

But is that what the man himself really wants?  There’s a touch of the Hamlets about Genji’s behaviour with regard to Tamakazura, constant hand-wringing, agonising and blowing hot and cold.  For a while, he keeps his distance, instead besieging her with letters, but he always comes back, often with the excuse of the koto lessons the young woman enjoys so much.  He frequently considers making her his own but holds back, knowing that she could never match up to Murasaki and would simply be one of many (miserable) lesser women.  And yet, at the same time, he still can’t quite bring himself to hand her off to another man, even if that’s probably what’s best for her.  This is a story that keeps on running…

*****
At which point, it’s time for a change, and a welcome one it is, too.  After spending a lot of time at Rokujō, we’re heading down the road to pay a visit to our old friend Tō-no-Chūjō, who has worries of his own.  It’s decades now since the high-water mark of his friendship with Genji, when he rode out to Suma to comfort his friend in his exile, and while their public relationship is strong enough (with TnC carrying out all the official duties Genji enjoys delegating to him), their personal ties are rather strained – and you can guess who’s mostly at fault here.

You see, Tō-no-Chūjō’s sons (including Kashiwagi and Kobai) are doing well in the world, but when it comes to daughters, well, that’s a different story.  Daughters were arguably more important than sons in continuing a family’s success in the Heian Era, and in The Splendor of Longing in The Tale of Genji, Norma Field explains how TnC’s plans have been thwarted at every turn by the Shining One:

A look at the score card shows that for every one of Tō no Chūjō’s disappointments, Genji has gained a point.  For a man with only one natural daughter, Genji has done exceptionally well.  He has defeated, damaged, or stolen his rival’s daughters – all with apparent impunity.
p.137 (Princeton University Press, 1987)

For those who may have forgotten, the ‘defeated’ daughter was his eldest, the Kokiden Consort, whose loss in the picture contest in ‘Eawase’ saw Akikonomu gain an advantage in the Emperor’s affections, while the ‘damaged’ daughter is Kumoinokari, a girl TnC had high hopes for until he discovered (in ‘Otome’) that she was in a blossoming relationship with Yūgiri.  As for ‘stolen’, well, we’ve spent quite enough time with Tamakzura already…

*****
Given all these failures, then, it’s little wonder that Tō-no-Chūjō is desperate for a win, and when his dream of finding another daughter, as mentioned at the end of ‘Hotaru’, unbelievably comes to fruition, it seems as if his fortunes have changed.  Alas, once again, fate has other ideas, and this new daughter, whom Kashiwagi hunted down in the provinces, turns out to be a bit of a disappointment, so much so that the rumours have even spread as far as Genji by the lake, who touches on them playfully during his picnic with TnC’s (uncomfortable) sons.

After the grumpy father pays a quick visit to Kumoinokari, scolding her for being asleep and rather en déshabillé (all the while lamenting the connection with Yūgiri that makes her beauty useless for his plans), he decides to pay his newest daughter a visit – so, ladies, gentlemen and everyone in between, let me introduce you to the Ōmi Lady (Washburn):

He stepped out and immediately went over to the north hall to peek in on the lady from Ōmi.  He found her sitting at the very edge of her chambers and leaning against the blinds, which were pushed out so far that anyone could have looked in and seen her clearly.  A gregarious young woman named Gosechi was attending her.  Gosechi enjoyed games, and the two were playing backgammon.  As Gosechi prepared to roll the dice, the lady from Ōmi was furiously rubbing her hands together in supplication, rapidly intoning in a prayerful voice: “C’mon snake eyes, c’mon snake eyes.” (p.472)

For those expecting another demure noblewoman, finding virtue in silence and shying away from any public displays of emotion, our latest arrival will come as a bit of a surprise.  This is a young lady whose joie de vivre bubbles over and who’s never lost for words, even if it would, perhaps, be better at times if she thought twice before speaking.

This is another of the writer’s occasional excursions into comedy, harking back to Genji’s adventures with Suetsumuhana and Gen no Naishi, and it makes for welcome light relief after the oppressive scenes with Tamakazura back at Rokujō.  Careful readers will no doubt recall other examples of Murasaki Shikubu poking fun at people from the provinces (such as down in Kyushu when Tamakazura fled an unwelcome suitor), and here she delights in entertaining us at the Ōmi Lady’s expense (Washburn):

In the case of the young lady from Ōmi, because she spoke so quickly, her words did not seem as if they made any sense, even when she said something genuinely meaningful or interesting.  Moreover, she had a high-pitched voice with a coarse Ōmi accent, which she had learned at the breast of her proud, wilful nurse, and her attitude was strangely vulgar – all of which made her appear less worthy. (p.474)

The contrast with Tamakazura, also Tō-no-Chūjō’s daughter, is staggering, and you can’t help but pity her father, especially as the daughter he had been in search of for so long is just down the road…

Our less-than-proud dad is simply aghast at the behaviour of the young lady he’s allowed to enter his home, but having made such a fuss of tracking her down and bringing her back to her ‘true’ home, he realises it would be even worse to send her packing again so quickly.  He decides instead to enlist the help of her half-sister, the Kokiden Consort, in the hope that some of her elegance might rub off on the hapless Ōmi Lady, but when the newcomer writes a letter to ask for a meeting, the garbled mess that she produces raises more than a few smiles in the Kokiden Consort’s quarters.  Letter writing is considered a representation of character by the novel’s protagonists, and like Suetsumuhana before her, the Ōmi Lady is judged and found wanting, with the Kokiden Consort’s attendant, Chūnagon, crafting an even more convoluted letter in response (sadly, the writer leaves the first meeting between the two sisters to our imagination…).

*****
Well, today’s chapter proved to be fairly light-hearted in comparison with other recent visits to Rokujō, and the next one will be even slighter, as we take a look at one of the shortest chapters in the whole Tale.  Never fear, though – I’m sure I’ll be able to think of something to say about it, or find someone else to help me out

Like the majority of you out there, I wouldn’t mind having more money, but I can’t say I’m breaking my back to achieve that, either.  So what would you do if there was an easy way to make some cash, one that doesn’t put you out at all but might be rather unpleasant for your partner?  Well, that’s the premise in today’s choice, as we head off to Paris to see a man who’s (almost) literally made of money – and the woman who’s taking advantage of that fact…

*****
Emma Tholozan’s Self-Worth (translated by Emma Ramadan, review copy courtesy of Scribe Publications) is narrated by Anna, a woman who has recently completed a Master’s Degree.  Unable to find enough money to fund a doctorate, she’s forced to head to the job centre with everyone else, where she soon learns that her talents aren’t exactly in demand:

Marjorie got straight to the point.  We had to start my résumé over from scratch.  I handed her the piece of paper that showed I had graduated with distinction.  She turned it over several times.  Her face crumpled.  Dubious expression.  “Philosophy…”.  She didn’t finish her sentence.
p.3 (Scribe Publications, 2026)

With no suitable skills for the contemporary job market, Anna’s at the mercy of her counsellor, and soon finds herself taking three trains a day just to tell the audience of an inane daily TV show when to laugh and clap.

Fortunately, though, our friend has more luck in love, and on the same day as her job interview, she meets the handsome Charles-Lucien, AKA Lulu.  The two hit it off, and while work might be exhausting, life between the sheets more than makes up for it.  The two eventually move in together, but it isn’t long before poor Lulu starts to feel ill.  Feeling a lump in his throat, he throws up in the toilet – only to find a twenty-Euro note floating in the bowl…

A slight suspension of belief is required for readers of Self-Worth, with the story hinging on Lulu’s sudden transformation into a walking cash machine.  Anna’s luck changes with this unexpected windfall, and life becomes far more comfortable – for her, that is.  Poor Lulu is far less at ease with his new condition:

Lulu was exhausted.  In a few days, he had lost weight, and his body was ravaged by nervous tics.  Sometimes the bills got stuck in his windpipe, like hairballs in cats.  He would clear his throat, coughing, and finally pull out the phlegmy heap by hand. (p.55)

Still, money is money, no matter how dirty it might be.

Once we get past the hook, Self-Worth becomes a story of how money changes people, both internally and in the eyes of others.  Anna is initially ignored at work, but as she starts to treat herself to handbags and new clothes, her colleagues see her differently.  She’s able to move on up in the world, allowing herself a new flat and developing a taste for haute-cuisine instead of MacDonald’s.  She feels she’s worth it, and she’s only too happy to treat herself to all the things she was never previously able to afford.

More interestingly, though, Tholozan shows how her protagonist’s character changes, and not for the better.  With Anna telling us the story, the reader is on her side from the start, but mid-way through the novel, most will start to turn away from a woman who’s increasingly showing herself to be self-centred and snobbish.  In ditching her friend, Sophie, another sleep-deprived postgraduate student, and ignoring her father, a lonely man who lives for making crêpes for his beloved daughter, she shows herself to be unworthy of our sympathy, a woman who only cares about where her next designer dress is coming from.

Of course, it’s the fate of Lulu that really drives the story, though.  His love for Anna keeps him going, prepared to suffer in order to make her happy, but at some point things get too much.  Will Anna be able to make do with what she’s got if the cash runs out?  And what if the money starts to appear elsewhere, making Anna decide between her new lifestyle and Lulu’s health?

Self-Worth isn’t just about Anna’s choice, though.  Over the course of her novel, Tholozan examines modern society, especially the precariat, with Anna and Lulu scraping by.  On her first day working on the show, Anna realises an ugly truth:

When all the seats were taken, the truth struck me in the face.  As skillful as a surgeon, Sandrine had traced the contours of the crowd with her scalpel, blending traditional aesthetic ideals and ruthless capitalist logic.  She had placed the young and beautiful in the front, the old and ugly in the back, as simple as that. (p.20)

It’s a useful lesson for Anna to learn.  You see, having just escaped from her lower-class life, she’ll do anything to avoid having to go back there.

Tholozan’s novel, with its intriguing set-up, is great fun, and there are plenty of quips that hit the mark.  Anna’s transformation, internal and external, is also nicely done, but if I’m honest, Self-Worth is a book that fizzles out a little.  Once things come to a head, it’s almost as if the writer isn’t quite sure how to get Anna to where she wants her to end up, and the last forty pages (of what isn’t the longest of books) don’t really measure up to what came before.  In addition, Anna’s descent into materialism and selfishness is probably a little too neat.  Certainly, I was hoping for a bit more nuance in her deliberations as to the choice between money and Lulu’s health.

At any rate, Self-Worth takes a fascinating idea and uses it to explore both modern society and human nature, showing what happens when we get what we (think) we want.  It’s nice to imagine (well, apart from the implications of becoming a human ATM), but I think I’ll stick with my old life for now.  Who knows what might happen if you get carried away with new money?

I’d probably just spend it all on books, anyway…

After branching out to look at a little poetry earlier in the year, today sees me exploring more, with another work featuring an interesting twist.  Where the previous book had the poet presenting the same poem in French and English, this time around it’s more about comparing different poems – by different people.  If that sounds a little confusing, never fear.  Come with me, and we’ll spend a while with two women with much in common, including their poetry and their country of origin.

*****
Nina Kossman was born in Russia, but moved to the United States as a child.  She’s written a number of books, both poetry and prose, but Other Shepherds (published by Poets & Traitors Press, review copy courtesy of the writer) is something a little different.  In her preface, Kossman talks about her upbringing, and her discovery of a certain poet, Marina Tsvetaeva:

But if it were possible to have a graph of personal development that reflected intangible things – or rather not things but states of the soul, alienation, and nostalgia resulting in a kind of personal rebirth – then I would say that Tsvetaeva’s poems acted as a kind of midwife.  I first read them in Cleveland at the end of my childhood in January 1974, and they helped deliver me from that dark night of the soul into something livable.
p.12 (Poets & Traitors Press, 2020)

Tsvetaeva was a Russian poet of the first half of the twentieth century, and her work struck a chord with her compatriot, thousands of miles away and many decades later.

But what does that have to do with Other Shepherds?  Well, in effect, the book is a collaboration between the two writers.  Kossman had previously translated many of Tsvetaeva’s poems, and here she provides a selection of these, each followed by a poem of her own.  What we get is a literary conversation of sorts, with Kossman reflecting on, and replying to, pieces Tsvetaeva wrote a century earlier:

The aim is not to emulate her but to create a dialogue between her poem and mine, a resonance possible not only between two poets but between two eras.  My goal is not to aspire to her heights, which are unscalable, as they are hers and no one else’s, but to approach her and to speak. (p.17)

It’s a lovely idea, the pupil inspired by the master, so to speak.

In practice, this consists of the poets taking turns, with Kossman’s translation of Tsvetaeva’s work followed immediately, either facing or on the same page, by Kossman’s response.  There are clear differences between the two, particularly in terms of structure.  Tsvetaeva’s work tends to be more regular in form, often in four-line stanzas, while Kossman plays with line length more, but both are thoroughly enjoyable.

Kossman’s responses, always having the last word, allow her to put a twist on Tsvetaeva’s ideas.  One pairing touched on in the preface sees a woman compared to a bird:

God placed me alone
In the midst of the great world,
– You are not a woman but a bird,
So, then – fly and sing. (p.24)

However, the woman in Kossman’s poem attempts to reject this forced transformation:

She was so overcome with the sadness of it all.
that she opened her mouth to say, “You’re so wrong!”
But only bird sounds issued from her throat. (p.24)

Alas, resistance proves to be futile…

Although Kossman says she paired the poems, rather than specifically writing responses, for the most part responses are how her efforts appear.  If Tsvetaeva has the speaker bestow an iron ring upon her partner, a permanent reminder of their love, Kossman’s gifts are destined to wither or be thrown away.  Tsvetaeva’s vision of a sailor laughing in the face of death is juxtaposed with Kossman’s gloomier vision of the ocean deeps.  The reader is invited to compare and contrast the sibling poems (and perhaps choose which they prefer, too).

In later poems, Tsvetaeva and Kossman seek inspiration from other writers.  In one of the few poems with a title, ‘Hamlet’s Dialogue with his Conscience’, we have the Shakespearean hero bewailing his lost love:

She lies on the bottom, with silt
And weeds…  She went there
To sleep – but even there sleep escapes her.
               – But I loved her
More than forty thousand brothers! (p.64)

Kossman’s reply then shifts the perspective, with her poem, ‘Ophelia’, told by a woman putting herself in the place of the woman in the water:

If I didn’t lose my mind like Ophelia,
then what am I doing in this stream
floating on my back, flowers on both sides of me,
purple and orange and blue,
and no one can see me for what I am? (p.65)

There’s also a nice twist here as the final lines turn the poem from a mere lover’s lament into an environmental elegy.

Towards the end of the collection, a more classical theme develops, with Helen of Troy the subject of several poems.  Tsvetaeva wonders why Homer didn’t couple Helen with Achilles in his epic tale, while Kossman, in ‘Helen Reenvisions her Life’, depicts the famed beauty as a farmer’s wife living a comfortable dull existence (two very different versions of the classical ‘truth’).

A subsequent poem has Tsvetaeva boasting of Helen’s beauty:

Thus – only Helen, towering above marital strife,
Thinks: my nudity
Has left four Arabias frozen
And five seas drained of pearls. (p.92)

In her reply, Kossman focuses on the price paid for that beauty:

Helen’s shadow on Trojan’s rocks
still threatens the Greeks,
burdens them with the highest taxes
the loved exacts from the lover. (p.93)

In both cases, there’s a darkness underpinning the poetry, the shadow side of unearthly beauty.

Other Shepherds certainly isn’t my usual reading fare, but it’s a book I enjoyed slowly making my way through over the past couple of weeks, so many thanks go to Kossman, writer and translator, for making me aware of its existence.  Whether you’re a die-hard Tsvetaeva fan, or simply on the lookout for interesting poetry, this is a book you might enjoy, a collaboration of old and new, and a poet’s homage to one of her major inspirations.  Either way, let me know if any of you get the opportunity to give this one a try.

It’s currently a very chilly April morning in my corner of the world, but in my latest book, it’s considerably hotter, with fires out of control across a wide area.  Not the best time, then, for someone to head that way for an extended stay.  However, as it turns out, the weather is the least of our friend’s problems.  There’s no time to worry about fires on the horizon when you have a dinner date with a rather unusual host, and with the prospect of your work going up in flames…

*****
Yun Ko-eun’s Art on Fire (translated by Lizzie Buehler, review copy courtesy of Scribe Publications) introduces the reader to An Yiji, a Korean artist whose career isn’t going anywhere – until, that is, she’s invited, out of the blue, to accept a residency at the Robert Foundation, a mysterious American organisation that promotes up-and-coming artists:

The book spent multiple pages explaining the Robert Foundation’s efforts to discover unique artists.  I was one of the pawprints they had supposedly ‘discovered’.  Honestly, it was hard to believe.  Why me?
p.32 (Scribe Publications, 2025)

Despite her initial misgivings, Yiji decides she has nothing to lose and sets off for the US for an extended stay at the foundation.

However, getting there is easier said than done.  With California beset by wildfires (meaning the person due to pick her up at the airport never appears), Anji finds herself first trapped in a hotel, then on a lengthy road-trip with a Korean actor she meets there.  Even when she eventually does make it to the foundation, though, her troubles are far from over.  The reception she receives is far from cordial, and as for her host – oh, did I mention that he’s a dog?

From the start, Art on Fire is a novel that does its best to keep its readers (and its protagonist) off-balance.  The first-person perspective helps put us in Anji’s shoes, and we’re never quite sure what, or who, is around the corner.  What with the fires, the heatwave and the mysterious canine benefactor, there’s plenty to get our heads around, and even once we’ve settled into our stay, there’s rarely enough time to wonder what on earth is going on.

The enigmatic Robert is at the heart of the story, and each story adds to the legend of the dog who takes pictures.  The writer builds up his aura, one that is only enhanced when he finally makes his appearance, and we’re present for the exhausting dinners Yiji shares with her host, and those who help interpret his intentions:

Robert’s language existed in the number of times he scratched at his fur, the angle at which he did so, and of course in his sneezes, hiccups, coughs, and the movements of his paws.  After looking at Robert’s actions from all angles, Danny used the black box and two interpreters to convey his thoughts to me. (p.101)

These conversations last for hours, with Yiji forced to weigh her every word for fear of offending her rather sensitive patron.

Quite apart from its intriguing setting, though, Art on Fire is all about, well, art, and what it means.  Yiji’s task while at the foundation is to prepare some work for a one-woman exhibition with a difference.  You see, Robert takes a keen interest in art, and has an unusual way of showing it.  At the end of the exhibition, one of the pieces, chosen by the dog himself, will be incinerated…

It’s this that drives the second half of the book, with Yiji wondering whether she’s prepared to go through with this contractual obligation, thinking of ways to get out of having to offer her work up for destruction.  In doing so, the writer opens up a debate about art and authenticity, with the nature of originality coming into focus.  Her paintings, the photos, Robert – does it really matter whether they’re what they appear to be as long as everyone’s happy about it?

Bizarre is putting it mildly, but strangely enough, Art on Fire never really tips over into parody.  It would be easy for Yiji to simply laugh at the strange occurrences at the foundation, and there’s a distinct sense of the emperor’s new clothes about what’s going on, as if it would only take one person to speak up for everything to fall apart.  Yet Yun plays it straight throughout, and Yiji goes along with the instructions she’s given, never quite comfortable enough to challenge the ludicrous set-up, which keeps the reader in line, too.

Yun’s novel is great fun, and will keep readers guessing to the very end as they wonder whether Yiji will go through with the incineration (and whether Robert is the real deal).  The moral of the story seems to be to be careful what you wish for
– fame and publicity might sound enticing, but there’s always a price to be paid.  It’s rare that this price, though, has to be paid to man’s best friend…

It’s been a few weeks since our last trip to Rokujō, but it’s finally time today to pay another visit to Genji and his house of many women.  This edition of our chapter-by-chapter journey through the Tale is memorable for a number of reasons, including a light spot of meta-narration and the scene that gives the chapter, along with a secondary character, its name.  Ready?  Time to pull back the curtains and let the cat fireflies out of the bag as we catch up with old friends and even indulge in a spot of literary criticism…

*****
Chapter 25, ‘Hotaru’ (‘The Glow-Worm’ in the Arthur Waley translation, although most versions go with ‘Fireflies’) starts with a summary of how wonderful life is for Genji and the residents of the Rokujō Estate – except, of course, for poor Tamakazura.  While the Shining One is a little more careful around his ‘ward’ after almost (?) crossing the line last time around, he’s still rather too attentive for her liking, and she’s looking for a way out of her dilemma.

In many ways, then, the case Genji makes for his half-brother, Prince Hotaru, even if Tamakazura isn’t especially keen on him, is one she takes seriously, given that it might provide her with a way out of her golden cage.  Genji ‘helps’ one of her women to draft a letter to Hotaru, who is only too keen to race over and continue his love-making (if you know what I mean), baring his soul to his lady love (in Waley’s words):

The long outpouring to which Genji, ensconced in his corner of her curtained dais, now listened with considerable emotion, was natural, direct – almost boyish.  When it was over, Prince Sochi [Hotaru] was rewarded by a note from Saisho, informing him that her mistress had some time ago retired to the inner room!
pp.496/7 (Tuttle Publishing, 2010)

That’s a nice burn – it’s a pity, then, that this appears to be Waley’s spin on the situation rather than the words of the original writer, as other writers play down this insult.

Still, Genji always has a trick or two up his sleeve, and with Hotaru miffed at this rebuff, our boy plays his latest ace, sneakily releasing a bag of fireflies in Tamakazura’s chamber.  Before she can cover her face with a fan, her lover is able to catch a glimpse of her beauty, which is exactly what Genji was hoping for.  In The Splendor of Longing in the Tale of Genji, Norma Field explains that this trick was used in the Heian-era fiction works The Tale of the Hollow Tree and The Tales of Ise, but original or not, it pays off.  As predicted, the prince is overcome at the sight, more determined than ever to continue his courting/assault of Tamakazura, and Genji takes the day once more.

Or does he?  In truth, the Shining One is still caught between two stools, not completely sure what it is he truly wants.  Haruo Shirane, in The Bridge of Dreams, takes an interest in Genji’s plotting, showing him to be thinking several moves ahead:

At first it appears that Genji is simply encouraging the foremost candidate for Tamakazura’s hand, but the subsequent narrative reveals that Genji is initiating Tamakazura into the ways of love so that she might ultimately take an interest in him.
p.97 (Stanford University Press, 1987)

In fact, despite her initial misgivings, it appears as if Tamakazura is coming around to his way of thinking, perceiving how superior her ‘father’ is to other men.  Hmm – this is a story that has a long way to go.

*****
After all that romancing, what the story needs next, of course, is… horses?  That’s right – horses.  On the occasion of yet another festival, Genji arranges for some equestrian fun and games in the north-eastern quarter of the estate (yes, in addition to a sizeable lake, our boy’s residence has somewhere for the gee-gees to run up and down, too).  The Tale of Genji Album provides a nice take on this particular scene, described in minute detail, with a look at the games and the clothes the riders wore to participate in them.  While it’s the men that are charging around, the event provides the women of the quarter, including Tamakazura, with the opportunity to see some manly men racing around on their mounts and shooting arrows at targets, which makes for a change from the daily routine.

Later, Genji decides to stick around for a chat with Hanachirusato, mostly about Hotaru and his merits and flaws.  Of course, what he really wants is a bit of ego flattery, and the ever-willing Lady of the Orange Blossoms is only too happy to oblige.  He even stays the night, albeit not under the lady’s robes, as theirs has become a relationship of comfort, not passion.  One wonders whether the lady actually wanted to reach out but didn’t dare to for fear of being rejected and humiliated (when you recall Genji’s thoughts about her appearance back in ‘Hatsune’, she was probably wise in her discretion…).

*****
After that, there’s a long period of rain, and with nothing to do but sit inside and read, the writer sets the scene here for another of the book’s more memorable passages (the second in one brief chapter!).  Genji pays Tamakazura a visit, only to find her engrossed in her reading, which leads to the renowned ‘defence of fiction’ conversation.  Whereas the ‘rainy-night conversation’ early in the novel had young men discussing types of women, here we have Genji and Tamakazura debating the merits and flaws of literature, which makes for a nice spot of metanarration on Murasaki Shikibu’s behalf.

As you’d expect, this is a part of the book that scholars have devoted many words to, and Field covers it in great detail, explaining the different views of the two speakers:

She, [Tamakazura] for one, had believed the tales to contain only true statements (makoto).  Should we take this simply to be another indication of her naiveté?  Perhaps, but we must also recognize what underlies her response.  Is it not that she finds the events recounted in her stories more plausible, in light of her knowledge of life, than the parodic and even grotesque fiction that Genji has imposed on her, to be daughter and lover at once?  Trapped in Genji’s fiction-in-life, she is inspired to champion lives-in-fiction.  Which is also to say that she is pointing the finger at Genji’s abuse of rhetoricity, at his attempt to translate it with impunity into life such that it becomes mere trickery.
p.132 (Princeton University Press, 1987)

In effect, Tamakazura accuses Genji here of believing fiction to be lies simply because he lies all the time himself!

What follows is a swift about-face, with the Shining One now defending the role of literature, in a speech that many theorists (and readers) see as the writer using the character to air her own views (Waley):

“But I have a theory of my own about what this art of the novel is, and how it came into being.  To begin with, it does not simply consist in the author’s telling a story about the adventures of some other person.  On the contrary, it happens because the storyteller’s own experience of men and things, whether for good or ill – not only what he has passed through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been told of – has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his heart.” (p.504)

It’s a nice idea, and one that perhaps provides insights into the author’s own motivations, particularly this idea of needing to give form to the feelings provoked by life, especially at court.

More than merely a justification of a pleasant pastime, though, this defence of fiction actually has a serious side.  You see, there were some (there always are…) who believed that books and fiction were little more than lies, and hence sins, so in having Genji defend her occupation/hobby, the writer may have been hoping to appease these criticisms, too.  In her essay, ‘Murasaki’s “Mind Ground”‘ (included in the James McMullen-edited book Murasaki Shikubu’s The Tale of Genji: Philosophical Perspectives), Melissa McCormick explores this idea further:

The passage paved the way for an understanding of the tale as infused with an awareness of Buddhist nondualism.  The final phrase is the most evocative in this regard, for here Murasaki Shikibu invokes the notion that enlightenment, or “Bodhi-wisdom” (bodai), is indistinguishable from delusion, or “passionate attachments” (bonnō).  The seeming paradox comes from the belief that all phenomena are interpenetrating and interdependent.  According to this doctrine then, even what one may perceive to be evil acts found in the tale are expedient means to Buddhist liberation, and like everything else, they cannot exist apart from Bodhi-wisdom; both are constitutive of each other.
‘Murasaki’s “Mind Ground”‘, p.266 (Oxford University Press, 2019)

Not every reader will agree with this justification, but Genji’s musings on the art of fiction, and the ethics thereof, make for compelling reading, and many a reader in the centuries that followed gave a little prayer for Murasaki Shikibu’s soul, just in case she was suffering in the next life for her literary sins…

*****
‘Hotaru’ winds up with a couple of pages that seem a little random and loose after the previous part.  We have some thoughts about Yūgiri and his half-sister, the Akashi Princess, before moving on to a mention of Kashiwagi, who continues to send letters off to the woman who is actually his half-sister.  This eventually leads us by a series of leaps to Tō-no-Chūjō, who still longs to find his lost daughter (little suspecting that she’s hidden behind Genji’s Rokujō curtains).

At the end of the chapter, he even has a dream, one interpreted thus (Waley):

“It seems to mean,” they said, “that you have at last heard what has become of a child that you had lost sight of for many years, the reason that you have failed to discover her being that she is thought by the world at large to be someone else’s child.” (p.508)

For the novice reader, that seems clear enough, a sign that he is soon to find Tamakazura once more.  For frequent fliers, on the other hand, the interpretation has quite a different meaning, heralding the impending entrance of a wonderful minor character…

…but that’s a story for another day

While I have quite a collection of books by Yasunari Kawabata in my home J-Lit library, there’s one I never got around to buying, mainly because it was always rather expensive.  However, on my most recent trip to the university library I happened to stumble across a copy, and as I’m not one to turn the other way when the universe waves frantically in my direction, I decided now was the time to add it to my list of reviews.  A rarity, then, but is it actually worth tracking down?  Let’s find out…

*****
The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa (translated by Alisa Freedman), one of Kawabata’s earliest works, was serialised in newspapers and literary magazines almost a century ago, and it’s certainly very different from his more famous fiction.  As the title suggests, the action takes place in Tokyo’s Asakusa district, which at the time was a hotbed of entertainment and occasionally illicit fun.  The other part of the title is a little more deceiving, though.  It may suggest some sort of crime novel, with groups of men pursuing each other through the night with knives and guns, but the gang in mention is rather different, a group of local youths living their best lives on the streets of the capital.

The premise of the work has the writer/narrator (Kawabata) wandering the streets and alleyways of Asakusa, telling us what he finds there and making the acquaintance of the ‘gang’.  From shooting galleries to theatres, from the park populated by the homeless to the tower overlooking it all, the narrator takes us on a journey, pointing out the interesting things he notices as he passes and sitting down for a coffee or a cigarette with some of his new friends, each of whom has a story to tell.

If that all sounds rather vague and meandering, that’s exactly what it is, so anyone expecting a clear narrative with a plot and a resolution might want to steer clear.  There are times when Kawabata’s novel seems as insubstantial and impenetrable as the morning fog settling on the park, with the reader wondering just what the point of it all is.  It doesn’t help that in the middle of one of the few action scenes, so to speak, the writer took a break, returning to his work several months later with those events consigned to the past…

If you’re ready to accept this drifting style, though, there’s lots here to enjoy.  The writer introduces us to the crew (Yumiko, Akikō, Umekichi, Haruko), each with their own story and wise beyond their years, growing up fast in the school of life that is Asakusa.  There are tales of working on stalls, pumping men (such as the narrator…) for cash, and turning tricks when necessary, and if there’s a main character here, it’s probably Yumiko, whose scenes on a boat with a man who’s unaware just how much trouble he’s in are probably the highlight of the whole piece.

Less than the people, though, it’s the setting that makes The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa. Kawabata was influenced by European modernism to produce a story of the time, depicting the pleasure zones of a big city in a time of depression:

Asakusa is Asakusa for everyone.  In Asakusa, everything is flung out in the raw.  Desires dance naked.  All races, all classes, all jumbled together forming a bottomless, endless current, flowing day and night, no beginning, no end.  Asakusa is alive…
p.30 (University of California Press, 2005)

In many ways, it’s reminiscent of books like Alfred Döblin’s Berlin Alexanderplatz or Irmgard Keun’s The Artificial Silk Girl in its depiction of a big city at the start of the 1930s, and readers will enjoy the portrayal of the district, with its electric lights and the crowds thronging to the reviews.  In effect, Kawabata is painting a picture of a now that, nearly a hundred years on, has become a sepia-tinted then.

Working our way through the book, there’s a slightly different focus as we spend time with the less canny, the more unfortunate.  The writer is initiated by his new friends into the secrets of the park, and of those who live there:

Sitting on the chain fence surrounding the shrubbery, two young women do their morning makeup, compacts in hand.  The backs of their kimono sashes are all crumpled, and the soil of the night ground clings to them.
An eatery has attached a rubber hose to the public toilet tap to get its water for cooking.
A few field mice nibble on the old rubber-soled cloth boot on the dangling foot of a man sleeping on a bench.  These mice are what surprise me most on this Asakusa morning. (p.157)

In fact, these images of the down-and-outs can often be more powerful, and longer-lasting, than those of people having fun at the cabarets a stone’s throw away…

The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa is an American university press release, which means that the story itself is accompanied by several useful extras.  Freedman’s preface, for example, explores the author’s style and development, discussing the short-lived New Art School of writing.  There are a number of nice touches here, including the Tokyo slang used in places (similar to modern Parisian verlan).

In addition, there are two contributions from Donald Richie.  Firstly, his foreword provides a handy overview of the history of the Asakusa district:

After the sumptuary edicts of the 1840s, which banned theaters and bordellos in Edo itself, however, Asakusa and the government-licensed prostitution quarter of Yoshiwara, to its north, were designated places of pleasure – tolerated retreats from the rigors of the samurai sternness of other parts of the city. (p.x)

He also examines Kawabata’s attachment to the area, with the novel the writer’s eye-witness account of a place he spent a lot of time in.

Even more intriguing is the afterword, which contributes one final lovely touch.  We’re treated to an extended anecdote about Kawabata and Richie climbing the tower together in 1947 to see how the district looked after the destruction caused by the war.  There’s even a photo of the two men, who at the time had no common language, meaning they had to resort to communicating in solitary words, and the names of famous writers!

The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa can be a little confused, and occasionally dull, and I certainly wouldn’t recommend it to readers wanting to try Kawabata’s work for the first time.  However, if (like me) you’ve already tried most of the great man’s more celebrated works (and if you can hunt a copy down), you may well enjoy this glimpse into a major writer’s early development.  Of course, those of you who’ve visited the Japanese capital will probably enjoy it even more – I’d definitely like to follow in the narrator’s footsteps one day and while away a few hours retracing the walks of our friend, and of the gang he fell in with…

While my reading preferences (as I’m sure you’re all well aware…) tend towards fiction in translation, I do venture into other genres from time to time, and every four years I dabble in something very different.  Yes, the FIFA World Cup is just around the corner once more, and as part of my preparations for the big event, I’m doing a little football-themed reading to get in the mood.  That starts today with a book I was sent a while back, just the thing for anyone who doesn’t really know their Jules Rimets from their Just Fontaines – so if that sounds like you, please join me for a journey down memory lane, where we’ll learn all about the biggest single-sport event on Earth.

*****
Clemente A. Lisi’s The World Cup: A History of the World’s Biggest Sporting Event (review copy courtesy of Bloomsbury) is a book that does exactly what you’d expect.  Football’s big show has been going for almost a century now, and Lisi’s book is a guide to the event from its humble beginnings in 1930 to the world-stopping extravaganza it is today.  Along the way, we learn about some of the game’s greatest players, explore some innovations and (of course) cover all of the FIFA World Cups that have taken place.

The main part of the book is divided by decade, with each chapter covering two or three finals tournaments.  There are around fifteen pages devoted to each competition, with Lisi describing the progress of the main teams, culminating in the final itself.  Scattered between these tournament overviews, there are a few bonus features, too, introducing three greats of the game (Pelé, Maradona and Messi) as well as features such as famous balls, yellow cards, fan zones and the high-tech stadium air-conditioning system used to make the Qatar World Cup bearable for spectators.

This is the kind of book I devoured as a child, evoking memories of world cups both witnessed and read about.  From the rather amateur nature of the 1930 Finals in Uruguay, with stories of long boat journeys from Europe, to England’s triumph in 1966, Maradona’s ‘hand of God’ goal in 1986 and Zidane’s headbutt in 2006 – these are stories football aficionados will remember and relish.  Some even had ramifications for the future, such as Brazil’s shattering defeat in the final game of the 1950 tournament:

The Brazilian team did not play in another game for two years or play at the Maracanã for nearly four following the defeat.  The most visible consequence came when the team adopted the now iconic yellow shirts instead of the white ones the players had worn during the match.  It had been a blow to the national psyche – despite future World Cup glory – that even superstars like Pelé would be unable to totally erase from their memories.
p.45 (Bloomsbury, 2026)

It all makes for a nice trip down memory lane, kindling excitement for this year’s event in North America.

The more you read, however, the clearer it becomes that Lisi’s focus isn’t only on the sporting side of the World Cup.  A thread running throughout the book is the link between football and politics, with the finals rarely free of outside interference.  From the early days and Mussolini’s use of the Italian team’s success, and the withdrawal of the Austrian team in 1938 after Anschluß (union) with Nazi Germany, up to the actions of the Argentinian junta in 1978, and the suspicion (well, the likelihood) of bribery, wherever there’s a team shooting for glory, there’s usually a statesman hoping to use the mood of the nation to their own advantage.

Interestingly, Lisi isn’t afraid to take aim at FIFA itself.  There are a number of mentions of investigations into the darker side of the cup, especially when it comes to who gets to hold them:

At a June 2010 conference in Miami, investigative journalist Andrew Jennings discussed at length the scams that, years later, would form the basis of indictments.  He said FIFA’s actions qualified it as “a global organized crime syndicate.” (p.116)

Strong words, indeed..  A special mention here goes to the previous finals in Qatar, with a look at the human cost of the tournament, the guest workers who died during stadium construction.  Given what’s happened both in the US and Iran over the past few months, I can’t wait to see what the next edition of the book will make of the 2026 finals…

For personal reasons, Lisi’s book is not all it could have been, and the writer almost lost me very early on:

The world’s largest religion is Christianity, with 2.4 billion adherents.  I often joke that the biggest religion on earth is soccer.
Yes, soccer. (p.ix)

Lisi, of course, is American, and in addition to using the s-word, the book is littered with expressions like shutout (clean sheet), jerseys (shirts), roster (squad) and ejected (sent off), which for this Englishman makes for awkward and unpleasant reading.  What irked me more, though, was how this American influence often becomes an American bias, with pages spent on covering certain games played by the US team while far more important matches are glossed over in half a sentence.

More importantly, though, The World Cup, in its attempt to be comprehensive, is often a fairly leaden read.  Lisi’s prose isn’t exactly sparkling at the best of times, and in trying to cram in mentions of every game, there’s a lot of repetition.  The book is at its best when it slows down and explores certain matches and incidents rather than simply ploughing on, match by match, and I can’t help feeling that in the Internet age, with any child having instant access to all the scores, there was no need to go through the tournaments in such detail.  Instead, it would have been nice to have the more important matches and incidents covered in more depth.

Still, that’s the view of someone who knew virtually all of this information before opening the book, so if you have no idea what the nationality of the ball was for the first World Cup Final, or the name of the four-legged friend who found the stolen trophy in 1966, Lisi’s account might be worth a look.  It’s a book that provides novices (particularly North Americans) with a handy overview of what its all about, setting the scene for a new generation of stars to take the stage this northern summer – and perhaps make it into the next edition of Lisi’s book.