A report written by Ruth Williams who calls Melbourne, Australia home.The launch took place on September 22, 2019.
Every good book deserves further
acknowledgement and the third Writers in Kyoto Anthology qualifies. Following
the Japanese launch held in Kyoto in June, an Australian launch took place in
Tasmania in late September. This was fitting as both Jann Williams (the chief
editor and designer) and Corinne Costello (the cover artist and daimonji
illustrator) live on this beautiful island.
Friends, family and colleagues of both Jann and Corinne were thrilled when the Hobart launch was announced and delighted with the presentations, the venue, and the thoughtful provision of delicious hors d’oeuvres and a selection of wine and other beverages to enjoy.
Thanks goes to James Hampton for offering his restaurant Lizzie & Lefroy as the launch venue
After being welcomed by Michael
Cromer, an accomplished practitioner in the local Urasenke tea group, the
anthology was officially launched by Dr Heidi Auman (author, biologist and
taiko player), who began by acknowledging the traditional owners of the land on
which we met that day.
Not surprisingly, and indeed satisfyingly for the audience, Heidi’s focus was largely on the contributions to the anthology made by Jann and Corinne, drawing on an interview with the chief editor. This gave the audience insights into the many steps along the way involved in producing the publication. Heidi declared the anthology to be full of ‘elegance, balance, beauty and honesty’, adding ‘to sum it up would be to express a sense of ‘Ahhh!’ that resonates with an energetic sense of knowing.’
Heidi receiving applause and appreciation after launching the third WiK Anthology in Hobart, Tasmania
This was the perfect lead into Jann William’s talk. The audience was interested to learn of the role Jann played as chief editor: to create a publication of which the authors would be proud, and that readers would find stimulating and new. Based on the early response to the anthology, this aim was indeed achieved.
Jann informed us that the Kyoto launch was three months ago ‘to this day’, occurring on the Summer Solstice in Japan. (Winter in the Southern Hemisphere.) There was a pleasing sense of serendipity that the Hobart launch should occur on the Spring Equinox in Australia, especially with Jann’s interest and knowledge of the seasons through her work on the elements.
There were many people for Jann to thank, particularly the anthology writers and illustrators for their efforts and her siblings Ruth, Hugo and Rod for travelling from Melbourne for the launch
Jann read from Ken Rodger’s compelling and reflective essay in the anthology, as well as her contribution, Shinsen’en, a Heian-kyo Power Spot. The audience learnt that it is only a five-minute walk from where she stays when in Kyoto. You could almost see people wondering if they could drop by Jann’s lodgings for a visit and tour of the area!
A very appreciative audience. Some who have already travelled to Kyoto, reminiscing
Corinne Costello brought a strong sense of wonder and artistry to the event. She began by reading from Alan S. Weiss’ anthology story, An Intercalary Moment. Alan’s reference to ‘the hour entre chien et loup… a transformative moment’, correlated closely with Corinne’s interest in the Japanese concept of ‘ma’ (the space between two structural parts) in art. The audience were clearly fascinated with Corinne’s insights and many attendees spoke with her after the official launch.
Corinne fills the space between one of her beautiful works and a captive audience
Sometimes it is good to be reminded of the space between things. To acknowledge ‘the silence between the notes that make the music’. (*) The combination of ‘notes’ that have been brought together to create Encounters in Kyoto has resulted in a precious anthology, where the sum is more than its parts.
May the Australia-Japan connection continue for many years to come.
(*)When Less is More: Japanese “MA” concept, minimalism and beyond” wawaza.com
The Japan Times puts out a daily newsletter called Take 5 which takes the pick of current content and links to archived material. Item no. 5 in the Wednesday Sept 25 edition was of particular interest for WiK, as you can see in the piece below…
5. Foreign writers in Japan, a century apart
In the Books section, Jason James explores British author William Plomer’s 2½-year stay in Japan in the 1920s, during which he developed a complex relationship with the country, loving its theater and culture but hating the rising tide of nationalism. Plomer was ahead of his time in many ways. His opposition to racism is one example, but he also decried the “enslavement of women” in Japan, as well as the frequency of suicides, which he described as “annoyingly common.” Both these themes feature strongly in “Paper Houses,” his 1929 Japan-themed volume of short stories, writes James. In the buildup to World War II, Plomer wrote, “I detest their tendency to nationalistic paranoia and their particular politico-religious superstitions … which, if persisted in, will have terrible results.”
Author William Plomer had many close Japanese friends and lovers, and the utmost respect for Japan’s culture, but became alarmed by the spread of fascism. | THOMAS KILBURN
Contributing writer Stephen Mansfield recalls acclaimed Japan writer Donald Richie lamenting the lack of an English-language literary salon in the country, an omission that forced him to live “alone in the library of my skull.” Were Richie alive today, Mansfield says, he would likely be a fully paid-up member of Writers in Kyoto, a group of authors whose influence is already being felt in literary circles.Founded by writer John Dougill in 2015, Writers in Kyoto was formed with the purpose of creating, they say, a “sense of community” to “help foster a literary culture for published English-language authors associated with the city.” Mansfield finds plenty to praise in their new collection, with its writing “by turns studied, witty and rancorous.”
Kyoto has long been seen as a magical locus for fantastical happenings. Not only is it the cultural heart of the nation, but it has a rich legacy of the unseen. This is after all the home of ancestral spirits, of Daimonji, of Inari and Tenjin and a host of Buddhist deities. It is a city of power spots and time slips, where the supernatural is an integral part of the religious heritage. History is very much present in the fabric of the city.
This makes Kyoto popular with anime artists, who use the city as a base for imaginative flights of fancy.Inari Konkon and Uchouten Kazoku (Eccentric Family) are just two of the anime films to exploit the otherworldly nature of the city. Now comes news of a major new addition to the genre – Hello World – which takes a Matrix view of the ancient capital. What follows is an introduction by the Japan Times entitled ‘Hello World’: Kyoto as you’ve never seen it before.
HELLO WORLD by Matt Schley, Sept 18, 2019, Japan Times
If you’ve studied the basics of computer programming, you’ll probably recognize the phrase “hello world.” It’s the textbook-recommended line of text learners type into their first program, then delight as it pops up on screen.
The new anime film
“Hello World” centers around a computer program, albeit one slightly
more complicated than a line of text. The film opens in Kyoto in the
year 2027, on what seems to be a normal day for high school student
Naomi Katagaki (Takumi Kitamura), a young man who’s obsessed with
reading and short on friends.
On his way home from school, Naomi encounters a mysterious older man (Tori Matsuzaka) who knows his name and everything about him. The man, it turns out, is an older version of Naomi himself. And here’s where the computer program comes in: Young Naomi’s entire world is actually a giant computer simulation, the Kyoto of the near past preserved down to the last detail for future generations to study.
Coming soon to Japan cinemas
The older Naomi has somehow hacked his consciousness into this
computer simulation for a single purpose — to get his younger,
computer-simulated self a girlfriend. The object of his affection is
Ruri Ichigyo (Minami Hamabe), a similarly bookish, brusque girl who
seems immune to what little charms Naomi has to offer. But get together
they must, says Naomi 2, or his younger self won’t be able to protect
Ruri from being injured and falling into a coma the night of the
upcoming summer festival.
Meanwhile, as Team Naomi begins to alter
the timeline, the computer simulation’s anti-corruption software —
which takes the form of creepy, hunchbacked creatures wearing fox masks —
enters the picture, trying to put things back the way they were by
force.
What’s the point, you may be asking, of the older Naomi
trying to change the past if it’s all just a computer simulation?
Without getting into spoiler territory, let’s just say the dividing line
between these two worlds is less solid than it initially appears.
The
hazy border between flesh-and-blood worlds and computer-generated ones
is a well-worn theme for “Hello World” director Tomohiko Ito, best known
for helming popular anime series “Sword Art Online.” In this film, he
stretches that theme to its limits, building to a climax that will
either thrill or frustrate depending on how much you value
comprehensibility (if someone could explain the final shot to me, that’d
be great, thanks).
But while the ideas get complex, Ito and
screenwriter Mado Nozaki never forget to ground their story around its
characters. The interactions between Naomi and his grown-up counterpart
are well-written and charming. The same goes for young Naomi and Ruri,
whose unlikely relationship blossoms in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
Small details keep our heroes’ personalities in mind: When bookworm
Naomi receives baddy-busting powers, he doesn’t wield a gun or sword,
but a giant enemy-thwapping book.
A significant portion of the characters’ charm comes from designer Yukiko Horiguchi, known for Kyoto Animation works like “Lucky Star” and “Tamako Market.” The characters in “Hello World” are animated in CG, a method that’s been making serious inroads in anime production. With a few exceptions aside, one serious roadblock in replicating the appeal of hand-drawn anime in CG has been the uninspiring character designs. I’m still not 100 percent on-board for the whole CG thing, but “Hello World” is one of the best-looking examples I’ve seen to date.
****************
For the official trailer, see this link on Youtube
‘Fragrant Harbor’ they called it. But Hong Kong was anything but fragrant the night Poh Seng Pang flew in. The air outside the terminal was dank, vegetative—like the smell of the Singapore River in wet season, or the streets of the Jurong Wholesale Market after a deluge. Poh found it strangely comforting.
He checked his Citizen Quartz Titanium; almost dinnertime in Singapore. Betty would be taking first customers at her small chicken-rice stand inside the Hawkers Centre. He tried not to eat on the plane; ‘airline food’ was an oxymoron and it gave him constipation. But this time he’d missed his wife’s lunch in the rush to the airport and had reluctantly accepted the airline offerings; a decision he now regretted as he stood clutching his small overnight bag on the concourse.
Beyond the terminal, rain fell. With no wind to speak of, it drifted down in an almost vertical fashion across the runway, hangars and the harbor beyond. A black Toyota Lexus sat idling at the end of the taxi rank, its exhaust steaming the night air. The driver was old-school—silver crew cut, permanent scowl, a real toothpick-chewer. His gaze met with Poh’s in the rear view mirror. He lowered his newspaper and the rear passenger door clicked. Poh pulled on the handle and climbed in. They exchanged single-syllable greetings and the car moved away from the curb to join the swirl of courtesy buses, catering trucks, rental cars and limousines leaving Chek Lap Kok island for Kowloon and the night beyond.
Poh was feeling pensive tonight. This would be his last assignment. On his return to Singapore, he would formally tender his resignation. At 58, he was getting too old to be a “shipping agent”.
He was looking forward to retirement; he’d help Betty at the chicken-rice stand, maybe join a mahjong club, and take more of an interest in his daughter’s studies in Australia. Microbiology, wasn’t it? What did he know about microbiology? Except that you should always wash your hands after flying because, as his daughter insisted, ‘airplanes are crawling with bacteria.’
Poh yawned.
The travelling, the hotel rooms, the waiting—the waiting was the real killer. He’d read somewhere that the average human spends a year of their life waiting. The only thing that made the waiting bearable, besides the money, was dining. He loved sampling the specialties of each town and city he visited: the dumplings in Taipei, Medan chicken curry in Sumatra, pork noodles in Sabah, suckling pig in Bali. Dining was his real pleasure, but only after a job was done, and even then it had to be a quick meal en route to the airport.
He slumped back in the seat, listening to the timbre of the windshield wipers working away the rain. Why had he chosen this line of business? Actually, he hadn’t chosen this business; it had chosen him. His talent had been recognised early. The recruitment process had been quick, the training minimal and his first assignment issued within a few weeks.
He had never botched a job. Granted, it was possible. Once, in a Kuching hotel, his gun had jammed. The target had woken with his call girl beside him and he’d had to knuckle-dust them both. Then he’d smothered the target with a pillow and walked. He never killed women—as a rule—and he was glad he’d never been put in a situation where he’d had to choose between a woman’s life and his own. It was another reason to retire.
Could you tell us
briefly about how you came to Kyoto?
I’m the only person I
know who actually came to Japan by boat, landing in 1983 after living several
months in Russia, then the Soviet Union. My major at UC Irvine, near Los
Angeles, was Russian, and after graduation I joined a student tour group, living
several weeks in different Russian cities, and gradually traveling eastward on
the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Another American in the group, who was far more
organized than myself, had an edition of Lonely Planet that I began to browse,
and I remember my jaw dropping upon reading I could make all of forty dollars
an hour teaching English in Japan! Wow! Before learning this, my plan was to
see Tokyo, then visit Australia, before returning home.
As the ship sat in
Yokohama harbor waiting for processing, I asked a Japanese gentleman where
Tokyo was, and he simply waved his hand at the enormous brown smudge in the
distance. I remember thinking, ‘Oh, so it’s a lot like Los Angeles.’
But the smudge seduced
me that first night. I was transfixed by the non-stop, electrifying neon of the
early 80s. After all, I’d just spent five months in sleepy Russia, where the
entertainment consisted of making friends, drinking, dancing and complaining of
the food. I knew I would stay that first night in Shinbashi. The earthquake and
subsequent catastrophes of 2011 prompted my family (we had a two-year-old at
the time) to leave Tokyo and return to Los Angeles.
But Japan is in the
blood. We came back in 2013, this time to Kyoto.
How and when did you
take up writing?
I
started writing in my later years. I wasn’t ready when younger, wandering with
story ideas that were only half-baked, unable to express myself through prose
in any real way. I write now because I can’t not write. Just ask my family: If
I’m not plugging away at something, I’m not much fun to be around.
I
write for myself, not for the market. I have no idea what will sell, but as
long as I’m happy with a story, I will show it. I don’t know if I’m going to
make any money doing this, but I don’t write to get rich. I do it for another,
deeper satisfaction. I also write for the person I know best: myself.
I’ve
settled on comic fantasy as a literary genre. Humor with thoughtful
undertones. Visionary. Metaphysical. Childish. But I’m not for children. I
write about teens, but not necessarily for them. My sub-genre
might be: weird fiction. But Amazon has yet to make a category for that.
Your novel Plum Rains on
Happy House is set in a transmogrified Kyoto with a touch of the grotesque. How
did you conceive of the idea?
“Plum
Rains on Happy House” is a result of personal experiences of living in Tokyo
and not having any money. If you’re broke, you often live in a guest house (or gaijin
house). I’ve lived in a few, though none were as interesting as the one in
Kawasaki, which is the model for “Happy House”. I lived there, thinking the
whole time: ‘Somebody has got to write a story about this craziness!’
Book cover of “Plum Rains on Happy House”.
The
novel is really a detective story. A fellow named Harry invites the
protagonist, nicknamed the Ichiban, to Japan. But the residents of Happy
House all deny any knowledge of this mysterious Harry. Readers may pick up on
the references to the 1973 film The Wicker Man, about a policeman who is
lured to a Scottish island to investigate the report of a missing child. It’s a
game of deception. The islanders are playing with him. The paganism and the
sexual activity the sanctimonious policeman finds so objectionable are simply
part of the selection process—to see if he possesses the characteristics to
burn in their wicker effigy so that the village will have subsequent successful
harvests. In “Plum Rains on Happy House”, the Ichiban must undergo his own
horrific sacrifice to appease the house.
The novel is a tribute to that remarkable film, and it has the same
basic plot lines, but I’ve laid down hearty layers of satire and side stories.
In
creating the residents of Happy House, I mingled the characteristics of a few
of the unique people I’ve met over the decades in Tokyo and in Los Angeles. In
some cases, I didn’t need to exaggerate at all. The residents of the house had
to be distinctively quirky, and I didn’t know how bawdy things were going to
become, or how much depravity would creep its way into the story. But once I
had the characters, they took charge and I relegated myself to being, more or
less, their stenographer.
I’ve
mixed in a lot of elliptical dialogue I feel compliments the baffling
idiosyncrasies of Japan that newcomers have a hard time handling. I’ve also
structured the story within the sometimes vexing stages of culture shock, which
frame the Ichiban’s misadventures, and eventual acceptance, of the house—which
has its own plans. After all, the old guesthouse is haunted:
“Happy
House is an amoeba everlasting, a floating world—capturing and sealing the
self-indulgence of the red-light districts, the bordellos and the fleeting,
delightful vulgarity of ancient Japan, an eternal time capsule of the
flamboyant and the boorish.”
The
dichotomy of substance versus form also plays an important part in underscoring
the tension—in the way one swings a tennis racket, or walks in a swimming pool,
or plays baseball, or eats particular dishes: What should predominate—what you
are doing or how you are doing it?
On
another level, the story examines language acquisition and the role of
structure within the learning process. The residents all have their various
opinions: As teachers, should English be taught through some kind of lock-step
formula, or would one be better off approaching the pedagogy in a more
hands-off manner, rather like painting? Everyone seems to have an opinion. The
idea of structure comes to the forefront again when discussing what one character,
Sensei, calls the hidden structure of the house, which, like the
neighborhood (or any cityscape in Japan) appears as an amorphous sprawl. But
look underneath this sprawl and one sees the organism. The randomness, or
chaos, embraces a flexible, orderly structure, likening the house to an amoeba
that has the ability to alter its shape. Similarly, this amoeba can be seen as
a microcosm of Japan as a whole.
You have published and
marketed your books yourself, I believe. Could you tell us about the experience?
Indie
publishing is a great way to get your stories out there. I’ve only been doing
it for a little over a year, but I’m happy having all this control over my own
stuff. It’s taken a while, but now that I (somewhat) understand what I’m doing,
I’m approaching publishers, just to gauge interest.
Through
stores like Amazon, anyone can now market their own work. I’ve never taken a
prose writing class. I wouldn’t know a support group from an A.A. meeting. I
don’t know what a writers’ retreat is (though it sounds restful). I write
alone. With a house pet—a gentle cat named Howard. I have friends that will
read stuff for me, and I have an editor who will lend me his professional eyes.
I often use Fiverr.com for book covers and for formatting. No
self-publishing workshops for me (even though the half-day sessions are only
$79—and what a great way to get yourself out there; what’s wrong with me?)
I
write alone, mumbling incoherently as I do so. “Mom says you’re talking to
yourself again,” my daughter will yell through the door of my tiny study. I’m
an indie writer. I’m self-employed. The mumbling—it’s a staff meeting.
Sometimes I have to raise my voice to make a point. But she can hear me in the
kitchen, which is directly below. They’re always lively meetings. Lots to
discuss.
I
also do all my own stunts. But never intentionally. I lack exercise because I
spend that time writing. It’s what writers do—we spend all this time with
ourselves when we should be out exercising and considering our overall health
picture. But how can I leave the study when my new story-baby is so
underdeveloped, so sickly? Revision is the only remedy. Lots of rewriting.
James Michener said:
“I’m not a good writer, but I’m an excellent rewriter.”
The
stories get better, tighter, with revision. If we want to achieve a level of
accomplishment in the world of story-telling, then all the alone time is
merely the price of admission.
Finally, what are your favourite
books about Japan, and why?
I couldn’t get my hands
on all that much in the 80s, but Reischauer’s “The Japanese” was the most
enlightening. I remember enjoying a few tongue-in-cheek books on getting by in The
Big Mikan. In the early 90s I was impressed by Karl Van Wolferin’s “The Enigma of
Japanese Power”, as well as Alex Kerr’s “Dogs and Demons” later on. Recently,
because I’m ignorant of the history and culture of Kyoto, I picked up John Dougill’s
“Kyoto: A Cultural History” — and it whet my appetite for more on this
captivating city.
I’ve
read a lot of Japanese fiction, but I’m always on the lookout for comedic or
satirical perspectives on this country we live in. “Plum Rains on Happy House” is
a somewhat skewering lampoon on both Japan and those Non-Japanese that have
chosen to live here. The story is a twisted, genuine way of looking back at
ourselves, employing (I hope) memorable characters that make memorable tales.
I
think that’s my job, my goal—to write characters and stories that are absurd,
violent, childish, but that resonate with truth.
California ex-pat Michael Greco as lived in Asia
for over 25 years, and his stories are dappled with the character and spirit of
Asian communities. He teaches writing in university and has jotted extensively
about the joy and frustration of the creative process. He has written for the
Asahi Shinbun newspaper in Tokyo, and received his master’s degree in
theoretical linguistics, in Los Angeles. He is a regular contributor to The
Japan Times and the online journal The Font. Michael lives in Kyoto, Japan,
with his wife, daughter, and a honey-sweet cat named Howard. He uses Japan as a
springboard for his frequent forays to other regions of the world, often with
his 10-year-old as a travel companion.
Running is not an activity you associate with my family. So
says my brother Rod.
This is true in recent decades. Vigorous exercise has not been
our forte. That changed when I was lured to join the regular circuit runners
around Nijojo (Nijo Castle) in Kyoto. A 2 km circuit that encircles the castle,
its moat and the surrounding hedge.
Aerobic exercise has a long and positive connection with
creative writing. Walking is recommended as the most natural way to enhance
creativity and stimulate insights.
I love to walk, and now I love to run. As well as helping my
fitness and ability to climb mountains, it has opened new worlds to delight and
stimulate the senses.
Early morning is the best time to run I find. As do many
others, of all ages and levels of fitness. These companions, especially those
in their elder years, motivate me to start the day in a good way.
Most of us run or walk anti-clockwise except for one
gentleman who defies the norm. He is yet to say hello when he passes by. I hope
that will change, as it has with others as I become a regular.
Every day is different around the castle, the moat and the
hedge. Many surprises have revealed themselves since I started running around 12
months ago.
What first seemed like a biological desert of hedge and lawn,
with planted Sakura and pine trees, has turned out to be far from it. The
Nijojo circuit provides homes for many.
As the seasons progress different plants and animals present
themselves, often in subtle ways. It is important to have your eyes and mind
wide open so not to miss them.
My most exciting discovery has been the thousands of spiral orchids (Spiranthes sinensis) growing between the moat and the hedge during tsuyu, the rainy season.
Thousands of spiders use the hedge as habitat, their flat
extended webs catching the raindrops like ephemeral jewels.
In the heat of summer the cicadas sing. The hedge provides
resting spots for their metamorphosis. They are beautiful to behold.
Along the front of the castle, where there is a fence rather
than a hedge, myriad mushrooms complete their life cycle and disappear until
the next suitable season.
On the water two herons hunt, ducks swim above and carp
below, water-striders lightly touch the surface. In summer, water plants are
profuse.
Profusion is also found in abundance in Spring as the Sakura
burst forth with their canopy covering floral display.
And then there is the entrancing interplay of light and
shadow, changing with the time of day, the amount of cloud and the position of
the sun. The shadows of the pine trees in the bright light are striking. So too
the glorious orange/pink bark touched with the morning rays.
Pine trees also feature in my favourite conditions to run –
just after it has rained. There is something very special about water droplets
on pine needles.
The castle, the moat and the hedge. My ‘go to’ place for
running and revelation when I find myself in Kyoto.
Perhaps it is in the blood after all. My brother Rod ran a world peace marathon in Russia in his youth. Now it is my turn to pound the pavement.
All photos taken by Jann Williams on her runs around Nijojo. For other experiences see: https://elementaljapan.com/.
Hello fellow WiK members, and a very happy, hot and humid holiday season to you all. I’m not sure about your good selves, but at this time of the year, in Kyoto especially, I find it hard to generate enough energy or even enthusiasm for anything, including lengthy pieces of writing. It is at this time that I often turn to the short, short story, usually in an attempt to grow ideas toward kickstarting a broader project. With this in mind, I was hoping that you might be interested in joining me in a simple collaborative endeavor, mainly for fun, but also with an eye to completing a piece. Attached here, you will find the first (roughly) 1,000 words of a short story I have started. What I would like you to do, is provide me with a short synopsis (up to 100 words) of how you would see the second part developing. I already have three possible continuances in mind, but I am very interested to see how others might think. Of course, you can suggest both ideas and extra characters, and any other details that take your fancy.
OK. I’d like to set a deadline of August 31st for submissions, and you can contact me directly with your input on my email address: readers4readers@gmail.com
Look forward to hearing from you. Kevin
Here Comes Kenji
Two-thirds into
his first beer of the night, James raised his head from the reading of his
newspaper to gaze absently around the barely populated pub. Purposefully avoiding eye contact with any of
the other early evening patrons, his attention settled on the large flat screen
TV high on the wall to the right of the bar area, currently showing a baseball
game between the Hanshin Tigers and Yomiuri Giants. James had no interest in baseball. Didn’t understand the game, its rules, or why
it was so popular. Judging by the way
the other half dozen or so local punters littering this downtown joint were
behaving, nor did they. Nearly all were
either staring into space, staring at their drinks, or staring, eyes closed,
into their own souls.
All save one.
Perched on a
bar stool at the far end of the counter, and eyeing him intently through a soft
drifting of cigarette smoke and dust motes, was a princess. James straightened up in his chair and
lifting his beer glass slowly to his lips, returned her look with a steady one
of his own.
This was
interesting.
Narrowing his
eyes, the better to bring her face into focus, he struggled for signs of
recognition. She was certainly
beautiful, undoubtedly self-assured, and making her interest in him blatantly
obvious. But he did not know her. If they had met before, he most definitely
would have remembered it.
Next move?
It was
hers. Sliding off the bar stool with a
barely a sound, and plucking her wine glass up off the counter by its stem, she
glided across the five meters or so distance between them like a swan on
ice. James now followed her progress
with a little uncertainty. What was
happening here? Then she was there. Standing directly in front of him, looking
down with an amused smile on her perfectly shaped, gloss red lips. She
murmured,
“Americajin?”
“No, English”,
James replied cautiously, “You?”
“Very
Japanese”, she responded with a laugh, inclining her head to one side and
casually sweeping strands of her immaculately bobbed hair behind one ear. James was as close to speechless he had ever
been, but managed to gather himself enough to extend an invitation,
“Would you like
to join me?”
With a small
nod of acceptance, and another effortlessly seductive smile, she lowered
herself into the chair opposite his, taking a long sip from her glass before
slowly placing it on the table. James
took a quick look around the bar to see if anyone else was bearing witness to
this, but nothing had really changed. No one seemed to be showing any interest
in how this little scene was playing out, except for perhaps the bartender,
who, despite fiddling with a beer tap, was actually casting furtive glances in
their direction. James knew this dude
from the few times he had visited this pub before after first arriving in Kyoto
a couple of months earlier. He was a
pretty cool young Japanese guy with decent English, and as they were close to
the same age, they’d chatted a bit about this and that while James was being
served. James raised his eyebrows a
couple of time to register the universal code for surprise, but the bartender’s
expression came back a little flat, in fact almost hostile. Strange.
Still, James
had something else to occupy his mind with right now, and she was in a very
friendly mood. The conversation went
back and forth easily, and very soon James began to relax into it. She told him her name, Reina, and of her love
for speaking English and travel. He
explained why he had come to Japan, and a little of his previous life in the
UK. She talked of her hometown in Osaka,
and how she had moved to Kyoto for work.
He brought up the difficulty he was having nailing down decent
employment, but was confident something great would turn up in time. Pretty soon, and much to James’s surprise,
they found themselves exchanging phone numbers and LINE details and were even
chatting over the idea of leaving and moving on to another more interesting
hostelry. All in all, they appeared to be getting along just swimmingly …
until.
James had
noticed the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve of the
blouse she was wearing, and intrigued by something he had not seen on any of
the young Japanese women he encountered thus far, decided to casually comment
on it,
“That’s an
interesting bit of artwork on your arm, Reina, can I see the rest of it?”
Getting
surprisingly flustered and even a little panicked, she tugged on the shirt
sleeve in an attempt to hide it, and then rather abruptly stood up and
muttering something in Japanese, made a short apologetic gesture and excused
herself, claiming an urgent need to visit the toilet. James sat back a little astonished by this
sudden change in mood and events, and shaking his head, picked up their glasses
and headed to the bar. Maybe a fresh
round of drinks would get things back on track. Obviously, he had struck a
nerve, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the big issue was.
Arriving at the
counter, he gave a little wave to catch the eye of the young bartender, who was
nearly finished serving another customer, and got a curt ‘in a minute’ nod in
return. While waiting for his turn, he swiveled from side to side to check if
Reina was returning from the toilet, and to clock the rest of the
clientele. This time, far from ignoring
his presence, more than several sets of eyes were firmly fixed on him, and one
or two faces even bore expressions of intense hatred. What the ….?
James did not like the feel of this one bit. At that moment, the bartender rocked up, and
before James could get a word out, spoke low and hard,
“I think you
need to leave, man”
James was
shocked,
“What’re you
talking about, mate. I haven’t done anything”
The bartender
shook his head,
“That girl
you’re with. She’s not yours, she’s not
for you”
James let out a
nervous laugh,
“I’m not with
her, mate. We’ve only just met. What’s the big problem?”
The bartender
leant forward and hissed,
“Listen! I’m trying to do you a favor. Everyone in
here knows her, and they know her friends.
I think a call has already been made.”
And now in a
raised voice.
“Seriously, you
just need to go!!”
At that moment,
two things happened simultaneously.
Reina, who had now reappeared, stood shaking with both hands clamped to
her mouth, and the door to the bar flew open, ricocheting off the faux brick
wall with a resounding bang and a shattering of glass. Coming right through it was a very large,
very hard looking Japanese guy with a less than genial look about him.
The bartender
stepped back and muttered under his breath,
“Majikayo,
Kenji daze” – “Oh shit, here comes Kenji”.
Although Kanazawa is recognized by UNESCO as a “City of Crafts and Traditional Arts,” it has also produced many great writers over the years, and, adding to this its impressive literary halls, museums, memorials, statues, celebrations, and even occasional author-themed foods, could well be considered a “City of Literature,” too. Izumi Kyoka is Kanazawa’s most celebrated writer – at least within Japan.
Izumi Kyoka 1873 – 1939
Kyoka was born in Kanazawa in 1873, only twenty years after Japan was forced to open to the West after 250 years of seclusion. As one might imagine, it was a time of great change throughout the country. Kyoka lived in Kanazawa until he was seventeen years old, and though he was forced to come back on a few occasions, his home thereafter became Tokyo – Japan’s literary center in his day and now – and for several years Zushi, on the Kanagawa coast, where he went with his wife, Ito Suzu, a former Kagurazaka geisha, to recover his health. Despite the short time he lived in Kanazawa, as well as the negative feelings he held toward the city, he set a number of his works there.
I became interested in Kyoka’s work due to a somewhat unique situation: he’s from the Japanese city where I moved to several years ago and expect to live the rest of my life. And although I read his stories before moving here, I was drawn to them more deeply after becoming a resident of Kanazawa.
It’s also of
personal interest that some of his works are set in areas I might pass through every
day. Visiting Renshoji, the temple on Mt. Utatsu where Kyoka set Rukinsho (“The
Heartvine,” 1937), and the old castle moat where two characters from this story
met while intending to drown themselves (as Kyoka and a local woman did in real
life), is still possible today, though both places have changed in the years
since he wrote it. Another of his Kanazawa stories is Kechou (“A Bird of
a Different Feather,” 1897). This takes place near the Tenjin Bridge along the
Asano River and on Mt. Utatsu, but at a time when those areas were populated by
the “polluted” and disenfranchised: butchers, leatherworkers, prostitutes, grave
diggers, corpse handlers, and other social outcastes. Because various temples,
graveyards, winding streets, and even some houses still exist in those areas
from that time, one can imagine what the river and mountain might have looked like
when Kechou took place. Other Kyoka stories and novels also have Kanazawa as
their settings, and whenever I come across them I feel my roots to the city
grow deeper.
To me, the power and
mystery of Kyoka’s stories are undeniable. While I admit having had only
limited success reading his work in Japanese, Charles Shiro Inouye’s two
collections of translated Kyoka stories are excellent, and what they transmit
to me in my reading of them is of the same quality and effect as my favorite
Japanese literature (also in translation): Kawabata’s Snow Country and Sound
of the Mountain; Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters; Shiga’s A Dark
Night’s Passing; Soseki’s Grass on the Wayside and Kokoro;
Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask and The Temple of the Golden
Pavilion; Abe’s The Woman in the Dunes; Nakagami’s The Cape and
Other Stories from the Japanese Ghetto; Ibuse’s Black Rain; Minakami’s
Temple of Wild Geese and Bamboo Dolls of Echizen – among others. (Many
of these authors knew Kyoka and revered him as a writer.) What differentiates
Kyoka from all of these writers, his contemporaries as well as those who came
after him, are both his pure Japanese-ness as a storyteller, which is to say
the lack of influence in his writing from outside of Japan, particularly when
western realism was in vogue, and also his writing style, which enabled him to develop
an aesthetic that is arguably more surreal, more sensual, and more
linguistically sophisticated than any other Japanese writer. His writing is
often strange in the way that dreams are strange, yet his narratives are
controlled, often intricately plotted, and expertly lead his readers through what
typically are shadowy, otherworldly, deeply nostalgic emotional landscapes.
The characters and
plot of my own novel, Kanazawa, present deliberate instances of
intertextuality, where certain scenes I’ve written interact with certain scenes
in Kyoka’s stories (and with his own life). Readers who have read Kyoka may
recognize these instances, or at least trace some aspects of their lineage, in
my novel. I could never hope to achieve what Kyoka did in his stories, stylistically
or literarily; I’ve merely tried to weave something interesting together and add
a layer to the ways my novel can be read, understood, and enjoyed. But one can
still read Kanazawa without first reading Kyoka, I suppose one can also,
if one wishes to, experience the same sense of recognition in reverse – by
reading my novel first and then seeking out Kyoka’s works.
If readers enjoy
my novel, or even only parts of it, and are curious to discover an important
influence on its creation (and on my own life in Kanazawa), I want to point
them to the following works.
Charles Shiro Inouye’s three publications on Kyoka are masterful. Two are collections of translated stories – equal to more famous literary translations by Edward Seidensticker* and Ivan Morris, but for some reason more quietly trumpeted than theirs – and one a critical biography. The former are In Light of Shadows (University of Hawaii Press, 2004) and Japanese Gothic Tales (University of Hawaii Press, 1996), the latter The Similitude of Blossoms (Harvard University Press, 1998).
Donald Keene’s
chapter on Izumi Kyoka in Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature of the
Modern Era (Columbia University Press, 1998) has long served as an
excellent addition to what is available in English on Kyoka and his writing.
There is general agreement that Keene’s work has been of particular importance
to the revival of interest in Kyoka’s writing.
Cody Poulton’s Spirits
of Another Sort is another excellent source of translation (plays, mostly,
of which Kyoka wrote more than five dozen), and of critical and biographical
material.
The more recent A
Bird of a Different Feather, translated by Peter Bernard, beautifully
illustrated by Nakagawa Gaku, and appended with several short but interesting
essays by Japanese Kyoka scholars, is also worth readers’ time.
While other short publications
deal with the creative products of what Akutagawa Ryunosuke referred to as
“Kyoka’s World,” these are the ones I’ve read and come back to often with
greatest pleasure and interest.
As Emmitt’s mother-in-law suggests in Kanazawa, if foreign readership of Kyoka’s work spreads, perhaps it will “help preserve something that’s in danger of disappearing.” I share her belief, and also hope that it might lead to Kyoka’s work taking a more prominent place in Japan’s highly regarded literary canon.
[*Seidensticker translated Kyoka’s “A Tale of Three Who Were Blind” (1956) which appeared in Modern Japanese Literature (Grove Press, 1994), ed. Donald Keene.]
Most Kyoto residents will be
familiar with The Lady and the Monk, published in 1991, in which a
foreigner in search of Zen finds unexpected love. Many may have finished the
book wondering what happened to the couple. Reader, they married. Now, nearly
thirty years later, we are presented with a follow-up. It’s not a sequel the
author insists, but a counterpart – an autumn love story to balance the
springtime mood of the earlier work. Think Linklater’s Sunrise Trilogy in lush
prose.
The title is suggestive of the book’s theme, which has to do with aging and the relentless march of time. Indeed, autumn here is championed as Japan’s quintessential season. ‘Cherry blossoms, pretty and frothy as schoolgirls’ giggles, are the face the country likes to present to the world… but it’s the reddening of the maple leaves under a blaze of ceramic-blue skies that is the place’s secret heart.’ In traditional poetry the compelling beauty of autumn light is underpinned by awareness of the shortening days, suggestive of the Japanese aesthetics of sabi (forlornness) and the tradition of mono no aware (the pathos of beauty’s transience`).
Death, dying and dementia haunt
the pages of the book, casting an autumn light on the proceedings as Iyer tells
of family matters and aging table-tennis partners. An elderly mother in
California, a mother-in-law in her dotage, a step-daughter involved with the
wrong type of man. Then there’s the curious case of the estranged
brother-in-law, whose Jungian studies go hand-in-hand with a refusal to engage
with his family. It’s a surprisingly revealing book for an author who likes to
treat Japan as a form of private retreat in contrast to his overseas
assignments and public engagements. It means that he keeps a low profile while
in Nara, where he focusses on his writing (unfortunately for WiK as we have
been unable to book him as a speaker). Since most of the book is centred around
his home in Nara, with occasional excursions to Kyoto, this second autobiographical
work surely marks him out as Kansai’s prime creative foreign writer.
The first time I came across Pico
Iyer was while reading a review of Remains of the Day (another autumnal
work). The writer made the astonishing claim that the story offered excellent
insight into the Japanese character, and such was my surprise I checked to see
who the author was, wondering whether the name was some kind of joke. Since
then I have followed his career with interest, and in the intervening years he
has won a massive fan base around the globe (his Ted talks have been seen by
over three million people). It’s worth speculating as to what underlies his
appeal, apart from the self-evident honesty and sensitivity. The reflective
asides can catch one unawares but they invariably stimulate thought, and there
is much to be admired in the poetic, sometimes cryptic, style of language: ‘If
autumn is a religion, it’s something you recite – or see with your eyes closed
– more than put into words.’
Above all, Iyer is a keen
observer, which may be why Japan suits him so well, for he is an outsider with
no mastery of the language. In his observations he scratches away at the
surface of life, probing for the essence of what it means to be human. ‘How to
hold on to the things we love even though we know that we and they are dying.
How to see the world as it is, yet find light within that truth.’ And here we
see the subtle double meaning of the book’s title. Yes, autumn induces
melancholy, but within that one must strive for positivity, just as in the face
of aging the elderly folk in his table tennis club strive to improve their
shots. Perhaps the Japanese with their stoicism have something to teach in this
regard, for gambatte (do your best) is the national mantra and sacrificing
self for the good of the whole leads to the well-being of the community. The
ping-pong club provide an example.
There is not much action, but
plenty of drama in the book. ‘Now I see it’s in the spaces where nothing is
happening that one has to make a life,’ the author reflects. The sentence is
suggestive of the Japanese aesthetic of ma (space), by which the
emptiness within the bowl is what matters to the tea drinker just as the
unpainted parts matters to the charcoal ink artist. How do we imbue everyday
banality with significance, without letting life slip us by? Love and
compassion are Iyer’s unspoken answers, and it is these qualities that he
admires in spiritual teachers such as the Dalai Lama and the Tofuku-ji Zen
master, even though their answers to life’s problems may seem commonplace. ’All
this world is but a dream, be thou the joyful dreamer,’ sang The Incredible
String Band in the 1960s, and there is something of that spirit in Iyer’s
musings on his ‘autumn light’. Perhaps it represents acceptance on his part,
and the book concludes with him sitting contentedly on his small balcony in
Nara counting his blessings. A happy end, it seems…
‘But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’
While Writers in Kyoto is dedicated to local writers publishing in
English, the following may be interesting to anybody who writes in
Japanese:
The First Kyoto Literature Award invites writers from all over the world to submit a complete, full-length novel in Japanese on the theme of “Kyoto”.
There
are three categories, “General”, “Students”, and “Overseas” with
slightly different rules as to length etc. The winner of the “General”
category will receive a large cash prize and the winning novel will be
published. So, if you are interested in entering, polish up that
Japanese novel of yours and submit it. The deadline is September 30th,
2019.
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