Routledge Japanese Studies)

JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION:

A VIEW OF A CHANGING SOCIETY

THE NISSAN INSTITUTE/ ROUTLEDGE JAPANESE STUDIES SERIES Editorial Board: J.A.A.Stockwin, Nissan Professor of Modern Japanese Studies, University of Oxford and Director, Nissan Institute of Japanese Studies Teigo Yoshida, formerly Professor of the University of Tokyo, and now Professor, The University of the Sacred Heart, Tokyo Frank Langdon, Professor, Institute of International Relations, University of British Columbia, Canada Alan Rix, Professor of Japanese, University of Queensland and currently President of the Japanese Studies Association of Australia Junji Banno, Professor, Institute of Social Science, University of Tokyo Other titles in the series: The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness, Peter Dale The Emperor’s Adviser: Saionji Kinmochi and pre-war Japanese Politics, Lesley Connors Understanding Japanese Society, Joy Hendry Japanese Religions, Brian Bocking Japan in World Politics, Reinhard Drifte A History of Economic Thought in Japan, Tessa Morris-Suzuki The Establishment of Constitutional Government in Japan, Junji Banno Japan’s First Parliaments 1890–1910, R.H.P.Mason, Andrew Fraser, and Philip Mitchell Industrial Relations in Japan: the peripheral sector, Norma Chalmers Banking Policy in Japan: American attempts at reform during the occupation, William Minoru Tsutsui Educational Reform in Contemporary Japan, Leonard Schoppa How the Japanese Learn to Work, Ronald Dore and Mari Sako Militarization in Contemporary Japan, Glen Hook Japanese Economic Development in Theory and Practice, Penny Francks

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The Modernization of Written Japanese, Nanette Twine Japan and Protection, Javed Maswood Japan’s Nuclear Development, Michael Donnelly The Soil, by Nagatsuka Takashi: a portrait of rural life in Meiji Japan, translated and introduced by Ann Waswo Biotechnology in Japan, Malcolm Brock

Japanese Science Fiction A view of a changing society

ROBERT MATTHEW

ROUTLEDGE London and New York and NISSAN INSTITUTE OF JAPANESE STUDIES University of Oxford

First published in 1989 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE 29 West 35th Street, New York NY 10001 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www. eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 1989 Robert Matthew All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Matthew, Robert Japanese science fiction: a view of a changing society—(Nissan Institute Japanese studies). 1. Science fiction in Japanese, to 1987. Critical studies I. Title II. Series 895.63´0876´09 ISBN 0-203-16891-7 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-26420-7 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-415-01031-4 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Matthew, Robert. Japanese science fiction: a view of a changing society/Robert Matthew. p. cm.—(The Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese studies series) Bibliography: p. Includes index. ISBN 0-415-01031-4 1. Science fiction, Japanese—History and criticism. 2. Japanese fiction—1868—History and criticism. I. Title. II. Series. PL747.57.S3M37 1989 895.6´30876´09–dc19 88–25850 CIP

Contents

General editor’s preface

viii

Author’s preface

x

Introduction

1

Part One The origins of Japanese science fiction 1

The beginnings

2

The period of development

7 13

Part Two The concerns of a changing society 3

The jaded Japanese

45

4

Advertising and the media

57

5

Economics and commerce

69

Money

70

Competition and the drive for success

72

International aspects of Japanese commercialism 76

6

7

Motivation of companies

79

The insurance industry

82

Human concerns and values

85

Warnings against materialism

86

Pollution and conservation

88

Animal training and experiments

95

Consciousness of generational change

99

Generational changes in attitudes towards the work ethic

99

Intergenerational relations

101

vii

8

The upbringing of the young

108

Sex

111

Part Three Matters of the mind and spirit 9

10

Moral values, ethics, and religious beliefs

131

Japanese gods

131

The limitation of divine powers

136

Pragmatism

137

Western religious influences in Japanese science fiction

140

References to Buddhism

146

The psyche, perception, and emotion

149

Psychological stress

149

Personality and perception

154

Human desires and emotions

161

Restraints

165

Part Four The consequences of change 11

Some socio-psychological considerations

177

Fear of excessive regimentation

177

Alienation

182

12

Post-war political and politico-moral attitudes

191

13

War and the bomb

205

14

International relations and future directions

219

Notes and references

239

Index

259

General editor’s preface

Almost imperceptibly, during the 1980s, Japan has become ‘hot news’. The successes of the Japanese economy and the resourcefulness of her people have long been appreciated abroad. What is new is an awareness of her increasing impact on the outside world. This tends to produce painful adjustment and uncomfortable reactions. It also often leads to stereotypes based on outdated or ill-informed ideas. The Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese Studies Series (previously the Nissan Institute/Croom Helm Japanese Studies Series) seeks to foster an informed and balanced—but not uncritical —understanding of Japan. One aim of the series is to show the depth and variety of Japanese institutions, practices and ideas. Another is, by using comparison, to see what lessons, positive and negative, can be drawn for other countries. There are many aspects of Japan which are little known outside that country but which deserve to be better understood. A fascinating way to study a people is to study it through its own fantasies and fantasy literature. Much science fiction, in Japan as elsewhere, is intended primarily as entertainment, but it still manages to reveal much as a genre about national anxieties, preoccupations, traumas and aspirations. Japanese science fiction is little known in the West, largely no doubt because rather little of it has been translated into English and other Western languages. In this wide-ranging and sensitive survey, Mr Matthew introduces the Western reader to the work of science fiction writers who convey much about the mind of Japan. We realise something of what it means for a nation’s collective psyche to have been subjected to the horrors of the atom bomb, to live under pressure in a highly technological collectivist, though commercially-minded society, to have hardly any natural resources, to reside in over-crowded

ix

conditions and to be subject to the ever-present threat of earthquake, typhoon and fire. Quite apart from the sociological interest, Mr Matthew also shows that Japanese science fiction writers tell good stories with skill. J.A.A.Stockwin Director, Nissan Institute of Japanese Studies, University of Oxford

Author’s preface

The aim of this book is to take a fresh look at the Japanese mind through a uniquely modern medium—that of science fiction. No precise definition of science fiction is here attempted. In any case no final definition exists and the term SF as used by Japanese writers themselves frequently encompasses speculative flction as well as that which is visibly based on science. The term science fiction used in this book certainly embraces speculative writings provided they are modern and conscious of change; indications of attitudes towards change are what this book is about. Of course, anyone wishing to gain an understanding of Japanese attitudes to change would not be well advised to rely on science fiction alone for his or her illumination. Such an approach could produce bizarre results indeed. Nevertheless, taken in conjunction with sensitive observation of Japanese society, including a monitoring of the media and the reading of other relevant literature both fictional and non-fictional, it has the potential to provide valuable additional insights. It is hoped that this book will be of service to those students of Japan who are looking for fresh angles from which to view that society’s ongoing problems. It is hoped too that science fiction buffs and students of Japanese literature will find something novel in this book. It should at least expand their available reference material. Little is offered in the way of detailed literary analysis, comparative or otherwise. Specialists in these fields will no doubt, like the sociologists, be able to supply their own methodological approaches and techniques. To those who had hoped to find such analysis here I can only apologize. I wish to acknowledge the tireless assistance given to me by my wife, Janet, and my research assistant, Sakai Takashi, and also the members of the secretarial staff of the Department of Japanese and

xi

Chinese Studies at the University of Queensland who have laboured on the preparation of my manuscript. I also wish to thank my departmental colleagues and the staff of the Institute of Culture and Communication of the East-West Center, Honolulu, whose comments and criticisms stimulated and sustained me in my task. Of course, all errors and omissions are my own, and for these I take full responsibility. Robert Matthew Brisbane January 1988

xii

Introduction

Few people in the west are aware of Japanese science fiction. Even fewer are aware of its contents or concerns. The reason for this is simple: very little of it has been translated. This book makes reference to some 170 Japanese science fiction stories, which it is hoped will introduce the reader to something approaching the range and scope of the concerns that appear in this vibrant and vigorous Japanese genre. That it has largely escaped the serious attention of foreign students of Japan until now is perhaps understandable. It stands outside the mainstream of what is currently canonized as ‘good literature’ and those western scholars who have specialized in modern Japanese literature have, in the main, concentrated their attention on those works which have been recognized by the Japanese themselves as leading examples of the modern characterization novel. It is not suggested that this has been in any way blameworthy or anything other than what is purely natural. One has to begin somewhere, and the established body of recognized literary works is the obvious place to start. Few scholars again have chosen to approach modern Japanese literature as a reflection of those dynamic forces in society which bring about social change. In the case of other Asian nations, for example, China, the role of literature in this regard has been obvious. In Japan’s case the effect has been more muted with much of the literature dwelling on the feelings of individuals in complex social situations. Even this has been indicative of change: in earlier times the Confucian ethic required that feelings be hidden and that if they did not conform to traditional precept they should not be felt at all. Literature of any sort, whether ‘pure’ or popular, good or bad, is a form of communication, and modern communication

2 INTRODUCTION

theory insists that communication—the emission of signals and signs from individuals to other individuals—is the mechanism on which our complex modern societies are based. A study of communication, therefore, has the potential to reveal fundamental characteristics of human society, and this applies to literature as much to any other form of communication. It is with this point in view that this book is written. While surveying the Japanese science fiction scene this study will attempt to focus attention on the subjects which the Japanese writers of the genre bring to the attention of their readers. It is certainly possible to argue that science fiction is primarily a source of entertainment or escapism, and indeed it cannot be denied that it does perform these functions. In Japan the strength of science fiction manga-bon (comic books) since the 1960s and the dovetailing of television science fiction characters and creatures with toy manufacture and sales bear vivid testimony to this. Nevertheless, science fiction has its more serious side and this too has its devoted readership in Japan. Science fiction, of course, is not particularly about science. This has long been recognized by buffs and critics alike. It is, however, the literature of a society that is aware of science and of the changes it can bring. It is above all the literature of a society conscious of change—a society that understands that the present is not the same as the past and that the future will be different from the present. It is the most natural thing in the world that a society that is introducing rapid technological changes should be concerned with the human consequences of such changes and the directions in which change may lead. The planning and the co-ordination which are required to introduce new technical concepts and apply them throughout industry and society are themselves indications that serious thought about the future is essential. Although science fiction is acknowledged as having come into being in the nineteenth century,1 it is claimed by several writers to be the distinctive literature of the twentieth.2 Many definitions of science fiction have been attempted and it has been remarked that any attempt to give it a firm definition must necessarily be polemical. Attempts too have been made to categorize it. In his Dimensions of Science Fiction William Sims Bainbridge posits three dimensions: ‘the Hard Science tradition’ based on the physical sciences and advanced technology, which extrapolates new discoveries and inventions; ‘the New Wave’ which is more speculative and experimental in its techniques, often speaking of

INTRODUCTION 3

alternative worlds or alternative sciences and frequently turning to the human and behavioural sciences for its scientific element; and ‘the Fantasy Cluster’. L. David Allen in Science Fiction: An Introduction speaks of ‘Hard Science Fiction’, ‘Soft Science Fiction’, ‘Science Fantasy’, and simply ‘Fantasy’.3 Herehis ‘Soft Science Fiction’ and ‘Science Fantasy’ correspond to Bainbridge’s ‘New Wave’, the ‘Science Fantasy’ covering alternative worlds and science, and the ‘Soft Science Fiction’ being based on ‘such organized approaches to knowledge as sociology, psychology, anthropology, political science, historiography, theology, linguistics, and some approaches to myth’ (p. 6). Later in this book reference will be made to ‘Sociological Science Fiction’ and Psychological Science Fiction’. It should be understood that such expressions refer to particular varieties of ‘Soft Science Fiction’ as described above. Since the object of this book is to examine the Japanese mind as revealed in science fiction, particular attention will be given to those stories that examine the human consequences of technological or sociological change rather than stories which merely speak of advances in hard science or dwell upon adventure. Such stories, of course, exist, and are often exciting. But they do not, on the whole, tell us much about the Japanese mind or of the alternative futures that the Japanese may be considering. They are therefore not the primary focus of this book. In these circumstances, and in the light of these definitions, it is only reasonable to expect a nation such as Japan to have a lively interest in science fiction, and anyone who takes the trouble to look will not be disappointed. The whole gamut is there—from comic books and television space opera to thoughtful stories both long and short, dwelling on the consequences for human beings and life itself of the technological innovations now engulfing the world. Where will it all lead? Japanese science fiction shows the Japanese people to be no less concerned than others about the changes being wrought. Many of these changes are being brought about by the Japanese themselves, and they are among the first to be affected by them. In recent years, therefore, Japanese science fiction has come to develop its own cutting edge. This, and the elements in the genre which relate to purely Japanese concerns, combine to give the western reader a new experience in science fiction reading. The book is divided into four parts: the Origins of Japanese Science Fiction, the Concerns of a Changing Society, Matters of the Mind and Spirit, and the Consequences of Change. The first part

4 INTRODUCTION

deals briefly with the development of science fiction in Japan from its rudimentary beginnings in the Meiji era (1868– 1912) through its gradual maturing in the first half of the present century to its present-day boom. The second part deals with the concerns of Japanese science fiction relating to a changing society, arranged by topic with ample illustration. It will be seen that the range of topics is wide and that the concerns in part parallel, and in part diverge in emphasis from the chief concerns of western science fiction. The third part looks first at moral values, ethics, and religious beliefs and then at a number of psychological issues such as stress, perception, personality, and emotion. The fourth part, more interpretative in tone, attempts to address the socio-psychological and political consequences of change, and to probe the dynamics of the directions of change at work in Japanese society as revealed in this characteristically modern genre of literature.

Part One The origins of Japanese science fiction

6

1 The beginnings

Science-fiction-type writing in Japan had its origins in Japan in the Meiji era (1868–1912). After the Imperial Restoration Japan modernized rapidly, following western models. Quite conceivably no nation in the world has ever transformed itself so thoroughly in so short a time. The literature of the period reflected this transformation, and interacted with it. Strongly influenced by the west, it was itself a vehicle for the introduction of new ideas, often quite revolutionary. It stimulated the Japanese to a realization that their traditional ways were not the only ways of doing things and it shook their beliefs and values to the very core. The character novels of the period reflected the difficulties encountered by Japanese individuals in coping with the effects of rapid change, and served as a vehicle for the expression of the individual’s desire to be free from previously constricting mores and philosophies. The Japanese were fascinated by the west and for a time western literature swept everything before it. Adventure tales were among the first to be translated and among these appeared the works of Jules Verne, frequently translated very soon after they were written. Around the World in Eighty Days (first published in 1873) was translated into Japanese in 1878 by Kawashima Chunosuke.1 From the Earth to the Moon in 97 Hours and 20 Minutes (1865) was translated in 1880 by Inoue Tsutomu,2 and Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1870) was translated in 1884, also by Inoue.3 Several adventure tales were spawned by these translations. One such work was Yano Ryukei’s Ukeshiro Monogatari (Tales of Ukeshiro)4 a story of wanderings around the Pacific for which the leading literary figure Mori Ogai wrote a preface, declaring that ‘as a novel dealing with the study of nature’ it was ‘comparable with the novels of Verne’. Another work of this kind, which also had

8 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

political overtones, was Sudo Nansui’s Asahi Shoki (The Emblem of the Rising Sun).5 Other than translated works and adventure stories of the type mentioned, Japanese literature in the 1880s was characterized by the political novel. Political changes were afoot and, spurred on by the examples of Disraeli and Bulwer-Lytton, Japanese authors with an interest in politics wrote political novels to set forth their ideas in the years leading up to the establishment of the new constitution and the National Diet. It was in this climate that the Japanese future novel was born in 1884. Ushiyama Ryosuke wrote Nihon no Mirai (The Future of Japan) in 1884,6 and in 1886 Suehiro Tetcho wrote Nijusannen Mirai Ki (A Future Record of the Year 1890).7 Looking even more distantly into the future, this same author also wrote Seijishosetsu: Setchubai (A Political Novel: Plum Blossom in the Snow) in 1886,8 and its sequel Seijishosetsu: Kakan’o (A Political Novel: A Nightingale Among the Flowers) 1888–9.9 Both of these novels presume the discovery of notebooks in the year 2040 dealing with events in the lives of a professor and his wife in the period just after the time in which they were written. The theme was political and related to the current political developments of Suehiro’s own day. Nevertheless, the device of choosing a future setting for the discovery of the notebooks reveals an awareness of change over time and in this sense they reveal a consciousness that is basic to the spirit of science fiction. At the end of the 1880s political writing went out of vogue and the main developments in Japanese literature focused elsewhere. This was largely because the immediate concerns of the political writers had been answered and new modes of expression had been provided by the proclamation of the new constitution. There was, however, another reason. The era of literary criti-cism had arrived, and in 1885 Tsubouchi Shoya (1859–1935) had written his celebrated Shosetsu Shinzui (The Essence of the Novel), thus establishing himself as Japan’s first critic of the novel as a genre of literature.10 In his early youth he had steeped himself in the traditional Japanese story, and had read more than a thousand ephemeral works of the yomi-bon, share-bon, ninjo-bon, and kusazoshi type before entering the establishment that later became the Tokyo Imperial University. During his university days he read Dumas, Hugo, Lytton, Scott, and Poe, and this extraneous influence led him to conceive of the novel as a form of art. He rejected traditional Confucian values, which averred that stories should

THE BEGINNINGS 9

have a didactic content (rewarding virtue and punishing evil), and he rejected the new utilitarianism of the Meiji era, and thereby the political novels flourishing at the time. In 1885 he made his name by publishing Tosei Shosei Katagi (The Character of Modern Students)11 and The Essence of the Novel. The former work invited the reader to learn about and deplore the behaviour of students. It was written in the scurrilous manner of traditional gesaku works, but had the advantage of being more realistic, owing to his training in western models for his characters. The book was scandalous, but its most telling impact lay not so much in what was written, as in who had written it. In 1885 it was unheard of for a graduate of the nation’s most prestigious educational institution, or any serious educated person, to descend to the level of writing novels. The gesaku writers had long been despised as members of one of the lowest orders in society, and indeed in 1872 the most famous of them, Kanagaki Robun, had written in a petition that he was ‘a base and humble person’, as he complained to the government over the hard times which had befallen the members of his profession in the new utilitarian age. Story-writing was looked upon as fit only for the instruction of women and children, and beneath the dignity of an educated man. The impact of The Character of Modern Students was therefore enormous. The arguments put forward by the same author in his epochmaking work The Essence of the Novel played an important part in the development of the Japanese novel. The effect however, was most unfortunate for the development of science fiction. The Essence of the Novel was an appeal for Japanese recognition of the novel as a form of art. According to this appeal, it needed no further justification, and was comparable to poetry as understood in the west. After tracing the development of fiction from the earliest times and drawing attention to the early association between religion and literary forms, Tsubouchi went on to discuss the relative merits and demerits of the novel and the theatrical form. He found the novel superior because of its abstractness. The objective of the novel, he went on, was to portray human emotions, life, and customs, and to probe into these matters in a manner appropriate to adults in fictitious circumstances. This probing quality in fictitious circumstances was the essential difference that marked the novel from a mere historical record. In a criticism of traditional Japanese fiction writing, he drew a sharp distinction between the didactic

10 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

novel and the artistic. The didactic rewarded virtue and exposed the dangers of evil. The artistic pictured the state of the world, and through its characterization and its plot brought the scene to life in an attempt to portray the truth of the human condition. In this way, the reader would learn because he would see the world objectively. Clearly Tsubouchi did much to lead Japanese fiction along the road to westernization. By his insistence on strong plots, well planned, consistent, and unified, and his call for psychologically accurate characterizations and investigation into men’s real condition and emotions, he had taken an essential first step towards the introduction of modern novel writing in Japan. He felt, however, that these objectives could be achieved only by realism, and that realism was possible only in the contemporary novel or the historical novel. The novel of the future was based purely on ideas, and therefore could not portray the reality of human emotions. It should therefore be eschewed. His emphasis on characterization and the portrayal of the hero in psychological depth also led away from a literary art form in which the idea is dominant. In short, he directed the Japanese literary world away from science fiction. Perhaps the most damaging words he wrote were: It is possible to write a modern novel which mirrors and examines the present, and it is possible to write a period (or historical) novel which mirrors and examines a past age, relying on sources. But since it is not possible to examine directly the future, it is impossible to write a novel of the future. Some people have written novels of the future relying not on observation but on their powers of imagination. Since this is imaginative, and a method of analogy relying on inductive reasoning from a vision of the present, it is, when boiled down, a feat of intellectual capacity. Art, however, is something that perceives the truth through the emotions. Consequently, there cannot be any such thing as art based on imagination.12 Likewise, the critic Uchida Fuchian totally rejected Yano Ryukei’s Tales of Ukeshiro, the work which could be regarded as the first science fiction-type adventure story to be written in Japanese. This, then, was the kind of climate in which Japanese science fiction was born. A new adventurous spirit, fostered by the opening

THE BEGINNINGS 11

of the country to the outside world and to all kinds of new ideas, gave it birth. It was encouraged for a few years by the all-out drive for modernization and the creation of a new industrial society; and was thereafter retarded by the introduction of the views of Tsubouchi Shoyo, which were quite revolutionary in Japanese terms, but merely commonplace in terms of western thought. The literary scholar Yamada Hiromitsu, however, lamented the fact that the novel of the future was nipped in the bud. He declared, ‘It was Shoyo and Fuchian who destroyed the possibility of the genre’s existing as one of the forms of modern literature’.13 Tsubouchi’s own views did not meet immediate success either. His friend Futabatei Shimei wrote Ukigumo (The Drifting Clouds)14 along the lines advocated in The Essence of the Novel, but after some initial success the novel was abandoned in its third part in 1889. For the time being at least, more conservative forces prevailed. The Ken’yusha (the Society of Friends Using the Same Inkstone) and other writers who, like them, specialized in an updated version of writing of the type seen in the Genroku era (1688–1704) held sway, while new developments in Japanese speculative literature were to await the coming of the twentieth century. Writings with a future setting reappeared in the first decade of the new century and this time the predominant concern was war. In 1900 Oshikawa Shunro wrote Kaitei Gunkan (Warships on the Bottom of the Sea)15 and later in the decade, following the war between Japan and Russia of 1904–5, Harada Masaemon wrote Ikon Junen Nichiro Miraisen (The Bitter Future Ten-Year War between Japan and Russia)16 and Kitahara Tetsuzo wrote Tsugi no Issen (The Next War).17 Almost all of these novels were concerned with what might happen if the Japanese navy were annihilated and the Empire overwhelmed. This interest in future warfare marked a change for Japanese writers and readers from adventure stories of the Jules Verne type and from the political stories of two decades before. This was a development which in many ways paralleled H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds, 1898.18 Wells’s work foreshadowed mechanized warfare sixteen years before the outbreak of the First World War. The works of Oshikawa, Harada, and Kitahara in turn foreshadowed the crushing defeat of Japan in 1945. The major developments in Japanese literature at this time, however, were leading in quite a different direction. For some years Japanese writers had been toying with French naturalism, and in

12 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

the years immediately after the Russo-Japanese War a version of naturalism swept the scene, dominating Japanese literature almost exclusively for the next few years. Japanese naturalism was a blend of sordid realism and a romantic search for the liberation of the ego, and this found its chief expression in a confessional form of writing known as shi-shosetsu, the ‘I-novel’, in which the author poured forth the innermost secrets of his own heart against a background of scrupulously accurate description of places and events. The movement has not been hailed by critics as one of notable beauty, but it is undeniable that it marked an important stage in the introduction of realism into Japanese novel-writing, and that it has had a profound effect on the direction that much of the literature of Japan in the twentieth century has taken. Its effect was felt very strongly in the Taisho era (1912–26) and is still not inconsiderable even today. The insistence of the naturalist school on sombre realism was once again a rejection of the virtues of imaginative fiction, and the power of the naturalist school and its successors dictated a climate in which it was difficult for such writing to thrive. Nevertheless, in the Taisho era, Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1892– 1928) established himself as a writer of imagination, and his ‘Kappa’ (‘Kappa’, 1927) was widely hailed as a masterpiece of satirical Utopian writing.19

2 The period of development

While the career of Akutagawa was at its height, other events were already taking place in the Japanese literary scene to prepare the way to a more favourable climate for the encouragement of imaginative writing. One important development was the establishment of the magazine Shinseinen (New Youth), which was eventually to provide a vehicle for the publication of science-fiction-type stories. It first appeared in 1920, and was to remain on the scene until 1950. It rapidly became established as the Mecca of tantei shosetsu (detective fiction) which the editor Koga Saburo divided into two kinds: honkaku (regular) and henkaku (irregular). He designated as honkaku any story which concentrated on theoretical riddle-solving; anything else he called henkaku. Science fiction was included under the henkaku classification, and thus went through those formative years under the title of ‘irregular detective fiction’. Shinseinen, however, was not the only outlet for science fiction in the 1920s. In 1927, one year after the specialist ‘scientifiction’ magazine Amazing Stories was first published by Hugo Gernsback in the USA, the new magazine Kagaku Gaho (Science Pictorial) brought together a collection of science fiction stories for the first time in Japan. The stated aim of the new magazine was ‘to seek revolutionary works of high literary quality which are purely scientific in their material and do not lapse into the detective style’. Works of note to appear in the early editions of Kagaku Gaho included Kizu Tora’s ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’, (The wedding shrouded in grey’),1 ShimaAkinosuke’s ‘Norowareta Shinzo’, (‘The accursed heart’),2 Kitai Shinji’s ‘Osoroshiki Sogo’ (‘A frightening discrepancy’),3 and Unno Juza’s ‘Nazo no Tanpa Musenkyoku’ (‘The mysterious shortwave broadcasting station’).4

14 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

At last, Japanese science fiction writing was truly launched. What is noteworthy is that after several earlier attempts at this kind of writing it became quite commonplace after the beginning of the Showa era (1926–). In this way the development of science fiction in Japan closely paralleled similar movements in the USA. Of course, speculative writing such as science fiction suffered in Japan during the repressive years of the militarist government as the 1930s wore on, and like most other forms of literature it underwent hard times during the Second World War. The post-war boost and the science fiction flood of the 1960s were still a long way off. So too, one might add, were works of high quality in this genre. Nevertheless, a firm basis had been established by the magazines Shinseinen and Kagaku Gaho. With the beginning of the Showa era we enter the period of what the Japanese science fiction critic Ishikawa Takashi has called the koten (classical works). It is to these that attention will now be turned. In Japan, as in the west, 1926 may be taken as something of a departure date. The year itself saw the publication in June of ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’ (‘The love curve’) by Kozakai Fuboku (1890–1929) in Shinseinen,5 and ‘Kagami Jigoku’ (‘Hell of mirrors’) by Edogawa Ranpo (1894–1965) in Daishu Bungei in October.6 January 1928 brought Kizu Tora’s The wedding shrouded in grey’ in Kagaku Gaho while the March edition of Shinseinen carried ‘Jamaika-Shi no Jikken’ (The experiment of Mr Jamaica’) by Shiro Masayuki (1904–),7 to be followed by ‘Jinzo Ningen’ (‘The artificial human being’) by Hirabayashi Hatsunosoke (1892–1931) in April.8 In 1929 Edogawa Ranpo, well known outside science fiction circles as a writer of many mystery stories, made a contribution to Shinseinen with ‘Oshie to Ryosuru Otoko’ (‘The man who travelled with the pasted rag picture’).9 In October Yumeno Kyusaku (1899– 1936) wrote his short story ‘Tamago’ (‘The egg’) in Ryoki (Bizarre) magazine,10 and in April 1930 another striking short story ‘Heitai no Shi’ (‘A soldier’s death’) by Watanabe Atsushi (1902–30) appeared, this time in Shinseinen.11 Later in the same year Shinseinen carried the longer story ‘Sentoraru Chikyu Shi Kensetsu Kiroku’ (The construction of the Earth’s central city’) by Hoshida Sanpei.12 In the 1930s the quality of science flction underwent a change. The science content became much more prominent and the element of mystery declined. ‘Shindoma’ (‘The demon of vibration’) written in November 1931 by Unno Juza (1897–1949)13 was still a mystery

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 15

story, to be sure, but the emphasis of the story was overwhelmingly on the scientific principles and the invention involved in committing murder. Earlier in the same year the amusing story ‘Robotto to Beddo no Juryo’ (‘The robot and the weight of the bed’) by Naoki Sanjugo (1891–1934)14 had excluded mystery and had dealt purely (if superficially and unrealistically) on the bizarre possibilities opened up by the new world of science. Medical science was involved in ‘The demon of vibration’, and this theme was also strong in ‘Momakumyaku Shisho’ (‘Angioskiasphobia’) written by Kigi Kotaro (1897–1949) for the November edition of Shinseinen.15 The sound resonance theme which featured in ‘The demon of vibration’ was repeated in ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours'), a work by the same author rich in political satire, published in Modan Nihon (Modern Japan) in April 1937.16 Meanwhile ‘Onpa no Satsujin’ (‘Murder by soundwave’) by Nomura Kodo (1882–1963) had dwelt on the same theme as Unno’s earlier story.17 Yumeno Kyusaku, author of The egg’, also wrote ‘Kamikiri-mushi’ (‘The scarabaeus’) published in Purofuiru (Profile) in January 1936.18 It concerned Egyptology and contained a lengthy poem recited by an ancient scarab which had miraculously (or rather incredibly) survived to modern times, only to be killed. Still, in the same month, this author moved to a more modern theme with his ‘Ningen Rekodo’ (‘The human record’) published in Gendai (The Modern Age).19 This was a story similar to later American works of the 1950s and 1960s in its suspicion of Communism. Here, however, the chief interest lay in the scientific principles involved. Other works collected by Ishikawa Takashi which are typical of the 1930s include ‘Shichi-ji Rei Sanpun’ (‘7.03 hours’) by Maki Itsuma (1900–35) published in Hinode (Sunrise),20 and ‘Chitei Jukoku’ (‘The animal kingdom under the earth’) by Kuze Juran (1901–46) published in August and September 1939 in Shinseinen.21 Some of the stories of this period are summarized below to convey the flavour of the times. Basically, it is a period of early growth in which ‘irregular detective fiction’ gradually gives way to ‘hard’ science fiction and tales spurred by a consciousness of the theory of evolution. The love curve’ by Kozakai Fuboku is a work in which the scientific element figures quite prominently and, true to a form quite frequently encountered in science fiction, the science is put to a

16 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

bizarre use. Established inventions, perhaps only recently tested and developed in the real world, are extended in the world of fiction to novel applications quite beyond the realm of existing human experience. While in some science fiction this may have a mindboggling effect on readers, introducing to them an exciting new vista of possible developments both scientific and social, in this case such stimulation can only be considered lacking. While the scientific element is strong, the speculative is weak, and the story does not rise beyond the level of a cri de coeur from a disappointed lover. A man on the eve of his wedding receives a letter from a scientist who has been experimenting with an oscillocardiograph. The letter explains in detail how its writer has been measuring the effect of emotion on heartbeats. At first he experimented with frogs and rabbits, then dogs and sheep. He learned the art of disembodying hearts and maintaining them in a chemical solution at the right temperature. He could then treat them with the blood of animals in an emotional state, and register their reactions. Animal emotions were difficult to assess, however, and he was particularly excited when he was able to obtain the heart of a recently jilted girl who had just died of tuberculosis. He was allowed to do an autopsy and he fed his own blood into the dead girl’s heart, but after thirty violent heaves the heart went still. Now another girl has come to him, suffering from disappointment in love. She cannot marry the man she wants, as she is promised to another. He has agreed to take out her heart and feed it with his own blood. Even as he writes this letter his own blood is draining away and he will soon be dead. The experiment is proceeding smoothly. The machine is recording the love curve—the effect of the dying man’s blood on the woman’s heart. Only in a case like this could such an experiment succeed and such information be recorded, because he and the woman are in love. The woman is none other than the bride-to-be of the reader of the letter. With this denouement we see that the story amounts to nothing more than a traditional Japanese double-suicide. Only the method is novel. The scientific element of the story is unconvincing and in the end is subordinated to sentimentality. One could add, too, that the pathos of the double suicide theme, so touchingly revealed in other, more traditional Japanese stories, is lost in the welter of scientific and pseudo-scientific detail. None the less, the story is not untypical of many of the science fiction genre in that it takes a

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 17

traditionally understood (and emotionally charged) human situation and places it in a modern technology-based setting. ‘The artificial human being’ by Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke is a very different kind of story. This time the scientific element is weak while speculation is strong. This story, too, has a background of medical science. At first it seems to be pure, hard science fiction when Dr Muraki, after announcing the success of his experiments in the artificial production of life and showing two guinea pigs in a cage by way of proof, announces to a conference that he will now produce a human being by the same method. The story goes on to probe the moral, legal, and social implications of artificial birth, only to lead in the end to a confession by Dr Muraki that he has deceived everybody. The child is his own, and his fantastic claims have only been a ruse to hide his own embarrassment and shame. The scientific argument at the beginning is put in a plausible way, and by this method the author extends his invitation to the reader to suspend disbelief of Dr Muraki’s claim to the conference that what he is doing is a scientific feat. When eventually it is revealed that the pink liquid used for housing the developing foetus is nothing more than some sort of wine, the reader realizes that he, like Dr Muraki’s audience, has been duped. By one important criterion, therefore, the story is not science fiction at all. In the end, everything that happens is explicable in everyday, non-scientific terms, and what scientific language is introduced is there only to support a mundane confidence trick. The setting is of course scientific, with its laboratories and conferences. In another sense, however, the story fulfils an important function of science fiction: it speculates on the human consequences of scientific change. Who is the baby’s mother? It must have a mother on its family register. ‘Soon there will be babies without fathers. Spermatozoa will be manufactured.’ There will therefore be no parent-child relationships, and hence no virtue or duty. This last conclusion puts the moral question firmly in an eastern setting, as the Confucian ethic of filial piety is clearly uppermost in the writer’s—and no doubt the reader’s—mind. ‘Hell of mirrors’ by Edogawa Ranpo is perhaps intended to be taken more as a horror story than as a piece of science fiction. If this is Edogawa’s intention he is certainly loyal to the American writer on whose work so much of his writing—and even his nom-de-plume—is modelled.22 None the less, a scientific element is present. It is, indeed, central to the story. The story concerns a

18 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

mentally unbalanced man by the name of Tanima, who develops an absorbing interest in concave mirrors. His interest in mirrors and the reflection of images leads him eventually to the bizarre decision to arrange for the construction of a perfectly spherical mirror. The outside of the hollow sphere is covered in cloth. The inner surface is pure glass. Airholes are arranged to permit breathing, and the inside is brightly lit. Tanima enters, and does not emerge. His friend—the narrator of the story—is sent for, and after failing to find a door, breaks into the sphere with a hammer. Tanima is found inside, but he is now transformed. He is completely mad. The narrator then tries to puzzle out why Tanima has done this to himself. He comes to the conclusion that his friend, having exhausted all his ideas in his mania for optics, had wanted a completely lined single-unit mirror in which to see his own reflection. Was it possible for a physicist to imagine what he had seen? He concludes: Probably, it would be a thing so unthinkable as to be out of this world of ours… So strange and terrifying must have been this reflection of whatever shape it was, as it filled Tanima’s complete range of vision, that it would have made any mortal insane.23 Then in the following, final paragraph Edogawa puts into his narrator’s mouth the following observations: The only thing we know is the reflection cast by a concave mirror is a monstrously huge magnification. But who could possibly imagine what the result would be when one is wrapped up in a complete succession of concave mirrors? My hapless friend had undoubtedly tried to explore the regions of the unknown violating sacred taboos, thereby incurring the wrath of the gods. By trying to pry open the portals of forbidden knowledge with his weird mania for spheres he had destroyed himself .24 Here we see that starting-point of a scientific explanation in the first of the concluding paragraphs. In the second, however, we enter the realm of ‘sacred taboos’ and ‘the wrath of the gods’; and in doing so we depart from the strict world of hard science fiction. None the less, the story contains many of the elements of science fiction. The

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 19

prominence given to optical science and the speculation as to the image created by a perfectly spherical concave lens bear witness to this. The man who travelled with the pasted rag picture’, written by the same author, is another story involving the use of optical lenses. In this story, however, their use is much more peripheral, and it does not go beyond inverting a pair of binoculars. A man imagines himself to be looking at a beautiful woman, and goes to join her. In fact he has been looking only at a peep-show picture, and under his brother’s gaze (through the reversed binoculars) he becomes part of the picture. ‘The wedding shrouded in grey’ by Kizu Tora is pure science fiction. It is set in the future, and like so many works of this genre envisages a world ravaged by war. In this case, four-fifths of the population of the world have been wiped out by phosgene gas, and many of the survivors are suffering from respiratory defects or other injuries. The most common ailment is lung damage, and artificial lungs are the order of the day. Patients may be fed eiyo gas (a nutrient gas) or seimei gas (the gas of life); alternatively they may receive a tranquillizer gas. Results of the effects of the gas pumped into the patients are fed into a recording machine—here there are reminders of the love curve in ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’. This time, however, the recording machine resembles a nineteenth-century phonograph rather than the oscillograph. The story, written in eleven chapters, opens with a consideration of proletarian and suburban life-styles and art. This is apparently included for no better reason than the prominence held by the Proletarian School at the time the story was written. But after the first chapter we are in the realm of pure science fiction. It is noticeable that the characters in the story—Miss Mikhalovitch, Kodaka Janpei, and Mr Gross—have surnames which indicate different national backgrounds, the heroine being Slavonic, probably Russian. The story is a pessimistic—even a nightmarish— glimpse into the future, more than two centuries hence. As such it fulfils one of the leading functions of science fiction. It warns against the dangers of people’s irresponsibility in the use and application of scientific discovery. It may also be seen as a powerful plea against war, and as such in tune with one of the major objectives of the Japanese Proletarian School. In spite of the first chapter, however, it is not merely a piece of proletarian literature dressed up as science fiction; it is a stern warning against atmospheric pollution, and an

20 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

expression of the yearning of the individual for the simple, primitive life. In this respect the story has much in common with the science fiction of both Japan and the west of more recent years. There is no escape, however, in a world of artificial body parts, human conditioning, and calorie dosage by gases. Miss Mikhalovitch abandons the ailing Kodaka for Gross, only to discover after her choice is made that he, too, is not in his original state: he has an artificial hand and foot. We leave her weeping to herself at her wedding, engulfed in a grey smoke created by the firing of guns. ‘The robot and the weight of the bed’ by Naoki Sanjugo is an entertaining story in seven chapters of an engineer by the name of Natsumi Shuntaro, who constructs a robot before his death in order to guarantee his wife’s faithfulness after he is gone—or alternatively to punish her should she prove to be unfaithful. As the title of the story explicitly states, a link exists between the robot and the weight of the bed. The robot is programmed to act if the weight on the wife’s bed exceeds that of one person. In the final scene, a man joins the wife on her bed, and the robot swiftly kills them. The story is set at an unspecified time in the future, when the USA has already developed a box-like robot, and Japan has electrically controlled taxis that always avoid collision. The engineer who constructs the robot in the story is Chief Engineer in the Robot Department of the R.K. Electrical Company. In this way the author attempts to establish some sort of credibility for his story. Some such device is usually to be found in science fiction stories. In the realistic novel it is not required, while in pure fantasy, with its gods, demons, and fairies, there is no hope of passing off the story as realistic. Indeed, this device was once thought to be one of the important tests of science fiction, except for the kind which is rooted firmly in existing technology and thus falls entirely within the bounds of possibility as understood at the time. The robot in the story, we are told, is constructed of aluminium, with a rubber coating. It is exquisitely painted and very life-like. In chapter 5 we are told it looks just like a human being, and a discussion follows on the future relations of humans and robots. If robots had the power to reproduce, there would be drastic social changes, followed possibly by the end of humanity. This is very far-reaching (one might also add far-fetched) speculation, but it is the stuff of which science fiction is made. In the early days of robot stories no clear distinction was made between the purely mechanical robot and the life-like artificially

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 21

produced quasi-human-being. The latter was later given the name ‘android’. Today the robot will normally look and behave like an elaborate piece of machinery. The android may be produced by biological engineering, a technique not normally envisaged in the early rubber-and-aluminium days. Questions of morality involving relationships (especially sexual relationships) between humans and man-made beings would now be associated with androids. It is part of a natural process of development and ‘The robot and the weight of the bed’ clearly belongs to the days before these two kinds of literature diverged and took their separate courses. The robot here is programmed by electrical means to react in a way its maker has determined, and we are told it is equipped with its maker’s ‘soul’. In today’s science fiction, technology would be more advanced and the results more sophisticated. ‘A soldier’s death’ by Watanabe Atsushi is a very short story of a soldier, the best shot in his regiment, who is lying on his back in a field of flowers. On impulse he takes his gun and aims a shot vertically up into the sky. He then throws away his gun and goes to sleep. The bullet soars into the sky, and after a time, without describing the slightest parabola, it begins to fall. It strikes the soldier in the forehead and kills him. Sherlock Holmes comes to investigate, but neither his observations nor his reasoning could answer the mystery of how the soldier died. So the great nineteenth-century detective scratches his head and admits defeat. The story is included in the bound collection of classical Japanese science fiction short stories published by Hayakawa Shobo in 1971, but it is well to remember that in the early days science fiction was classified as irregular detective fiction by Koga Saburo, the editor of Shinseinen, in which this short story was originally published in April 1930. It is of course a detective mystery which remains unsolved. The mention of Conan Doyle’s famous character shows the western influence in this story, and indeed there is nothing to connect the story with Japan at all. Some little science is involved (that concerning the parabola) but the author’s contention that the nineteenth-century detective could not grasp this point may do little more than underline the violence done to the chronological setting. One may question whether such a death would have been any harder to explain in the nineteenth century than in the twentieth century, and we may well conclude that the author has chosen a poor example to illustrate progress. In all fairness to him, however, this was probably not his aim. He was

22 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

merely trying to write a bizarre and unusual detective mystery. The scientific dimension is weak and largely spurious. ‘The demon of vibration’ by Unno Juza is another detective story, but of a very different kind. Here the scientific element is far from spurious; it is essential both to the planning and execution of the crime and the method of its detection. The story concerns one Kakioka Akio, his wife Kureko, his mistress Yukiko, and the narrator, Kakioka’s friend, who is a physics teacher in an obscure middle school, by the name of Machida Kyoken. We are told that Kakioka’s wife is beautiful, and that the narrator adores her. Yukiko, however, is pregnant by Kakioka and refuses to have an abortion. She blackmails him in the hope of having him all to herself. She has already taken precautions to expose him should he harm her. Kakioka, in desperation, turns to Machida for help. The problem is to make Yukiko have an abortion without realizing that there has been any foul play. Machida devises a scheme which Kakioka readily accepts. The method chosen is parallel resonance. A strong sound-proof building is constructed in Kakioka’s garden. Workmen bring in lots of complex electrical equipment, including transformers, aerials, and insulators. All four sides of the building along with the roof and the floor are covered with three layers of insulating material—one felt, one asbestos, and one cork. A young engineer supervises the operation for three days and then departs. Kakioka explains to his wife that he is assisting a research team who have come to work on radio acoustics. Yukiko is induced to go into the building and then the infernal contraption is put into operation by Kakioka. All he has to do is turn a lever. There is a peculiar sound, and Yukiko excuses herself to go to the privy where she loses her foetus. The author goes into considerable detail to explain how the device has worked. He explains the principles of parallel resonance. If two jars of equal size are suspended side by side and one is struck, it will vibrate and give off a sound; the other will do the same, at just the same frequency and pitch. If the vibration of the first jar is arrested, the second will continue to vibrate. If an upturned jar has any pieces of cooked rice attached to its inner surface, the right frequency will cause them to become dislodged and fall. Similarly the foetus, which in the early stages of pregnancy is only insecurely attached to the wall of the womb, will be dislodged by the right frequency. The womb is about the same size as an aubergine (egg

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 23

plant), and so that vegetable may be taken as an excellent indication of the size of the resonator required. Unfortunately for Kakioka, the very moment that Yukiko loses her foetus, he has a recurrence of this old tubercular trouble, coughs blood, and dies. Machida now looks after Kureko, and at first all is well. She eventually becomes suspicious of him, however, and one day he is surprised when a policeman comes to visit him. The policeman explains that, prompted by information found in Kakioka’s diary, which Machida has overlooked, and suspicions expressed by Kureko, investigations have led to the discovery that Machida has interfered with her late husband’s X-ray photographs, substituting one of his own for one of her husband’s in order to secure a large insurance policy. The real photograph, now in police possession, shows that Kakioka has a lung cavity just the same size as an aubergine, the womb, and the resonator. Consequently Machida must have known that when Kakioka turned the lever to abort Yukiko, he would inevitably be killing himself. By switching the X-ray photographs he has demonstrated his guilty intentions. The whole story, well told in the form of a confession by Machida on the night before his execution, is both a detective novel and an imaginative glimpse into the possible application of the physical properties of resonance. ‘The music bath at 1800 hours’, also by Unno Juza, is a much longer story than ‘The demon of vibration’ and from the science fiction point of view it can almost be said to have something of everything. Like The demon of vibration’ it is concerned with acoustic vibrations, but this is no detective novel. It is set deep in the future, and the vibrations are used for the mental conditioning of the population. It is a war-ravaged Earth, and people are living underground. Biological engineering has reached sophisticated heights. People can change their own sex, which exists anyway only as an anachronism, and is accepted only as a means of overcoming boredom. Population growth is strictly controlled, unauthorized reproduction is punished by death, and the manufacture of robots (androids) has reached a high stage of perfection. Video telephone and observation screens are included in the furniture, and we find chairs, equipped with metal bars, in which all citizens are required to sit for their ‘music bath at 1800 hours’—half-an-hour of vibrations which induce people to work harder. Coloured lights accompany the music; mental conditioning and a controlled environment are the order of the day. Politicians are devious and

24 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

cunning, but no match for the scientist, who is always one step ahead. The courageous and wise role of the scientist is frequently contrasted with the stupidity of politicians in science fiction (Fred Hoyle’s The Black Cloud is a very good example of this sort of story), and in ‘The music bath at 1800 hours’ the theme is carried to its ultimate. As a further measure of keeping the science fiction pot stirred, when the human society in this nightmarish anti-Utopia has exhausted itself by abuse of the music bath, the planet is invaded by extraterrestrials (Martians). The human beings are no longer in a position to resist, but the victorious scientist at the head of his androids succeeds in saving the Earth. ‘But for what?’, may we ask. The answer is certainly not ‘For humanity’. The music bath itself may be seen as a critical comment on the government-sponsored patriotic songs which were sweeping Japan in the 1930s. The woman minister in the story, like the militarists, usurps political power. She is cruel and ruthless. When she has eliminated the President’s wife and—she thinks—Dr Kohaku the scientist, she imposes her will on the President and steps up the music baths from one a day to one an hour. In this way she drives the people too hard and destroys the system. The story abounds in speculation about the future—a world in which sexual relationships are changed, and are perhaps valueless; a world in which adults keep cuddly toys to compensate for the absence of children, and the prohibition of emotional outlets such as smoking and drinking; a world in which the only object of life is work. Rocket warfare is envisaged in the final scene, when Dr Kohaku and his androids ward off the Martian attack. Questions on the relationship between human beings and androids again come into focus, but this time it is the androids who prove superior. The human race has been destroyed by its own folly, and especially by the follies of an unbalanced and self-appointed leader. This perhaps is the ultimate in satire, a quality which as time goes on becomes increasingly prominent in Japanese works of science fiction. ‘Tokkyo Tawan Ningen Hoshiki’ (‘The patented formula for a multi-armed man’),25 a further story by Unno Juza, is in turn quite different again from ‘The demon of vibration’ or The music bath at 1800 hours’. It is an engaging story of an inventor who goes to a patent attorney to seek his help in filing a patent claim. The claim is stated plainly in the title of the story; it is a formula for a multi-armed human being. The attorney at first is incredulous, but on seeing the formula he agrees to proceed. After going to the

THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 25

trouble of wording the claim in the appropriate jargon required by the Patent Office, the claimant still finds it rejected on the grounds that means are already known for constructing artificial arms. When it is explained that the claim concerns the idea of having extra arms, the claimant is referred to the ancient multi-limbed statue of the Goddess Kannon. Only with great difficulty does he finally break through the mental barriers of conventional officialdom to register the fact that he is genuinely seeking a patent for the idea of attaching one or more extra arms to the human body in places other than normal. Naturally he is able to claim, in the usual jargon, that increased efficiency will be the result. Not surprisingly, for it is 1941, increased efficiency of fighting soldiers is mentioned. None the less it is extremely difficult to regard Unno Juza as an unqualified supporter of the militarists, especially if one has read The music bath at 1800 hours’: a more thoroughgoing indictment of human regimentation could hardly be imagined. In The patented formula for a multi-armed man’, too, the attorney admits that he had not thought of the invention’s military applications, and is staggered to hear that a prize of 2 million yen has been offered to the inventor. When the claim is finally accepted, the inventor has left his lodgings, and the attorney has difficulty in communicating the good news. At length he discovers him in bed, with a strange contraption not unlike a clown’s conical hat on his head. This turns out to be a telescopically expandable third arm operable by movement of the wearer’s head. When the inventor is told of the 2 million yen he becomes excited. The arm, unintentionally operated, grabs his neck, and the attorney has to help to extricate him. When calm returns, and the attorney praises the invention as ‘absolutely epoch-making’, the inventor tells him the idea was really very simple, and shows him an illustrated zoo book. The attorney finds himself looking at an elephant. Typically of Unno Juza, the story is well told; the ordinary background details, the rainy days, the office routine, and the typically unruffled and bureaucratic attitudes of the Patent Office all help to give the story an air of normality, thus lulling readers in due course into a frame of mind in which they can accept the new invention as something quite reasonable. The story at the same time pokes gentle humour at the stuffiness of the Patent Office, while reminding us at the end that many of the greatest inventions may be ultimately simple in concept, and depend upon a cast of mind which is personal to the inventor. The biting satire of ‘The

26 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

music bath at 1800 hours’ is absent here. The writer can scarcely be blamed for this, however, as by 1941 any author in Japan had to watch his or her step. From 1937 even crime stories were banned by the authorities, under an order prohibiting any fictitious depiction of a criminal or immoral act. Even The demon of vibration’, therefore, would have been unprintable. Gentle humour, however, was allowed to get by. In addition to the light humour surrounding the Patent Office and by implication the satirizing of the bureaucracy, it is possible to discern a subtle criticism of the militarist attitude which offers a 2 million yen prize for an invention previously rejected as bizarre, and this impression is further strengthened by the final scene in which the ‘heady’ excitement created by the same award leads to a serious misapplication of the invention. This story, then, contains a message for humanity. It is an amusing, offbeat approach to science fiction, which in the early days seldom had much time for humour. Yet in another sense it is delightfully simple and direct. What more direct way could there be to postulate a new invention and speculate on its possibilities, than to set it down fictitiously in the form of an application to the Patent Office? The approach is perhaps the most ready of all those available to science fiction. Yet how many times has it been used? ‘The scarabaeus’ by Yumeno Kyusaku is a short story containing a fairly lengthy poem. A scarab is twitching its feelers in the shade of a paulownia tree in the corner of a field. With these feelers it thinks, it hears, it smells, and it remembers. It tells of its knowledge of Ancient Egypt in the form of a poem. When a light is switched on in a home it flies in and come to rest on the lamp shade. It is immediately spotted and killed, to be kept as a specimen of a species of beetle thought to be long extinct, similar to the scarab found in the tomb of Tutankhamun. As the Egyptian scarab dies in the poison bottle, its secrets die with it, and much valuable information is lost. The beautiful short story—and poem—may be regarded as a satirical prod both at those who unthinkingly destroy the relics of the past and those who in their thirst for a somewhat superficial knowledge obscure and even destroy the means of learning truths of deeper significance. The story is a little unusual for the science fiction of the period in that it shows a serious reverence for the past. The human record’, also by Yumeno Kyusaku, is on the face of it an espionage tale. A haggard-looking Occidental staggers off the ferry from Korea as it arrives at Shimonoseki. He is watched by

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mysterious characters; his photograph is taken secretly and is given to a Chinese-looking gentleman in a nearby hotel. The haggard man boards a train for Tokyo. On the way he is drugged by two Japanese attendants—one older, one younger. They extract information from him while he is drugged and send the information in advance of the train to Tokyo. The information clearly concerns communist political intentions. The next day when the man arrives at the embassy of a certain foreign power (Russia is obviously meant) he is accused of betraying the cause and is put to death. Later a Japanese naval officer and a student meet in a cafe; they are the same two who had drugged the man in the train. The older man explains that the man was a human record; he was subconsciously fed information while under the influence of a drug. In his waking moments he knew nothing, but when he was subjected to the drug once more the information could be extracted from him. This was a method perfected by the Russians in a laboratory near the mouth of the Lena several years earlier. Japanese intelligence had known that a courier of this kind would be coming. The man who could pick him out was the officer’s own superior (the big man in the hotel who had looked like a Chinese). Such ‘human records’ always had a distinctive, haggard look about them. The photograph had been enough to identify him. This method of communication was thought to be foolproof, as the courier, not knowing the contents of his message, could not betray them. Japanese intelligence, however, had come to know the details of the drug involved, and in this way they had been able to drain the ‘human record’ of his secrets. The man would be dead by now. To the communists, eliminating him would be no more than breaking a gramaphone record. The story is thus quite conventional, apart from the bizarre scientific processes involved in encoding and decoding the messages. The story is of course anti-communist in tone, and in many ways resembles much of the fiction (including science fiction) of the USA of the 1950s and 1960s. Communist materialism and inhumanity are satirized, and the villains of the piece are similar indeed to SMERSH encountered by James Bond two to three decades later. Other works of the late 1920s which could be included in the general category of ‘irregular detective fiction’ were the stories of Mr Jamaica written by Shiro Masayuki. Typical of these was ‘The experiment of Mr Jamaica’, published in Shinseinen in March 1928. The story, told in the first person by an unnamed Japanese, concerns

28 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

the incredible behaviour of a foreigner, Mr Jamaica, in a suburban railway station in Tokyo. The narrator tells us that he was waiting for the last train for the night when he saw a foreigner step up to the edge of the platform and then walk right off. ‘Look out,’ he called out, ‘You’ll fall.’ But the stranger defied the laws of gravity and walked on air across to the other side. ‘This must destroy our physics,’ comments the narrator. He follows the foreigner to his home, makes his acquaintance, and asks him to explain how he did it. But the foreigner, who calls himself Mr Jamaica, is not conscious of having done it at all. Our Japanese narrator persuades him to try to repeat the act by walking off the edge of the table, with cushions spread out for him on the floor in case he should fall. Mr Jamaica repeats the experiment many times, but he cannot perform his miraculous feat again. The question arises of whether a story such as this can be regarded as science fiction at all. An unexplained miracle belongs rather in the realm of mystery, but two considerations would appear to justify Ishikawa Takashi’s decision to include it in his collection of classical Japanese science fiction. One is the narrator’s consciousness of science (This must destroy our physics’) and the other is the attempt to probe the mysteries of an observed phenomenon by patient (and painstaking) experimentation. ‘The construction of the Earth’s central city’, written by Hoshida Sanpei and published in Shinseinen in November 1930, belongs to the kind of writing which deals with a small band of survivors striving to cope with the aftermath of a natural calamity. Three people—the narrator, his friend, and a young girl of 3—come ashore after drifting at sea in a dinghy for a few days after being shipwrecked on a journey from Hokkaido to Tokyo. On landing they find everybody dead in the first village they come to and gradually they make their way to the capital. Everywhere en route the whole population is dead, and on arrival in Tokyo they find that the same disaster has struck there too. Small groups of other survivors are found, and eventually the number rises to ten. This includes a group of policemen who were isolated in the mountains when the disaster struck and a Russian girl named Yuria Semiovna who had escaped from a Siberian prison camp in a balloon. (Here perhaps we can detect the influence of Jules Verne, as well as noting that the author has not overlooked the opportunity of taking a tilt at the Soviet state.) Skilful detective work by the narrator’s friend Sayama reveals that a disease which

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had first been reported in Shanghai has spread to Japan and has killed the people wholesale. Dogs, however, have lived through the calamity, and are now turning savage. They have to be fought off with guns in the Tokyo streets. The dreadful disease is described in a newspaper as mammosu reddoroggu. The name is given in the katakana syllabary, the normal vehicle for transliterating foreign words into Japanese. Its limitations are notorious, and even western expressions which are well established can be difficult to recognize. If the expression is fictitious, precision is impossible. The closest translation that could be offered would appear to be ‘mammoth redlog’. No disease with a name even closely resembling this exists in any medical dictionary or encyclopedia, and accordingly we may feel justified in concluding that the disease does not exist. None the less Hoshida would have the Japanese people contemplate such an awesome possibility, and his work can find a place in the same tradition as Oshikawa Shunro’s Warships on the Bottom of the Sea of the last decade of Meiji, and Komatsu Sakyo’s Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), the best-selling novel of 1973. The Japanese people have a long history of coping with natural disasters (indeed Hoshida was writing only seven years after the great Tokyo earthquake) and stories of heroic struggle in the face of calamity may be said to have a natural appeal to them. Such stories are, of course, not unpopular in the west either, and stories of natural disasters have a well-recognized place in the annals of imaginative fiction. ‘Angioskiaphobia’ by Kigi Kotaro, published in Shinseinen in November 1934, is a detective story remarkable for its unusual method of detection, involving a combination of optics and psychology. Indeed the combination is explicit in the title. This is written in the Sino-Japanese characters Mo/maku/myaku Shi/Sho, which mean literally ‘a defect of vision caused by the blood cells belonging to the retina’. It is only when the story is well advanced that we are told by the device of furigana that the expression is now to be pronounced ‘angioskiaphobia’ which means more or less the same thing in English (or rather Greek), except that ‘phobia’ is added, indicating that a form of fear exists which is in some way connected with the vision defect. The story begins in a university hospital with an examination of a patient by a psychiatrist in front of four medical students. One of the students is the narrator. The first patient is a case of paranoia. The second—a boy of 8—is brought in by his mother. This case is

30 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

much more complicated than the first. The boy was first attached to his mother, but he now clings to his father. He used to fear horses but now he fears little animals, such as mice and insects. When his father returned from Shanghai after a considerable absence, the boy thought he saw fire. The professor asks the students for their diagnoses. ‘Oedipus complex’ is volunteered, and the professor agrees, but says the problem is much more complicated than that. The boy is asked his own name, his mother’s, and his father’s, and in each case the time he takes to react is measured. He is placed under stress by the presence of a dead mouse, and his reaction times are measured again. This time they vary significantly from the first. The professor then orders certain curtains to be drawn to dim the light in the room, and asks the boy if he saw a flash of red. When the boy confirms that he did, the professor explains to the students that the eye is able to see the blood cells of its own retina, but that most people learn early in life to discriminate against this as a valueless image, and consequently are unconscious of it. It is likely to be seen only by people under stress, when the light is dim and coming diagonally from behind. The boy’s condition must relate to something in his past, and an accurate understanding of his condition is impossible without learning something about his parents. It is later revealed that the mother’s husband is not the boy’s real father. The boy has a recollection of his father doing gymnastics when he was very young, but this turns out to be the sight of his father’s murder by hanging at the hands of his second ‘father’. A murder is thus solved by a combination of optical and psychological knowledge. The link between the detective story and scientific detection methods would tend to put the story in the same category as Unno Juza’s The demon of vibration’, with the difference that in Unno’s story the element of ultra-modern science is pertinent to the commission of the crime rather than to its detection. Another story which bears an obvious similarity to ‘The demon of vibration’ is ‘Murder by soundwave’, written by Nomura Kodo and published in Shinseinen in December 1936. The story begins when a newspaper reporter, Chigusa, hears of the death of a popular singer at a party in her home. He investigates the incident, and finds that her estranged husband, a physicist by the name of Nagashima, is experimenting with soundwaves and has developed a special sort of amplifier which can magnify and harmonize the music of such composers as Beethoven and Bach. He boasts to

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Chigusa of the strength of his machine and explains that it could cause heart failure in people with weak hearts, or insanity in people with weak nerves. In pseudo-scientific language he explains that it works on principles similar to those of the telemin, the diophone, the radiophonette, and the ondiom—whatever they are. When he mentions that he turned up the amplifier of his equipment at 11.00 pm on the night in question it is clear that he is incriminating himself. Later he gives himself up to the police. His wife, however, was shot. She did not die of heart failure or any other disease which could have been induced by her husband’s acoustic equipment. Typical detective mystery analysis establishes conclusively that no one at the party could have killed her. Angles at which the bullets could have been fired, people, and places simply do not match. It therefore becomes clear that her husband must have shot her from outside using his acoustic equipment as an elaborate alibi. The story is at the end, therefore, a piece of detective fiction. The scientific patter is bogus, and is admitted to be bogus. The reader may feel he has been led up the garden path, rather in the same way as in ‘The artificial human being’. None the less, because of the scientific smokescreen set up by the murderer, the story falls quite naturally into the category of ‘irregular detective fiction’ and is quite clearly a work in which scientific principles—in however garbled a form—are thrust to the fore. Meanwhile, stories concerning the future of the human race were gaining ground. In October 1929 Yumeno Kyusaku produced the story The egg’ in Ryoki. As the title indicates, it is a story about an egg. The peculiarity rests in the fact that it is an egg laid by a human being; we are shown a strange world in which women lay eggs and men hatch them. Mention of ‘cosmos flowers’ indicate that we are not on Earth, and the strangeness of the colours reinforces this impression. It is a short story, well told, and reminiscent in places of the famous ‘mainstream’ author, Shiga Naoya’s short story ‘Dekigoto’ (The happening’), particularly in its description of the languor of a hot day (at the beginning) and in its reference to the smell of urine. It is about the same length, and the style and structure are much the same. ‘7.03 hours’, published in Hinode by Maki Itsuma in Septem-ber 1935 (the year of his death) was an experiment with time. Stories of a time slip are often included under the broad title of science fiction, although the scientific principles on which such a story is

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based are seldom explained. Arthur C. Clarke in his work ‘Report on Planet Three and other speculations’ goes so far as to single it out as an impossibility. Still, even though it may not be possible in reality, it is certainly something that can be done in the field of literature, and it is a familiar theme in science fiction. ‘7.03 hours’ does not even discuss how the time slip happens, and there is no scientific content. A man simply buys himself a newspaper and finds that it contains tomorrow’s news. With it he is able to back the winning horses in coming races, and he tries to warn people of impending accidents. He cannot, however, alter the march of events. Though the author slips in a passing reference to Mephistopheles, the purchaser of the newspaper is not required to pay for it with his soul. It is not a moralistic story in the tradition of Faust, and apart from the time slip itself, there is nothing in the story that even hints that supernatural forces may be at work. In fact the author, having presented us with one absurdity (the purchase of tomorrow’s newspaper), is thereafter at pains to make his story as natural and as realistic as possible. In this way his work is reminiscent of that of Akutagawa Ryunosuke, who in his short but brilliant career managed to cloak absurdity in a mantle of realistic descriptions and thus induced the reader to accept the stories. In ‘7.03 hours’ the real irony is that the hero, after winning handsomely at the races, takes another look at the paper as he is riding home in the tram. He finds that the paper reports the death of a big winner at the races in a tram at three minutes past seven. He tries to negate the news by throwing all his money away, but fate is inexorable. Adventure stories with a scientific element in them were also being written in Japan in the years prior to the outbreak of the Pacific War. Indeed, with the direct discouragement by the militarist authorities of stories dealing with any sort of immorality, including crime, detective fiction—even of the irregular kind—was virtually proscribed. Political writings which frowned upon the Soviet state —or, a little less insistently, the western democracies—were welcomed, and glorification of the Japanese Empire encouraged. Scientific innovation and adventure were acceptable subjects, but criticism of the Japanese political and social systems had to be oblique and subtle. Two examples of adventure stories written in this period are ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ by Kuze Juran, published in Shinseinen in August and September 1939, and ‘Taiheiyo Rosuiko:

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Hyoryuki’ (‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’) by Okuri Chutaro, published in Shinseinen in February 1940.26 Both take the reader on fantastic journeys into unlikely places where prehistoric flora and fauna have survived. Both begin, realistically enough, in spots marked with geographical precision: ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ in Siberia at 62 30 N, 140 17 E; and ‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’ in New Guinea, moving to 20 30 S, 160 E— about 300 miles east of New Caledonia. ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ is the story of a 1937 expedition led by Dr Yaroslavsky and approved by the Soviet Academy of Sciences. The objective is to explore a natural underground tunnel leading from Mt Lobatka in Siberia to Sakhalin which could possibly be of military use in a war against Japan. Treachery in the party induces Dr Yaroslavsky to enter the tunnel with a party of Japanese fishermen who have been held in a forced labour camp. The excitement of a chase is introduced as the party is pursued by the doctor’s arch-enemy, the cynical and cold Dr Morozov. (Geological terminology is given prominence as the party progresses through the underground caverns.) Eventually gigantic dinosaurs of prehistoric times are encountered. The party is captured by Dr Morozov, but eventually he, like Dr Yaroslavsky, dies—ironically on a Japanese island not far from Kamchatka—believing that the party is still in the underground land, lit by an eternal sun, as in Journey to the Centre of the Earth (1864) by Jules Verne,27 or At the Earth’s Core (1914) and Pellucidar (1915) by Edgar Rice Burroughs.28 The tunnel exists but is of no strategic significance. In the end the surviving Japanese fishermen are picked up and return to Japan, where they write a letter to the Soviet authorities informing them of the fate of the expedition. The story includes the usual jibes at the Soviet state in the early stages before the party goes below ground. Thereafter it is scarcely original: it is a virtual rehash of Journey to the Centre of the Earth. ‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’ is a similar story in many ways. Yet, although somewhat more original in concept, it has a lower scientific content. The good-humoured jibes at the Russians in ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ are replaced by a humcmrless political stance in this story of the South Seas. The story begins in New Guinea at the time of the First World War when the German colony was lost. The hero is the adventurous Friedrich

34 THE ORIGINS OF JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION

Kuhne who was absent from his base at the time of the disaster. He encounters a Polynesian girl and a small Japanese boy named Hachiro, and sets off on his wanderings in the Pacific, but not before he comes across a reputedly sadistic character named Beresford in the forces that have arrived to take over the country. After this unpleasant and entirely concocted episode the trio set off on their voyage into unknown seas. They come across an enormous whirlpool and find themselves sucked down to an island in its centre, open to the sky but below the normal surface of the sea. Kuhne has the impression that he is standing aslant instead of upright as the waves slope upward from the shore. Here prehistoric flora and fauna have survived, but not in the grandiose, gigantic forms we saw in ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’. A giant tortoise weighing 400–500 lbs lives here and a giant red bird is also found. Eventually the trio try to escape. Nothing more is seen or heard of Kuhne or the Polynesian girl, but Hachiro is strapped to the back of a giant migratory bird carrying a letter written by Kuhne. The boy is rescued, and Kuhne’s letter forms the basis of this tale. The story has something in common with Dean Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels,29 and the film King Kong—a tale set somewhere south-east of Sumatra—not to mention older stories of Atlantis and ancient Japanese myths. Here we are once again taken into the ‘mare incognitum’, but the device of the island at the bottom of a giant whirlpool appears to have escaped the ingenuity of western writers. The scientific patter of centrifugal wind forces belongs to the modern, science-conscious age. The robot theme occurs again—with other strange inventions— in ‘Noha Sojushi’ (‘The brainwave controller’) written by Ran Ikujiro and published in Kagaku Pen (Science Pen) in May 1941.30 The story begins in a way reminiscent of ‘Izu no Odoriko’ (‘The Izu dancer’) written by the later Nobel prizewinner Kawabata Yasunari in 1925.31 The narrator is a holidaymaker in south Izu. He takes a delight in the southern subtropical look of this resort area so close to Tokyo, and like Kawabata’s hero he is borne on by a certain ‘hope’. He meets, and is infatuated by, a beautiful girl, who returns his affection. The structure of the tale appears to be too similar to Kawabata’s for the likeness to be coincidental. The difference, however, is that the girl in Ran’s tale is not a mere juvenile supervised by a yakamashii (strict) woman of about 40; she is a well-proportioned robot, deceptively life-like, whose electrically operated brain is controlled by the thoughts of her mad-scientist

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inventor, who has taken half a lifetime to make her. At first he controlled her by radio, but later he discovered a way of controlling her actions by tuning her in to the frequency of his own brain-waves. Hence the title of the story. Things go wrong when the narrator’s own erotic thoughts about her are transmitted into her brain in the same way, with disastrous results. As an interesting aside, before introducing the girl, the scientist Morhara proudly shows off his hothouse melons, which grow better than anyone else’s in an area which takes special pride in such pursuits. The secret of his success, he explains, is to be found in the antennae which protrude from his hothouse, thereby enabling him to use the energy of terrestrial magnetism as a fertilizer—an interesting thought for horticulturalists, and worthy of a period characterized by a frantic search for new energy sources. The same month witnessed the publication in Shinseinen of ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’ (‘After 26 million years’) by Yokomizo Seishi.32 The story concerns a man of our times who is strangely projected millions of years into the future. In his first Utopia human beings have wings; he does not know how to classify them, a problem peculiar to eastern languages such as Japanese and Chinese, which require nouns to be classified for counting purposes. Is one man ippiki, ichiwa, or hitori—one animal, one bird, or one person? He comes in due course to the conclusion that these creatures are human, but many modifications have taken place. While wings have grown, the legs have regressed. The story is obviously in the tradition of the tales inspired by Erasmus and Charles Darwin, and this particular Utopia bears comparison with Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men (1930). Other elements are present too. The hero finds himself treated as an interesting specimen—a relic from a prehistoric age. When he displays anger his scientist-protector says, ‘Ha ha! They still had pride in your days!’ In this way scorn is poured on what the author considers to be a contemporary human weakness—in the manner established in Japan, at any rate, by Akutagawa’s ‘Kappa’. 33 Another ‘Kappaesque’ touch is the revelation that we are once again in the Ginza under vastly changed circumstances. Yet underneath how much has really changed? The old manicure parlours have now become wing-care centres. The buildings look very different from ground level, to be sure, but this is only natural as people are now able to approach them from above. Doors are no longer on the sides, they are on the roof. The old amado (rain

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door) has given way to amado (sky door). The pronunciation is the same, but the characters are different. It is a play on words, of a type which is possible only in an ideographic language. In his second Utopia our hero is projected into a future in which human beings are hatched from eggs. In this way we return once more to the theme of Yumeno Kyusaku’s ‘The egg’. This time there is no unpleasant smell, however, and everything appears to be perfectly hygienic and well-ordered. There are no crying babies, and no nappies. Couples can choose how many eggs they will retain, and whether they will keep males or females. All other eggs produced during a woman’s egg-laying life are taken away by the state, for swift boosting of the population in the event of an emergency. Warriors or workers may thus be produced as required. The denouement comes when it is suddenly announced that the Egg Ministry has been invaded, and 1,800,000,000 eggs have been smashed. The warrior class has been destroyed and the state is ruined. The final comments are militaristic, which would be pleasing to the government of Japan in May 1941. ‘Myrmidons are a degenerate Hellenism. We cannot escape our responsibilities of military service to the state, and hard work. There is no Utopia for us in our present circumstances!’ Another novel of the future is the long novel Nippon Iseki (The Relics of Japan) by Oshita Udaru (1896–1966).34 Itappears that he wrote the novel over a long period of time, and completed it in secret (right up to the postscript) in his declining years. He then kept it hidden in his desk. It was published after his death. The narrator is a famous female of the Keru tribe, which holds sway over the earth. She writes a record of her observations of a man who has been asleep for 670,000 years. The story is in effect another Utopia, showing, according to Ishikawa Takashi, a distortion of modern Japan reflected in the mirror of the future. Other noteworthy works of the 1940s include ‘Oran Pendeku no Fukushu’ (‘The revenge of orang pendek’) by Kayama Shigeru published in Hoseki (Gem) in April 1947,35 and its sequel ‘Oran Pendeku no Gojitsudan’ (‘The reminiscences of orang pendek’) published in the same magazine in January 1948.36 They are stories of anthropological interest, beginning with the premise that a lost race of people has survived in the jungles of Sumatra. The setting is not very far distant from the setting of King Kong, but the fantasy is by no means so farfetched. This time there are no prehistoric dinosaurs. The proposition is simply put that some unknown

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animal (is it human or beast?) is alive in the jungle. First reports are found in a newspaper, which reports, ‘Orang pendek shot!’ What is orang pendek? An expedition is mounted to find out. ‘Orang pendek’ is Malay for ‘short man’ (chiisai hito, ‘small man’, we are told in Japanese). The adult spotted is 42 cm. in height and the child, which is shot, is very much smaller. Although ‘orang’ means man, the word is also used by the natives of Sumatra to mean ‘ape’. There is considerable confusion over the proper classification of the creature, but it is gradually decided that it is indeed human, and a lost race of people has been discovered. This, however, is the starting-point rather than the end of the tales. The stories are obviously based on the existence of the orang-utan (‘man of the woods’) in the region, and the modesty of the claim (compared, that is, with the stories of huge monsters of an earlier age of science fiction) shows that the genre is entering a new phase. The subsequent discovery of a lost stone-age tribe in the Philippines has helped to lend weight to the ‘realism’ of the story, and the modern reader cannot fail to observe a parallel between the tale and speculation on the yeti and ‘Bigfoot’. Japanese science fiction by this time has learnt how to be more modest, more subtle, and we may consider that the period of its gestation is over. From this time on it is a fully fledged genre ready for its leap into popularity in the second decade after the Pacific War.

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Part Two The concerns of a changing society

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According to Hoshi Shin’ichi, one of Japan’s leading science fiction writers, the 1960s were the golden age of Japanese science fiction.1 He attributes the stimulus which science fiction enjoyed in this decade to a combination of internal and external events. These included, for instance, the easing of Japanese living conditions as a result of the post-war recovery which enabled the Japanese to turn their attention away from mere survival and take a new look at the world around them, and the space flight of the Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin which emphasized that a new era of scientific discovery and adventure had dawned. The inauguration of S.F. Magajin (SF Magazine) by the Hayakawa Shobo Publishing Company in 1960 stimulated interest in foreign translations and did much to foster the development of Japanese science fiction. Still in publication today, this monthly periodical proclaims itself to be a magazine of science and speculation, fiction and fantasy, and carries works by Japanese authors as well as translations of foreign works, along with reports, a comic section, and special reviews. The same company is among the foremost in publishing science fiction books as well. In 1970–1 it put out a bound Sekai S.F. Zenshu (Compendium of World SF) of thirty-five volumes, of which six are devoted to the works of Japanese authors. One of the volumes, devoted to short stories, is entitled The Classics and carries twenty-seven works written by twenty-one science fiction authors in the period 1926–53. It also has a second section carrying stories by twelve ‘mainstream’ authors which are considered to have a science fiction quality about them. Another volume of short stories called Modern Works carries thirty-five stories by twenty-six authors divided into six sections: ‘Limitless space’, ‘Probable futures’, ‘Beyond man’, ‘Invasions of Earth’, ‘Journeys in time and dimension’, ‘Imagination’, and so on. There are also volumes

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devoted exclusively to the works of Hoshi Shin’ichi (one hundred short stories), Komatsu Sakyo (two long stories), and Abe Kobo (two long and several short stories), while one volume is divided between Mitsuse Ryu, Tsutsui Yasutaka, and Mayumura Taku (one long story each). The proportionate space given to the authors may be taken as a reflection of a reasonably fair assessment of their respective standing in the world of Japanese science fiction in the years of compilation 1970–1 and the position underwent little change until the 1980s. Hoshi Shin’ichi has now entered semi-retirement after completing a thousand short stories. Komatsu Sakyo has maintained his position as a front-runner; his Japan Sinks was an immediate best-seller after its publication in 1973 and his disaster stories are still well received.2 His 1986 story Shuto Shoshitsu (Tokyo Blackout) has been made into a film released in early 1987.3 Tsutsui Yasutaka has distinguished himself with many amusing and thoughtful short stories, as has Mayumura Taku. Mitsuse Ryu has continued to write in the adventure mode, while Abe Kobo remains a leading author of the New Wave type, straddling the world of science fiction and other experimental forms. He is particularly well known as a writer of alienation fiction. Now for the first time since the early 1960s a new generation of science fiction writers is coming along. Among the new writers are Arai Motoko and Yumemakura Baku. While it is yet perhaps too early to attempt to characterize their writings very closely, it is clear that they do not belong to the old hard science tradition and that they are taking the genre into new fields. In short, they belong to the New Wave but this itself is a broad term covering many diffuse directions and trends. It is certainly no close definition and does not in itself necessarily even distinguish them from many of their seniors in the preceding generation. Arai Motoko’s works combine a feminine touch with an intimation of the attitudes of the younger Japanese generation towards its elders and such things as tradition, and as such they may well reflect changes that are overcoming traditional generational and sexual roles in Japanese society. Most of the leading science fiction writers of the older generation have met and conferred regularly since the early 1960s at meetings of the Japanese Science Fiction Authors’ Club. The editor of Hayakawa Shobo also puts in an appearance, and ideas are profitably exchanged. At a lower level there are several fan clubs in the major cities which hold regular meetings and express their ideas in fanzines circulated among their members. In the meantime other

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publishing companies besides Hayakawa Shobo have been publishing science fiction including Kobunsha (which published Komatsu’s Japan Sinks), Shinchosha, Kodansha, and Kadokawa. Within the scheme of this book, the role of Part II will be to look at the concerns of a changing society through a selection of topics that highlight the areas of concern that have appeared in modern science fiction writing. Many of these not surprisingly arise out of Japan’s very success as a post-war economic power, and the danger of materialism taken to excess is a recurrent theme pervading many of the other subjects on which science fiction writers have focused. So pervasive is it in fact that it is not in the main treated as an independent theme at all until such other topics as jadedness, advertising, the media, economics, and commerce have been examined in their many ramifications and implications. Only after these topics have been examined does it come to the fore as a subject in its own right under the heading of human concerns and values in a chapter which also takes a critical look at the relationship of man to his environment. Changes in generational attitudes and sex-related issues complete Part II. Matters of the mind and a consideration of the consequences and future direction of change will be left to Parts III and IV.

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3 The jaded Japanese

The satiated palate and boredom provide a constantly recurring theme in modern Japanese science fiction. Hoshi Shin’ichi and Komatsu Sakyo return to it constantly and the theme is also treated frequently by Tsutsui Yasutaka. Others, including for instance Tsukushi Michio, have also approached the theme and it is clearly one of major concern of Japanese science fiction writers and their readers. The theme is particularly a modern one, although it is anticipated in passing by the earlier writer Unno Juza in his celebrated The music bath at 18.00 hours’ in 1937.1 Kita Morio, a writer distinguished outside the science fiction genre, has also touched upon this theme. It is, of course, a theme not unknown in the west either. Robert Sheckley has addressed many of his stories to it. His point, however, is that if we succeed in our striving to solve all our problems and anxieties we will have nothing left to live for. Some Japanese writings reflect this point too, yet several appear to offer a more insistent criticism of their own society and a concern over where it is going. The overall flavour of the Japanese approach, however, will best be revealed in a representative selection of stories. First of all, we shall take a look at a sample from the pen of Hoshi Shin’ichi. A planet so successful in overcoming want and all conceivable physical difficulties is the subject of ‘Uchu no Eiyu’ (‘Space hero’).2 Almost literally bored to death, the inhabitants are increasingly desperate for some media event to bring relief to the monotony of their dull lives. It must by genuine and not some form of media-hype which they will immediately detect and reject. The Earth, advanced in Space hardware but not yet having reached the level of over-sophistication of this other planet, receives an urgent message from Outer Space:

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Our planet is beset by a terrible crisis. We are on the brink of death. If things go on like this we shall be finished. We want someone to give us a helping hand. We are asking for any large scale assistance. Anything, however small, will be of enormous psychological benefit to us. Help us, please. A young man, brave and strong, and excellent in everything, volunteers to go and help. His commander is reluctant to let him go but is eventually persuaded by his enthusiasm. Many impediments stand in his way on Earth before he departs, in his spaceship while he is travelling—in the form of his commander’s daughter who has stowed away—and on the numerous planets on which he lands en route to his destination. The woman is but a nuisance and only adds to his difficulties. But he refuses to be dismayed or distracted; whatever the obstacles in his path, he constantly reminds himself he has to get through. When finally he arrives at the distant planet he finds a tremendous welcome awaiting him, and a reception is held in his honour. Not quite sure what he can do for his hosts he is surprised to learn that they have no qualms or doubts whatever. ‘We needed a diversion’, he is told. Things are so peaceful and safe on this planet, we were bored to the point of death…we had nobody with enough courage to give us what we needed…You can give us the authentic record, the story of your breathtaking adventures. It will be genuine—not a fabrication. Your speech at the Reception will be broadcast over the mass communication media to every corner of the planet. Ah! In the excitement I forgot to arrange with you the title of your speech. It should be something virile —a title which intuitively combines the spirit of adventure with the cause of humanity. It’s a little long, but how about this: ‘Whatever the obstacles in his path, he had to get through’? In ‘Hiyaku e no Hosoku’ (The law of leaps’) the result of jading is not the extinction of civilization but backwardness.3 The story is based on the theory that any society which allows itself to become backward will inevitably suffer unbearable insults from the more advanced. Examples are easily found in human history. Japan’s own experiences at the hands of the western nations in the nineteenth century bear witness to this; China’s example is even more striking.

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Most nations of Asia have undergone subjection, domination, and insult at the hands of western powers in the recent and not forgotten past. But they are now emergent and some Oriental peoples— including the Japanese—are beginning to think that western civilization, for so long the stimulus, the model, and the source of much indignity and discomfort for themselves, is now beginning to show signs of self-indulgence, degeneracy, and decay. It might well occur to far-sighted thinkers that the east may one day be able to return the compliment of insult and stimulus to the west. Indeed Hoshi, using the example of the Earth and an imaginary civilization by the name of Chilira, sets it forward boldly as a law of progress that while civilizations contain within themselves the capacity to become enervated and weakened by soft living, the jolt of contact with a more vigorous civilization provides precisely what is needed to waken them out of their lethargy. ‘The law of leaps’ begins with a visit to the Earth by a pair of aliens from the distant planet of Chilira. The Chilirans are far in advance of human civilization. They invite the humans to try to fight them knowing that the Earth’s puny efforts can have no effect on them. But they have not come to subjugate the Earth; they are merely tourists travelling for their own enjoyment and amusement. They scoff at all gifts they are offered, spit out the Earth’s finest food, and cover their ears to shut out the sound of the Earth’s finest music. They decline a suggested cultural exchange, saying the Earth has nothing to offer them. Only the Earth’s objects of art are of any interest to them and then only for their seemingly artless simplicity. Eventually they depart leaving their visiting cards and inviting Earth people to come and visit their planet sometime in the unlikely event that they ever develop the capacity to do so. They leave a very dejected and dispirited Earth behind them. Indignation and mortification, however, eventually give way to a new sense of purpose. Petty squabbles and lazy ways of thinking are set aside, and the Earth pulls itself together to achieve the necessary order and technological capability to return the visit. Long centuries pass, with the Earth people constantly reminding themselves by television clippings of the insults the Chilirans have hurled on them. The day of the return visit finally arrives and the crew of the spaceship approach Chilira with mixed feelings as to how they should treat the planet. Many are hostile, intent on expunging the memory of the Chilirans’ unpardonable insults. The captain, however, takes a broader view, reminding his companions that it is only thanks to

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the Chilirans that the Earth has reached its present stage of civilization. He cautions them to wait and see the Chilirans’ reaction to them. When they land they are surprised to find a lazy, degenerate civilization. The standard of living is high, but they have fallen behind the Earth in the intervening centuries. The captain decides to insult them and scold them, and orders all his crew to be as rude as possible. As the Earthmen take their leave the captain explains why he ordered them to behave in this way. ‘Ah. Now I understand,’ exclaims one of the crew. ‘You did it for their own good.’ ‘Certainly it will have that effect, but that’s not the only reason,’ replies the captain. ‘They’ll now rouse themselves, and at some time in the future after many more years have passed, they’ll once again visit the Earth. When they do, I expect they’ll find us living lazy lives and it will be their turn to abuse us again. I’m sure that from now on the Earth will be entering a period of slackness. Yes, I was being cruel in order to be kind, but my actions were really for the benefit of our own descendants.’ The problem of finding stimulus in satiety has also exercised the mind of Komatsu Sakyo. In ‘Mokei no Jidai’ (‘The age of models’) 4 and ‘Adamu no Sue’ (‘Adam’s descendants’)5 sex emerges as a potential answer. In the first of these it is merely a meaningless gratification and as such it is an inadequate answer, while in the second it is elevated for the vast majority of people into the be-all and end-all of life and everything else is reduced to meaninglessness. ‘The age of models’ is set in a future when there is little point in making anything real any more, and the jaded Japanese turn their interest towards the production of models. In an age when reproduction is achieved by in-vitro fertilization and the use of an artificial uterus, sex is merely a gratifying pastime. Children are brought up in a collectivity thus dispensing with the need for parenthood. Relieved from such responsibilities adults find nothing more than a gratifying diversion in sexual relations. Life-sized dolls, especially the ‘Dutch wife’, are in vogue, and all the more so because of the inflated charges of prostitutes in massage parlours. While women have turned their attention to doll-making, the male narrator of the story is interested in making models of 0.5mm cars.

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He abandons his attempt to make a 0.5mm Rolls Royce under a microscope when he hears that a German has broken the world record for micro-models by constructing a 0.3mm tank, and thereafter he concentrates on making larger models instead. These days it is cheaper to build a full-sized model house than a traditional one, and it is convenient to construct one’s own plastic battery-powered car for use in the crowded streets. An acquaintance completes a lifesized model of the battleship Yamato but wrecks it on the Izu Peninsula, which appears in an unexpected position. Somebody else, it seems, is making a model of the Japanese Archipelago. Spurred on by this, the narrator and his friend decide to build a model of the moon to go one better than anybody else. In preparation for their attempt they take a trip to the moon by rental rocket, only to find an unexpected object orbiting in space. An American has beaten them to it. ‘Adam’s descendants’ is a fantasy of the human race’s eventual evolution. In a far future age when everything is done by machinery only 2 per cent of humanity are required for intellectual or creative work. The rest need do nothing but reproduce themselves or indulge in drinking, gambling, or crime. Eventually the human race evolves into little more than genitalia. A time machine drops an apparently disembodied penis into the modern age while it is in transit from one future age to another and it causes havoc in a block of flats. By invading the vaginas of numerous women it multiplies rapidly and the creatures are hopping about like frogs. Eventually one is caught in a rat trap, and Dr Hayase, a resident of the block of flats, dissects it. It is found to be a real penis equipped with a small mouth, a small heart, and other atrophied organs. This is one of many stories written by Japanese science fiction writers which dwells on the subject of sex. Sex looms large in Japanese science fiction, and is a topic which merits special attention in itself. Frequently, as in this case, it is used to highlight Japanese fears of a jaded future, while in many stories reliance on artificial sex partners for gratification is itself indicative of a jaded sensual palate. The issue is examined in much more detail later in the book. It will be noted that, apart from sex, only drinking, gambling, and crime are left as outlets for human activity in a world where only a privileged minority are able to gain the satisfaction of work. These are not, of course, offered as constructive alternatives.

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Komatsu Sakyo picks up the crime theme in ‘Kanzen Hanzai’ (‘Perfect crimes’).6 Anoldprisoner boasts to his fellow inmates about the crimes he has committed. All of them, he claims, have been perfect. When he was young he forged bank notes amounting to 20 per cent of all the currency in circulation, consequently setting off a major round of inflation. Later he stole the Mona Lisa and the one now on display in the Louvre is a fake. But his last and biggest crime has been to sell the Earth to aliens on another planet. Since they enjoy looking at their property as it is they do not take the trouble to invade and impose their rule. As a matter of fact they built the prison in which he is now at his own request. He was fed up with the easy but meaningless life on the outside and felt lonely; he enjoys the prison life-style because of the routine and cameraderie it provides. As this story tells us, the jaded Japanese feel the need to escape. The point is that it is not jail but life on the outside that is intolerable. Two more stories from Komatsu’s pen put this point forcibly while offering more conventional means of escape. In one, a quiet refuge away from it all is what is sought. In the other, it is hoped that promotion and the higher standard of living it brings will afford some relief. The problem here is not boredom but lack of privacy and, in the first case, overindulgence. These too are perceived characteristics of Japanese society and they too, in the minds of science fiction writers and presumably their readerships, constitute yet another aspect of and reason for the nation’s jadedness. In ‘Ki-Shizukanaran to Hossuredo’ (‘Oh, for quiet in the woods!’) a family man is dissatisfied with the over-indulged lifestyle of his family.7 When he scolds his sons for their poor table manners and for watching television while eating they simply reply that he reads his newspaper at the table. Surrounded by toys of all kinds that had been beyond his imagination in his own childhood, they are thoroughly spoiled and ill-disciplined. He is conscious, however, that he too has become accustomed to the soft life. Air-conditioning, stereo, and colour television have become essential to him and he goes out drinking at bars every night with no particular aim in life. One day he makes up his mind to start life afresh for himself and his family. He acquires a cabin in a remote area and plans to live there for a whole year with expenses of no more than 15,000 yen a month for the whole family. Only the barest essentials are brought to the cabin and an oil lamp is used for lighting because of the

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absence of electricity. They collect firewood for cooking, grow their own sweet potatoes and pumpkins, and gather edible herbs. Anything else they need they can buy from a general store 4 kilometres away. His sons come to understand the animals and plants and he himself has to give up alcohol and reduce his cigarettes to oneeighth of his previous consumption. The result is that he is far healthier than he was before, and all members of the family are happy with their new life-style. After about a month two of his friends come to visit. Both are envious, and bring their families for a week to live nearby. When they return to the city they spread the news and before long journalists start coming to interview him and his family. Shortly afterwards young hippies begin to appear and the terrible noise of radios and guitars begins to echo through the woods. His idyllic life is thus spoiled and what is worse he cannot return home because he has rented it out to another family on a one-year contract. The bedlam of city life has now followed him into the trees, and he no longer has any escape. In ‘Unmei Gekijo’ (‘The theatre of fate’) the hero of the story wins a lottery for a new unit in a housing complex after more than ten tries.8 To him and his family it seems as if they are entering paradise after their life in a small one-roomed apartment in a shabby industrial environment. Their escape to the suburbs, however, brings new problems of its own. One is that his travelling distance to work is much longer. Another is the difficulty experienced by his family, especially the children, in making friends in their new neighbourhood. Yet another is the absence of any conveniently located shopping centre or amusement park. Their solution for the last two problems is to make a point of going out every Sunday, but it seems everybody else has the same idea and they are always exhausted after battling their way through huge crowds. Feeling more fatigued than ever before, he decides to take a driver’s licence. After much effort and expense he finally succeeds only to find himself more tired than ever after driving along the narrow Japanese roads and suffering the frustration of countless traffic jams. The unsettling experiences of a minor accident and two fines persuade him to give up driving altogether. Fortune, however, smiles on him once more and he is promoted to a higher position in his company. This requires more dedication and responsibility. His higher salary now enables him to buy a detached house, but his dream-come-true seems to be a doubtful

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blessing as he will have to travel even further to and from work and fully two hours will be required for the journey in each direction. He is on the way to sign the contract for his new house when a tall stranger grabs him by the arm and begins apologizing. The stranger is an alien from Outer Space who produces for his own people a television programme entitled ‘The Theatre of Fate’. He and his staff have been conducting experiments on human beings by giving them various blessings and noting the results. The hero of our story is surprised to learn that he is also the hero of the alien television programme. The story has a happy ending. The producer explains that recently his programme has come under much criticism from its viewers for making its experiments too cruel and this time he will give him something that will really make him satisfied. The hero and his family are transferred back into the Stone Age where they live ever after in perfect bliss. In modern Japan the desire to get away from it all and escape the suffocating routine of daily life is catered for by the tourist industry. Even here, however, few Japanese are sufficiently individualistic to attempt venturing forth on their own, and the industry typically provides tours for groups rather than individuals. Within this framework provision is made for changing fashions and, as the observer of the modern Japanese scene quickly appreciates, media-drenched and opulence-soaked Japan has become the land of the instant fad. Quite possibly faddishness is the natural consequence of satiety and both are frequently associated with boredom. The introduction of fads into the Japanese tourist industry is foreshadowed by Tsutsui Yasutaka in two of his stories written just before overseas tourism really took off. In both ‘Betonamu Kanpo Kosha’ (‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’)9 and ‘Afurika no Bakudan’ (‘The African bomb’)10 hesatirizes the faddishness of tourists while making political comment on the world scene from a Japanese point of view. Written during the Vietnam War but set in the future, ‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’ concerns the growing desire for the exotic among holiday-makers. Simple holidays no longer satisfy. Most newly married couples visit the same tourist resort chosen by leading honeymoon critics, and the recommended destination changes year by year. In the year in which the story is set the fashionable destination is Saturn. The young man telling the story

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is a newly-wed who does not like following the latest fad and he succeeds in persuading his bride to go with him to Mars instead. When they arrive and present their tickets at the Tokyo Space Port they are told that nobody wants to go to Mars this year and if they insist on going there they will have to charter their own spaceship. When the young man insists that the Space Travel Corporation must bear the responsibility because it has sold him the tickets, the clerk replies that before anything can be done he will need a signature from the deputy director of the Mars Tourist Agency. The deputy director is himself on holiday on a big-game hunting expedition in Central Africa, so the young man has to go there, leaving his bride at the space port. When he meets the deputy director he finds him a very disappointed man. There are no lions or elephants to hunt, and all he can see are old documentaries of jungle life and some clockwork replicas of big game. He invites the young man to join him in a trip to Vietnam where a war has been going on for the last several hundred years. Arriving at the office of the Vietnam Tourist Agency they climb aboard a solidly built tourist bus, the upper half of which is constructed of strong, transparent plastic. All seats are equipped with earphones to pick up the sounds outside the bus. An attractive female guide explains to them that the Vietnam War is the cultural heritage of the Vietnamese people. The young man is astonished to see that a film is being shot on location on a leased-out area of the battlefield. In the field all the troops on the South Vietnam side are either black people or special volunteers. The deputy director explains to the young man that the US government has been continuing the war in part in order to solve such problems as overpopulation and unemployment. Overhearing this remark the black bus-driver loses control of his temper and of the bus. They crash, and the young man finds himself having to fight as a Viet Cong soldier against the South Vietnamese troops. ‘The African bomb’ too is a story in which Tsutsui takes the extravagant fads of tourists (here they are American) for his theme. It is set in Zaire, and concerns the life of a Congolese village as seen by a resident Japanese businessman. The political events and the social disruption following the independence of the Belgian Congo have led to the permanent stationing of United Nations forces in the country. Each village has become virtually autonomous and finds itself in fierce competition with its neighbours for the tourist dollar. Some appurtenances of modern civilization have found their

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way into the villages and the inhabitants are no longer as backward or unsophisticated as they were at the time of the Belgian withdrawal. Social progress, however, is not what the tourists want to see. They insist on witnessing primitive conditions and customs —the witch doctor’s craft, ritual dances, circumcision ceremonies, and the like. To leave anything indicative of technological society on view when the tourists come would condemn the village to poverty, as there are plenty of competitors who will give the tourists what they want. The main action of the story begins when the chief learns that the neighbouring village has acquired a surplus rocket from the United Nations forces stationed in the country. If they have one we must have one is the reaction, and it appears that an arms race is on. Although the purchase of a rocket will be expensive it is not quite beyond the capacity of the village, given its tourist income. A party including the Japanese narrator is dispatched to the UN camp to make the purchase. On the way back in addition to overcoming several hazards of terrain they encounter a female gorilla, and she embraces the rocket lovingly, treating it as if it were a giant penis. This is the symbolic point of the story, and a picture of the gorilla embracing the rocket appears on the dust cover of the book containing this story. A rocket is a phallic symbol, and the story is a piquant protest against the arms race. It is in its more literally phallic significance, however, that the rocket is required by the village. The urgency of the purchase is dictated by commercial not military considerations. The rocket is only an empty obsolete casing, and the village cannot afford to allow itself to be upstaged by its neighbour in entertaining its guests with a dance round a truly impressive phallic symbol. A story in some respects similar to Komatsu’s The age of models’ is Tsukushi Michio’s ‘Imeji Reitogyo’ (‘The imagefreezing business’).11 LikeKomatsu’s story it is set in the future and involves the themes of enforced idleness (albeit limited in this case) and the creation of an artificial woman. Present-day novel-writing has been superseded by the ‘cylinder novel’, a kind of three-dimensional film which enables the reader to take in the plot of a full-length story in about five minutes, relying on the film for all the description of detail and situations. Onodera Keigo, an ageing novelist, is not very successful because his abilities lie in the stylistic description of background rather than in the construction of plots. He is depressed to the point of

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considering suicide but does not dare to make the attempt. Science has now advanced to a stage in which even the successful suicide can be restored to life in twenty-four hours and sentenced to a fine and hard labour. One day he is visited by a scientist named Okamura who has invented an image-freezing machine which can create highly individualistic and customized objects of art and furniture. He needs a man skilled in the description of detail to join him, and he asks Onodera to become his partner. Thanks to Onodera’s skill the business begins to prosper and many exquisite objects are produced to the initial delight of their customers. They even produce an artificial woman as a sexual playmate for her owner. Then things begin to go wrong: the images start to melt. Tables collapse, causing dishes to crash to the floor. A child riding on a wooden horse is injured as the horse disintegrates. The artificial woman thaws when caressed in the bath. As Okamura goes the rounds to apologize to each customer Onodera grins. Seizing his opportunity he operates the imagefreezer to produce a huge, hungry serpent that will devour him immediately and put him beyond the reach of the authorities. A different approach to the problem of boredom is offered by Kita Morio in ‘Akichi’ (‘A vacant piece of ground’).12 Herethis writer who has made his name outside the field of science fiction uses the science fiction technique to offer a note of hope. The story begins with a young man of about 25 standing on a piece of vacant ground. He comes at night to remind himself of the happy days of his boyhood when he used to play here; then as now it was thickly overgrown with weeds. He is saddened, however, to notice the ruts of trucks on the ground. He is bored by the dull routine of his daily work, and his life seems empty and meaningless. In his university days he had been energetic, imaginative, and hopeful, but now he feels a sense of stagnation and hopelessness. Some children appear who seem to be waiting for something. They tell him they and several adults have been looking out for the appearance of a flying saucer on this spot. Journalists begin to visit the place in the hope of finding something sensational to report. While they are rummaging he meets a wizened but strangely calm old man whose voice is gentle. Showing no interest at all in the flying saucer story the old man speaks to him of mundane family matters such as his daughter-in-law’s opposition to his giving boiled fish to her child. Although he does not live near here he has visited this ground many

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times over a long period, attracted by its overgrown tranquility and the presence of woods nearby. Looking up and observing a shooting star the young man experiences a sudden realization that man needs to have a respect for the mystery of nature if he is to succeed in leading a fresh and animated life. He looks again at the night sky, full of wonder and excitement. Later the crowds lose interest in the flying saucer story and stop coming to visit the spot. All that is left behind is the figure of the old man, but he is somehow changed. He does not look quite human. Perhaps a note of hope is a good place to end consideration of a subject. Certainly Kita Morio’s story is more uplifting than most of the others that have been included in this chapter and the recommendation that human beings should have a respect for the mystery of nature makes a refreshing contrast to the doom and gloom normally associated with works addressing the subject of jadedness and boredom. Perhaps, however, Hoshi Shin’ichi wins the prize for the most far-sighted view with ‘The law of leaps’. Here he attempts to put satiety and the jaded palate into some sort of long-term perspective. Each society, he is in effect telling us, is likely to undergo a period of decline after coming to a peak as its achievements come to be taken for granted by its inhabitants. They may even come to think of themselves as inherently superior beings entitled to keep their privileges for ever. But there is competition, and those who fall behind run the risk of suffering insult and worse until they succeed in pulling themselves together and catching up. This time, however, it will be the turn of the others to be backward. In this story Hoshi provides an insight into how an Oriental people view the west’s declining era of dominance and their own re-emergence, and in this sense the story is likely to offer a profound shock to any over-complacent western reader. In a very real sense, however, it is more than this. It is a theory of the nature of progress of civilization itself.

4 Advertising and the media

Much of the evidence for Japan’s jaded palate can be seen in stories concerning advertising and the media. The spate of goods produced by Japan’s economic miracle has brought with it the soft life which mocks the Japanese work ethic and such traditional values as austerity. Non-science-fiction writers, too, have lamented this perceived loss of ‘the Japanese spirit’. Prominent among them is Mishima Yukio who in several of his works, not least Tennin Gosui (The Decay of the Angel), the last of his Hojo no Umi (Sea of Fertility) tetralogy,1 and his nonfiction work Taiyo to Tetsu (Sun and Steel),2 has put forward the powerful claim that the modern age is untrue to the real traditions of Japan. Just as the young character, Toru, in Decay of the Angel is a fake, so too is modern Japan. Commercialism, satiety, and indulgence are sapping the nation’s true identity, which can be restored only by a return to the austere warrior code of the past. In support of these principles Mishima committed suicide by seppuku at Ichigaya Barracks in central Tokyo in November 1970, much to the alarm of the Japanese authorities, who feared the public reaction it might provoke abroad. Even now Japanese diplomatic representatives are quick to disavow him whenever his name is heard and are at pains to assure their listeners of Japan’s peaceful intentions. Mishima, they point out, had his own psychological reasons for his political stance. He was rejected by the conscription board because of his poor physique and afterwards took up body-building as a compensation for his earlier humiliation. He was narcissistic, and had a peculiar, erotic fascination with swords. His beloved imagery of sharp steel penetrating male flesh was eventually turned upon himself in a moment of supreme personal ecstasy. It had nothing to do with the real feelings or aspirations of the modern people of Japan.

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This at least is the official position of the diplomats. Japanese science fiction appears to agree with them on the absence of any war-like intentions and indeed its writers tend to dwell on the futility of war and the dangers of the bomb. In one sense, however, they seem to concede that Mishima is at least half-right in his diagnosis of Japan’s present ills: the soft living, the commercialism, and the advertising hype are sapping the nation’s moral fibre and if allowed to continue they will eventually have disastrous effects. Japan’s present tack may be satisfying to the present political and industrial leaders but it is creating a widening hole in the nation’s soul. We have already considered a number of stories revealing an inner dissatisfaction with the state of modern Japanese life and an increasing recognition that prosperity does not bring psychological peace. We shall now turn to specific areas of disillusionment and discontent. As civilization is held together by communication, it is to the communication media that we shall first turn our attention. The corrupting influence of the driving dynamics of the television industry is the dominant theme of 48 Oku no Moso (4.8 Billion Illusions) by Tsutsui Yasutaka.3 A family watching a newscast is critical of what it is being shown. The scene of an American soldier torturing a native guerrilla in some remote war would be more impressive if the soldier used a hotter steel plate for his work. This would induce more horror in the guerrilla’s terror-stricken facial expression and thus make better television. In these days of competing commercial television stations impact is all-important, and the viewing public has learned to become more demanding in the realism of the scenes projected into its homes. The next scene shows an interview with a woman whose son has just drowned. The viewing family finds fault with the interviewer for not asking blunter questions to induce more tears and sadness in the woman’s face. But now it is the critical family’s turn to suffer. While they are watching television, a dump truck backs into their house and kills all the members of the family except one who loses an arm. When the television camera crews come to report the accident they insist that the scene be re-enacted at enormous expense in order to provide maximum realism on television. The presentation of the programme in vividness and detail is more important than reliance on the strict authenticity that is required if events are to be projected at first hand. The battle of the airwaves will be won by those who bring

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the greatest sense of immediacy and emotional involvement into the living-room, and this is not the same thing. Ratings govern all. A fishing dispute between Japan and Korea has blown up and negotiations are stalemated. The Japanese foreign minister has been selected for his position strictly on account of telegenic good looks and he has no idea how to settle the problem. In despair he commits suicide. At his funeral everybody cries in great profusion, laying it on especially thick for the benefit of the television cameras. Only his daughter is an exception, and her smiling face mars the effect of the broadcast. When a producer, thinking she must be insane, approaches her and asks her why she is smiling, she explains she is doing so as a protest against the insincerity inherent in the artificiality of the situation. He leaves her feeling that she after all is the sanest person present. The fishing dispute goes on until one day a Korean patrol boat opens fire, killing two Japanese. In retaliation the president of the Japan Press Club organizes a battle at sea in consultation with the largest commercial television station in Japan. Korean mass media representatives are also secretly informed, and a sea battle is staged with weapons and crews carefully selected and batteries of cameras conveniently placed in advance. With two specially prepared ships the Japanese ‘win’ a battle in the Tsushima Straits, but later when Korean ‘reporters’ come aboard one of the Japanese ships to interview the victors, they turn out to be radical Korean students in disguise who kill the crew. The other Japanese ship is in no position to offer a real fight and so the stage-managed ‘victory’ turns into a substantive defeat. After this episode the producer loses interest in television production and eventually takes a job as a security guard. Another story to deal with the control which unreal images can exert over life is Gen ’ei no Kosei (A Structure of Illusions) by Mayumura Taku.4 The hero of the story is a young man named Rugg who lives in the ‘Eighth City’ which has a mass of beautiful white buildings surrounded by trees and geometrical elevated highways. Ever since the age of 5 or 6, like every other citizen he has had a metal box known as the ‘Imajex’. Through this each person is taught the laws, customs, and morality of the Eighth City according to the age, sex, and personal situation of the individual, as well as a variety of interesting information about daily life. Accordingly there is no need for educational institutions or commercial mass media. The Imajex system is controlled from the ‘Central City’, and its administration is in the hands of public

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officials known as ‘Registered Central Citizens’. These Registered Central Citizens are the elite whom all other citizens must obey. To enter this privileged class has been Rugg’s ambition since boyhood, and eventually after undergoing many difficult physical and mental tests he is successful. The Commissioner for Transport and Distribution now singles him out to be his assistant. The Commissioner is aware that orders passed out from the Central City to its satellites have grown too demanding of late, and feels that the images projected to them have become too distorted. Rugg agrees and sets to work in an effort to rectify the problem. An incident in Rugg’s life now gives it a different turn. He rescues a woman whom he finds being attacked by a bug-eyed alien. She turns out to be a prostitute from a liberated zone in the Central City who is also an activist in the fight to liberate the people from the bondage of the Imajex. She persuades him to join the radical movement to which she belongs and enlightens him about the true nature of the system by which aliens are controlling and manipulating the Earth through the use of the Imajex. Senior members of the radical movement inform him that the aliens did not invent the Imajex system; they merely took over a worldwide system of communication which had been put into place by corrupt financial cliques in America, Europe, and the Far East to control the world for their own advantage and to eliminate competition. Rugg, who is on the inside, knows the Imajex system well and he persuades the radical movement to use it for their own advantage rather than destroy it. Rugg’s boss, the Commissioner, is coerced into falling in with their plan, and through control of the Imajex system they succeeded in turning the whole population of the Eighth City over to the production of laser weapons. In the ensuing war the aliens are defeated but as they depart they destroy the Imajex, leaving the people free but in a chaotic state. Without the Imajex to control their thoughts and actions, they have no idea what to do. The Japanese, it appears, are well aware of the manipulative potentialities of television and the other mass media. As they are constantly barraged by a torrent of advertisements and jingles in their own homes it is in no way surprising that they should develop a healthy scepticism towards them. One story expressive of such scepticism is ‘Senden no Jidai’ (‘The age of propaganda’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi.5 It is also an interesting satire on the use of the conditioned reflex. Mr N arises one morning in his thirty-fifth floor apartment in a tall mansion building. As he sets off to work the

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elevator stops at the thirtieth floor. He is joined by a small boy who is on his way to school. ‘Study hard,’ he tells the small boy, patting him benevolently on the head. ‘Let’s eat Lafra. Let’s eat Lafra,’ sings the small boy immediately. Lafra is the name of a food product, and the boy has been conditioned to sing this commercial every time he is patted on the head. At the fifteenth floor they are joined by a middle-aged woman who makes a remark about a particular brand of candy before speaking about the weather. The candy company has bought her conditioned reflex and she will advertise their brand every time she feels the sensation of going down in an elevator. On the subway train there is a young woman who repeats the name of a cosmetic company each time somebody brushes past her shoulder. The name is repeated often and Mr N reflects she must be really well paid for the sale of her reflex. An old friend greets Mr N in the train. ‘Galaxy coffee is the best,’ says Mr N. ‘How have you been keeping all this time?’ When the friend suggests they go for coffee somewhere, Mr N replies that he prefers tea. His coffee commercial is simply his conditioned reflex which he has sold to a coffee company about a week before. He hasn’t even noticed he was saying it. On the way up to his company’s office he steals a kiss from the elevator girl. She does not object, but merely utters a commercial about fruit juice in response to his kiss. He is not really surprised. His ears have been assaulted by conditioned reflex commercials from the moment he left his apartment, but he has forgotten them all. When this method of tapping people’s latent potential was first introduced it had been an interesting novelty. But even greater than the latent potential of the human mind is its capacity to adapt. The way in which television has come to dominate modern life is once again the theme in Hoshi’s ‘Terebi no Kami’ (‘The god of television’).6 In this story the competitive commercial nature of the forces governing the media combine with human greed and gullibility to present a compelling picture of the grip that television can exert over human life. In this, as in several of his stories, Hoshi expands upon the pantheon of Japanese religion to interpret the forces at work controlling man’s destiny. Mr N is a television addict. He lives alone in his small shabby room spending the greater part of the day with his eyes glued to the box. He eats his meals in front of it and cares nothing for how they taste. He has no hobbies, has no interest in luxuries, and does not

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even take alcohol or enjoy the Japanese evening ritual of taking a bath. He does not have to work hard to maintain his simple life-style, and is thus able to spend all the more of his time on his one interest. As soon as his viewing is over he goes directly to bed. One night he is visited by an apparition which seems vaguely familiar to him, rather like a mixture of all the television stars he has been watching. It introduces itself as ‘The god of television’, compliments him on his viewing, and offers to favour him in return for his devotion. The favours which the god is able to bestow are limited, but substantial none the less. When Mr N reads the programme guide in the newspaper the following morning various numbers come to him as he looks down the entries. At first he does not understand what they mean. Then it dawns on him: they are rating figures and the numbers come to him not only as he gazes down the scheduled programmes but also as he reads about plans for future programmes. The god of television has rewarded him by giving him the ability to forecast the all-important ratings. Eventually his unique ability comes to the notice of an advertising agency. Although he himself is doubtful of his powers, tests reveal the accuracy of his predictions. He is even found to be more accurate than the regular rating surveys and he is offered an executive position with the agency. With this his life-style changes, and ultimately his personality too. He acquires a taste for luxuries and wine, and unlike the world of television that relies only on sight and sound, the real world offers the sensations of touch, sense, and taste, as well as many other gratifications. He grows rich, and the advertising agency prospers with him. He can demand any remuneration he likes, but the agency can always recoup its outlay on him by selling his predictions to the television stations and other agencies. Some actresses and companies try to bribe him to support their careers and projects but he always declines, remaining true to the trust the god has placed in him. When the god appears to him in another dream he gives his thanks and asks for a continuation of the god’s favour. The god however replies that this cannot be done as his new life-style has taken him away from his viewing and he is no longer the god’s ardent devotee. Mr N is shattered. But before the full consequences of his fall from favour dawn on him, another apparition appears before him. Unlike the previous spectre this one wears a stupid expression on its face. ‘For every unkind god there’s a kind one,’ it

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tells him, ‘and from now on I’ll look after you.’ It is the god of stupidity. Guided by his new mentor and protector, Mr N continues to issue figures as before and his fortunes suffer no decline. His figures are now in all probability rubbish, but as all the rating companies have gone out of business no one has the means of checking. ‘If you cater to stupidity the ratings will rise,’ the god whispers in his ear. He abandons his previous sincerity, taking advantage of female performers and receiving pay-offs from the males, giving them all the message, ‘Your performance is too intellectual.’ In this way he finds he is able to enjoy an even higher standard of living. Hoshi also addresses the pervasiveness of mass television in terms of Japanese religious consciousness in ‘Boroya no Junin’ (‘The shack dweller’).7 Thistimethe deity concerned is not a patron god of television or stupidity, but the god of poverty. The story is told in the first person by a producer of television documentaries. He is frustrated with his work, labouring hard to produce a programme only to see it vanish without trace the moment it is broadcast. This leaves him with a feeling of emptiness which he can dispel only by gambling and drinking, but these are really not solutions to his problem. He yearns to leave something lasting behind him to show for his work. One day when he is walking round the streets looking for material to put into his programmes he spots a collection of densely packed, ramshackle dwellings scheduled for demolition. Immediately sensing that this might make a good topic he investigates further. Of course, merely to televise the dwellings will not be enough; he must interview somebody to give the programme its human impact. Finally he finds a poverty-stricken old man who appears to be the ideal subject. He does not want to be interviewed or put on television, and he does not want any assistance. He simply wants to be left alone. The producer, however, senses in him the very embodiment of poverty, a rare find indeed in these days of prosperity. He will make excellent viewing material. By a combination of lies, threats, and blandishments the old man is put on camera and projected into the nation’s livingrooms. The show is a great success, and the producer goes back to the old man to express his thanks and recompense him for his pains. ‘No. I don’t want any money,’ replies the old man. The producer is taken completely aback. How will the old man eat? The old man replies

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that he does not need to eat. He is the god of poverty. Anybody who sees him will become poor… Soon after this the world falls on bad times. Governments and economists are unable to explain the reason why. Possibly only the producer knows, but at least he no longer has the feeling that his programmes have no lasting effect. Readers will have noted that Hoshi Shin’ichi’s gods are limited, or rather specialized in their powers and represent human motivational tendencies or directions in human fortunes. While the way in which he uses them is distinctly his own and may be equated with the style of ‘New Wave’ science fiction notwithstanding the invocation of supernatural powers, the fact is that human characteristics of the gods are in no sense antitraditional and do no violence to Japanese belief. This subject will be explored in much greater depth in the later chapter dealing with religion. Here, having taken note of the human qualities of the gods, we need not be too surprised to find certain god-like qualities attributed to human beings. After all, to the Japanese the distinction is somewhat blurred. It is just such a blurring we see in ‘Shumatsu no Hi’ (‘The last day’), a story in which once again Hoshi takes television programming for his theme.8 The setting is a small town. It is a pleasant place to live with a bank, a post office, a school, a police station, and a general store with an amiable proprietor. Minor incidents are always occurring owing to misunderstandings, but there is no serious crime. The town is set in the countryside and animals and birds are to be seen in the fields and forests surrounding it. Electrical goods are plentifully stocked in the display window of the electrical appliance store, but no weather forecasts are to be heard if a radio is switched on. For some time now nobody has attempted to listen to a long-range weather forecast. Everybody is aware that the end is drawing close. The postman greets the mayor as he passes him in the street. A woman reports that a small boy is missing and the policeman and the mayor organize a search for him. The woman also consults a fortune-teller, who says the child is in the woods, but the fortune-teller is not making any long-term predictions. The search party finds the child and brings him safely home. Everybody is happy. They still have their loves and their hopes but they know their ambitions will be unfulfilled. Finally they sing, knowing that their fate is practically upon them. Then the end comes. It comes silently and irresistibly from a corner of the sky.

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What is first a little dot steadily grows large until it covers the whole scene. It is the one word, ‘END’. ‘The puppet show “A Small Town” that you have been watching for so long has finally come to an end today,’ announces the voice of a heartless god. This is followed by the voice of an even more heartless god, the sponsor, which, however, is cut short by the hand of an even yet more heartless and capricious god, switching to another channel. Another Hoshi story critical of the media, this time involving no divine intervention of any kind but relying on hardware, is ‘Chikai’ (‘The oath’).9 Mr N is a newspaper reporter. He hears a rumour about the invention of a terrible new machine and intrepidly goes off to investigate. Nothing will be allowed to stand in his way; he must give the public the facts. Trespassing upon private property he finally discovers the machine, but before he can fully investigate it he finds himself trapped by armed men who threaten to kill him. He is pleasantly surprised when they decide to let him go in exchange for his solemn oath that he will not reveal the incident to anyone under any circumstances, and he gladly agrees to place his hand on the machine as he makes his vow. Delighted with his news he returns to his newspaper office. To him his oath is nothing in the face of such a scoop. Back at the office he tries to tell his story but the words simply will not come out of his mouth. He tries to write it down but he is unable to write it either. Slowly the truth dawns on him: it is an oath-commissioning machine, and anyone who swears an oath on it will not be able to break his word. One day when he meets a reporter from another newspaper he recognizes in the mannerisms of his companion the same predicament as his own. Immediately understanding each other they slap each other on the shoulder and shake hands. But of course they are unable to talk about it… Reflections on people’s jaded palates and the lengths to which the media will go to pander to them form the basis of Hoshi’s ‘Taiintachi’ (‘The crew’), which focuses attention upon the impression that may be given to outsiders by the Earth’s media presentations.10 A film crew is on a distant and not very interesting planet, an outer member of a remote solar system, to shoot a low-quality entertainment movie at ridiculous expense. As usual it is a period piece with an indifferent plot, a tale of a young man and woman who spread their activities over many solar systems. No

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doubt the critics will refuse to call it a work of art, and historians will lambaste it for ignoring the facts. But none of this matters. It is what the paying public wants and it is what the paying public will get. The lead actor, far from being the romantic swashbuckler fighting for love and justice blessed with extraordinary courage and intelligence that his audiences see, is in fact a very ordinary man who needs to play with puzzle rings to keep him occupied. He cannot resolve the puzzle. In fact one of the rings will not come off, but he is not intelligent enough to realize it. The lead actress is pampered and spoiled. Far from being the Space heroine who is always brave and never weeps, she is given to frequent emotional upsets and raises her voice over the most trivial annoyances. She has just killed her pet, an expensive cross between a monkey and a bear, by allowing it to drink her perfume, which is actually a powerful aphrodisiac, and for a long time she refuses to accept that it is dead. Eventually persuaded, she becomes tearful and to placate her the deputy director, who is also the narrator of the story, offers to give the animal an elaborate funeral. It is left in a mock-up rocket erected at an angle to the landscape to give the impression of having crashed. Naturally it has no steering mechanism, but the pet is placed in the pilot seat dressed in one of the actress’s most fluttery and gaudy dresses with the actor’s puzzle rings round its neck. The deputy director wonders what impression this will have on any future Space travellers from any of the inner planets of the solar system to which this outer planet belongs. In another story Hoshi turns his attention to the frightening control that the mass media can have on commercial life. In ‘Rieki no Kakuho’ (‘Profits guaranteed’) a man comes up to the reception desk of a large advertising company and in a peremptory tone demands to see the president.11 He has no appointment and the president is out, but when he is finally shown to the managing director he invites him to try a pill—a pill he has just invented. The pill is not a new kind of vitamin tablet or anything designed to preserve physical health. Rather, explains the visitor, it is something designed to protect mental health. When the managing director tries it he finds that the advertising columns in his newspaper have all become blurred. The same thing has also happened to the commercials on television and radio, leaving all other programmes completely clear.

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The managing director is outraged and a heated discussion ensues on the merits of commercial advertising with the visitor insisting that it adulterates the flow of information and the managing director claiming that it serves to raise the general standard of living. But the visitor has not come simply to hold a theoretical discussion. He has patented his new invention and invested his capital in it. He is now ready to go into full production. A hurried board meeting is called and the decision is taken to join together with all the other advertising companies in an attempt to buy him out. The inventor agrees to part with his patent rights in exchange for a large sum of money and he walks away feeling very pleased with himself. The pills would have cost an enormous amount to put into mass production and in any case he would not have been able to sell them without a massive advertising campaign. He has succeeded in scaring the companies out of their wits, and they have not understood the extent of their own power. In this chapter we have seen disturbing seenarios of how the media can come to dominate our lives. Tsutsui Yasutaka and Mayumura Taku have both expressed fears of the manipulative powers of television, and we may be sure that these fears are not very far from the minds of thinking Japanese who wonder where their nation’s new technology is leading them. Hoshi Shin’ichi, however, has managed with many-faceted approaches to remind us that behind the undoubted power of the media lie the human beings who with all their foibles and weaknesses determine what the media are going to do. The media after all, he appears to be telling us, are merely an extension of human capability, and the use to which they are put depends on those who control them. Taking again the long-term perspective for which he is renowned, he reminds us in ‘The age of propaganda’ of the value of human scepticism and the remarkable capacity of the human brain to adapt. The resourceful person, as he has shown us in ‘Profits guaranteed’, has the capacity to beat the advertising industry at its own game. Undoubtedly the age of the media has a momentum of its own but human beings, this humanist asserts, have the ability to stay on top.

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5 Economics and commerce

Modern life in Japan is centred on the success of the nation’s commerce and we need not be surprised to find that many of Japan’s more thoughtful science fiction stories show a concern over current commercial practices. Are they really essential for the nation’s well-being? Or are they detrimental to the quality of human life? Are they ethical? Are they sustainable? Are they wise? Do they create tensions in society that must eventually exact a heavy price? Do they create tensions with Japan’s trading partners that must eventually rebound to Japan’s disadvantage? Is there no limit to the extent to which commercialism can pervade human life? Has it become the object of existence? Will the Japanese be able to escape it? Can Japan’s prosperity continue without it? Is the nation’s prosperity too fragile to last anyway? These and many other similar questions are the very stuf f out of which much modern Japanese science fiction is born. Most works on the subject are critical. Few set out to praise modern Japanese practices. This, many would believe, is an inherent characteristic of the genre. Yet the fact that writers (especially Hoshi Shin’ichi) can find so much to criticize and can evoke such an enthusiastic response from their (mainly youthful) readers is an indication that something is present in Japanese commercial life that does not sit well with the Japanese psyche. The fact that the readers belong overwhelmingly to the younger generation may well presage a mounting crescendo of generational dissatisfaction and subsequent changes in direction. The concerns are wide-ranging and are not necessarily consistent with each other. Yet it is also possible that some sort of fairly coherent pattern may be discernible to give an indication of the dominant mood and perhaps provide a significant hint as to the direction of forthcoming change. There are, of course, many aspects to economics and commercial life, and in view of the range of

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concerns expressed it seems appropriate to divide the chapter into a number of sections. These will cover money, including the lure of it, problems of its circulation, and questions relating to its value; competition and the drive for success; international aspects of Japan’s commercialism; the motivation of companies; and a special look at the insurance industry. MONEY Several stories addressing the problems of modern commercial life take money as their theme. The approach varies as does the point of the story, yet all may be interpreted as showing an uneasiness with the direction in which the modern commercialized society of Japan is taking the Japanese people. Some are concerned with the long-term social effects while others are more immediate and psychological in their focus. Both the stories in this section are written by Hoshi Shin’ichi. The first shows a long-term social concern. ‘Mane Eiji’ (‘The age of money’) is the story of a day in the life of a little girl set some centuries into the future.1 Told in the first person by the little girl herself it has an attractive air of simplicity, almost naiveté, about it which serves only to project its point in all the sharper relief. The little girl wakes up one morning to the crow of an electronic cock. In the lounge a visitor is talking to her father. He is a bank representative who has come to ask her father to open a bribery account with his bank. Daily statements are offered but her father is not impressed. He is a successful businessman with many trading contacts in Space and he already has a bribery account with another bank. As the conversation continues in the direction of arriving at a suitable bribe, the little girl, who has now got dressed, enters the lounge, and reminds her father of his promise to take her to the Cosmic Botanical Gardens. She knows that he is now engrossed in his negotiations and no longer wants to take her. But she presses him and is not satisfied until he has bribed her with two gold coins to forget about his promise. This sets the pattern for the rest of the day’s activities. Delighted with her two gold coins she knocks over a chair in the living-room and is relieved that her mother has not heard her from the kitchen. If she had, she would have had to part with her gold coins as a bribe to stave off a spanking. As the trip to the Botanical Gardens has now been called off she decides that she might as well go to school.

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Attendance is optional. One can always bribe one’s way out of having to attend, just as one can always bribe the teachers to give one the marks one wishes to pay for. The first lesson she attends is sociology and it is really a lesson for us all. It is a historical resume of how money has come to be the social lubricant that resolves all problems. Even criminals can avoid going to jail by offering the authorities a sufficient bribe, yet this in itself has helped to eliminate crime: it simply doesn’t pay. Bribery, concludes the teacher, is the successful basis of civilization. Because policemen’s bribes and lawyers’ bribes are so high, the witness is in a commanding position to make a lot of money out of bribery. The children are taught to calculate every situation carefully with this in view. The next lesson is mathematics, in which she is able to win back from the other children in the class some of the money she has had to pay to the teacher for not knowing the answers in sociology. Before she leaves she gains the marks from the teacher that she wants and she receives a reward from her father when she gets home. Incidents on the way to school complete the picture of a life completely governed by money. An old woman has to pay her to give up her seat on the public transport system. Back home, her father seldom looks up from his bribery computer, and the girl herself goes to bed looking through a catalogue of bribery computers. As she goes to bed reading her catalogue and calculating which bribery computer she would like to have, she wonders what the children of bygone ages used to dream about when they went to bed and what dreams will occupy the minds of the children of the future. Another story dealing with the circulation of money is ‘Chiisa-na Shakai’ (‘The small society’).2 Here a small group of people is shipwrecked on a desert island and the captain devises a scheme for his companions to keep money circulating among themselves so that they will not lose the skills that will be necessary for their survival should they be rescued and return to hardbitten world society. His companions are three men aged about 40, 30, and 20, and one woman aged about 20. In his scheme the two older men play cards and the one with the sturdier physique, the 30-year-old, loses his money to the 40-year-old who is the better gambler. The young woman then flatters the winner into giving it all to her but then she, who is lovelorn for the 20-yearold youth, gives it all to him. He, in turn, is waylaid by the sturdy 30-year-old and is robbed of all the

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money he possesses. The 30-year-old then gambles again with the 40-year-old, and the cycle goes on and on. Eventually the woman is the first to complain to the captain, a 50-year-old, that the routine has become boring. The captain explains that although they are shipwrecked he is still responsible for their welfare. They will never be able to make their way in the wily world if they allow their wits to grow slack. They see his reasoning but ask him to vary the routine. In response he comes out with an up-market product. This time the young woman begins with the money and is worried about what to do with it. The 40-year-old man approaches her and offers to invest it for her so that it will become a huge sum. Assuring her that she can place her trust in his experience he goes away to consider what to do with the money. As he is counting it the 30-year-old appears on the scene, denounces him as a swindler, and offers to refrain from giving him a good beating if he will just hand over the money so that he can take it back to the girl. He, in turn, is now approached by the handsome young man who compliments him on his business acumen and offers to introduce him into an exclusive club that will confer high status on him. This, however, will require money to lubricate the process… As the young man walks away importantly with the money the young woman meets him and informs him he’s just the right sort of man to be introduced to her set of heiresses. So many men are on the prowl, wishing only to lay their hands on their money. Eagerly desiring such an introduction he passes on the money to her so that she can arrange the necessary introductions with due decorum… After the first round of the new game the captain tells them their performance is clumsy, but it will improve with practice. He will then introduce them to a higher level still. COMPETITION AND THE DRIVE FOR SUCCESS Competition and the drive for success provide the backbone theme for many science fiction stories. Frequently those forces are seen as ruthless, short-sighted, counterproductive, or unethical. Yet it would not be true to say the picture is entirely negative. Competition can be a spur to achievement too, a point that is not lost in Japanese science fiction. The various approaches revealed are not all consistent with one another, even when they are written

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by the same author. Here again we see that Japanese science fiction is too diverse to pursue one specific aim or teach one specific message. After all, it is not purpose-fiction but a kaleidoscope of multifarious impressions, the product of a free, diversified, and vigorous society. Nevertheless certain patterns of concern may be found, one of which may be said to be a consciousness of the importance of fair dealing with one’s trading partners. Present in many of these stories is a warning against greed and the mentality that expects something f or nothing. Greed, for instance, features prominently in Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘Waraigao no Kami’ (‘The god with the laughing face’).3 Inthis as in many other stories Hoshi introduces a god to embody a weakness or folly of human beings. By this device he is able to pinpoint one of the principal weaknesses in the drive for success, and a technique not frequently employed by western writers is used here in a modern social science fiction setting to bring his point home forcefully to his Japanese readers. A very ordinary sort of farmer in a very ordinary village wishes that he could become rich. He is not particularly hard-working or lazy and even in his desire to grow rich he is not particularly different from anybody else. One day while hoeing he comes across a wooden object which turns out to be a carved image with a funny, laughing face. Telling himself it is no good, he has just made up his mind to throw it away when a voice speaks to him. It is the voice of the god carved on the piece of wood. Incredulous at first, the farmer comes to be convinced of the power of the god and invokes the god’s help in his desire to become rich. The god promptly agrees. When harvest time comes the village is visited by a typhoon and the crops of every other farmer are devastated. With this as a starting-point, he grows richer and richer, making loans to the other villagers at high rates of interest, and eventually coming to own all the fields, mountains, and forests in the region. When he offers thanks to the god for his good fortune and asks what he can do to show his gratitude, the god replies he would appreciate it if he would find him more worshippers. This, however, the farmer-turned-landlord is reluctant to do. He hides the carving in a warehouse, unwilling to share the blessings of the god of wealth with anyone else. But the god with the laughing face is not a god of wealth at all. He is a god of poverty. Through his protege he has succeeded in reducing all the other villagers to penury and since they

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have now all hit rock bottom there is nothing more left for him to achieve. Very soon, he explains, there will be rioting. His host’s house will be burned down and he himself will be flung into the river along with all the rubbish. He is already wondering who will be the next to find him. Divinity, Japanese style, is again invoked by Hoshi in his story ‘Fuku no Kami’ (‘The god of furtune’).4 Herethecompetitive desire to succeed in business is extrapolated to its ultimate conclusion, and a powerful protest is raised against what many might conceive as the dominant motivation of modern capitalist society. Japan’s present tack as an ‘economic animal’ may also be seen as an implied object of criticism. It is New Year’s Day and crowds of Japanese are making their pilgrimages to Shinto shrines or the Temple of Kannon to pray for good fortune in the forthcoming year. Mr L, however, has a different idea. Why, he reasons, should he do the same as everybody else? If he did his luck would at best be no different from anybody else’s. He prefers to do something distinctive and so goes to the tomb of a rich man, Mr R, who has just died, to chisel off a piece of his tombstone. ‘Stop!’ calls out a voice. Looking round and seeing nobody, he wonders if it is the spirit of Mr R, unable to attain its Buddha-hood because of the encumbrance of wealth. Undeterred, however, by such thoughts he determines to press on, only to be warned once again. ‘The man beneath this stone had no virtue. That is why I warned you against chipping at the stone. It would do you no good.’ The voice, he discovers, belongs to one of the gods of fortune. If he is prepared to place himself completely under the god’s control the god will help to make him rich, richer even than Mr R. But he must think carefully because once the god has entered his body and taken control of him there can never be any turning back. In an allusion to western religious ideas Mr L asks if he will have to deliver his soul on death, but the god of fortune laughs and says he is not the devil. His only interest is to bestow long life and prosperity. Reassured, Mr L agrees and the god enters his body and takes possession. Even on the way home he is held back from stepping in front of a passing automobile. The god will not permit him to be harmed. The following morning the god makes him get up quickly. There is work to be done. He is also made to take on extra work such as sticking envelopes in his spare time. No time is to be allowed for relaxation or for enjoying a good meal. He is not permitted even to listen to music. When he asks the god to let up a little and let him

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enjoy his good fortune he is simply told: ‘I’m a god of fortune. I’m not a god of fun. As long as I exist I shall allow nothing other than making money.’ Mr L now realizes his mistake. He has grown fabulously rich and will grow still richer. But he will never be able to enjoy it. His fate is sealed. When he asks the god why he is so keen to drive him on and on, the god replies: Pm trying to beat the record. We gods of fortune have a competition between ourselves. We try to see who can make the most money in one man’s lifetime. Mr R was satisfactory at first, but when I took my eyes off him he flagged. This time I’m determined not to let up. Until we reach our goal, we’re going all out. We’ll put all the other gods of fortune to shame. I want you to put your back into it. We must be resolute, and to establish a new world record we must… Komatsu Sakyo also has his criticisms to offer, and the Japanese work ethic and the drive for success are brought into direct question in his story ‘Soshite Daremo Shinakunatta’ (‘And everybody stopped work’).5 Here they are shown not merely to have unfortunate consequences or to be brought into question by the feckless young. Instead they are subjected to direct attack and the ‘rot’ sets in from the top. The story begins when the Prime Minister of Japan suddenly resigns and decides to devote his time to gardening. When his secretary accuses him of irresponsibility he merely says he considers he has done enough for his country and it is time he took a rest. Many other cabinet ministers, we discover, have done the same thing. When the secretary goes to the Diet building he is immediately buttonholed by three reporters hoping for a scoop. He confirms the resignations but refuses to give any explanations, saying he too intends to resign from his position as secretary. One of the reporters is excited at the news but when he finds that his colleagues have no interest in it he too decides to go home for a sleep. One of them briefly informs the office of the series of resignations, but the chief editor is not interested. He too has decided to quit his job. This ‘resignation disease’ spreads quickly through all Japan and affects all functions of society. Cars are left in the roads and all trains and aeroplanes come to a halt. All factories are stopped except those which run automatically. In the universities and schools all lectures

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and lessons stop and professors, teachers, and students all become idle. As a result of this stopage of activity all smog disappears and the din of traffic is stilled. Everything is peaceful, and the air is as clear as New Year’s Day. A science fiction writer and a magazine editor who meet to discuss the situation wonder why they too have been so busy before. INTERNATIONAL ASPECTS OF JAPAN’S COMMERCIALISM National and international aspects of Japan’s drive for success come to the fore in Ekisupo ’87(Expo ’87) by Mayumura Taku.6 This long story, published in 1978, with a setting extending up to nine years later, provides the reader with an explicit expression of the redirection of the traditional Japanese samurai spirit into nationalistic commercial goals. When the Japan Association for the 1987 Tokaido Interna-tional Exposition holds its first meeting to decide on the products and companies to be selected for display, a man named Goda, the managing director of Osaka Leisure Products Ltd, receives an interesting report from his research and development section. It has just succeeded in inventing ‘Real Feeling Equipment’ for the projection of sex and murder scenes, and the like. It will require, however, the supply of a certain ‘super-pure’ metal for the production of this equipment, and the price of this metal has recently risen ten-fold over a short period. It therefore seems unlikely that the company will be able to develop the Real Feeling Equipment on a large scale, even if it receives large orders at the Expo. Two groups of people are opposed to having the Expo at all. One is led by a man named Asakura renowned as a great genius and one of the nation’s leaders of public opinion. He argues that it will only prompt people to become more materialistic and will be dehumanizing in its general effect. The other is a citizens’ movement known as the Home Party which is made up chiefly of housewives and has the aim of demolishing Japan’s male-dominant society. It advocates a relaxed, peaceful life at home. Back in the early 1970s representatives of Japan’s leading financial cliques gathered in a hotel room to discuss a strategy for overcoming the threat of future liberalization of capital transactions and this has led to the secret establishment of an ‘Industrial Military Academy’. The cadets are taught business administration and the

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very latest about state-of-the-art technology by the nation’s top experts, and they receive strict physical training over a course lasting seven years. Mitsuta, a graduate of this Industrial Military Academy, offers Goda bulk supplies of the super-pure metal needed for his Real Feeling Equipment at half the market price if Goda will receive two graduates of the Academy to administer his company. As the company is in financial difficulties Goda has no choice but to accept. By similar means the other graduates of the Academy all become ensconced in positions in Japan’s key industries. They co-operate with each other in the national interest and compete aggressively with foreign companies. By the end of 1986 the affiliates of foreign companies in Japan are so desperate that they too begin to co-operate with each other to defend themselves against the aggressive Japanese tactics. Asakura fights a high-principled battle on behalf of the foreign companies, but his efforts are in vain. The graduates of the Industrial Military Academy are too powerful and popular to be resisted. Expo ’87 is a great success, and the graduates of the Academy go on to drive out both the foreigners and the former leaders and take full control of the Japanese economy. Japan’s external trade policy is further satirized with extreme pungency in Hoshi Shin’ichi’s short but beautiful story ‘Han’ei no Hana’ (‘The flower of prosperity’).7 The story is almost lyrical in form and possesses the quality of a parable and fable. In it may be seen a poignant reminder of Japan’s vulnerability and fragility as a trading nation. Yet the ethics of business practice form the central theme against the backdrop of a dire warning against the dangers of over-dependence. It is vintage Hoshi. In a few bold strokes he epitomizes the crux of his nation’s predicament, bringing into sharp relief the moral and pragmatic dilemmas posed for his people in the modern world of trade. Radio messages are exchanged several times between the Earth and the planet Meel, and as a result the Earth learns a little more each time about life and conditions on Meel. It has a similar culture to the Earth’s, yet in spite of this it has no weapons or armaments of any kind. It is a small, peaceful planet, free of trouble, and its inhabitants live a life of ease, raising flowers, keeping bees, and doting on butterflies. Evidently the Earth need fear no attack from this planet and in the long run it may even be possible for the Earth to attack it and take it over. In the meantime it is a planet the Earth can deal with without anxiety and a communication is beamed to Meel indicating

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the Earth’s willingness to engage in trade. A small communications rocket arrives containing a letter and a small grain that looks like a flower seed. We on our planet live by the export of animals and plants. We are glad to be able to trade with you. We are sending a flower seed as an example of the goods we produce. We call it ‘the Flower of Prosperity’. We hope you like it. If you don’t please send it back immediately. The seed is tested and kept under close observation in a botanical research laboratory. It does not seem to have any particular ill effects on human beings. Quite the reverse: it has many fine qualities. The nearest thing known to it on Earth seems to be a ‘bonsai plum’, but whereas the plum flowers only once a year, the Flower of Prosperity is able to produce luxuriant blooms all the year round in great profusion. Its colour is beyond description, changing with the seasons and even with the time of day. Its scent, too, is beautiful: refreshing and cool in the morning, and in the evening giving off a faint lingering fragrance. Soon everybody wants one to adorn his living room or garden and the suggestion is made that it be grown in large numbers. ‘No. We musn’t do that,’ comes a rejoinder. ‘The people on Meel have gone to a lot of trouble to produce this flower. To grow it ourselves would be unethical business practice. We should first of all come to an understanding with the other party.’ ‘You’re too conscientious. The other party is a remote planet. If things come to the worst we can give them some sort of compensation. If they don’t agree, well—they’re unarmed. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ And so the decision is taken to spread the flower around the globe. At first it is exhorbitantly expensive and the flower is a prestige item. Simple-natured people express their feelings with the words, ‘Imported goods are always superior. It’s beautiful!’ The more sophisticated say with a knowing air, ‘It has an exotic beauty.’ Everyone greets it with wild enthusiasm and those who are first to develop it make a huge profit on their outlay.

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In time, however, it comes to be commonplace. Profits decline, and eventually it is found to grow too fast, and a means has to be found to control it. Alas, it is impervious to weed-killer and it spreads faster than people are able to uproot it. In due course it comes to cover the entire world to the detriment and destruction of agriculture and everything else. In desperation the Earth decides to turn to Meel for help, and just as it does so a delegation arrives asking how they liked the flower. With great embarrassment the Earth’s representatives try to explain away how they have surreptitiously developed the sample seed while seeking skilfully to hide the weakness of their position from the other side. Fortunately the visitors do not seem to mind that they have grown the Flower of Prosperity. They even encourage them to grow it still further. The Earthmen are further relieved by the answer they receive when they broach the difficult question of weed-killer: the men from Meel have brought samples with them. These turn out to be bees which quickly spread among the flowers causing them to die. The bees, however, are expensive, and what is worse they are worker bees, incapable of reproduction. When the Meelans are asked to part with queen bees they refuse saying that these are kept strictly on their own planet. The outraged Earthmen threaten to use force but the Meelans simply reply that they will kill all the queens if they are attacked. Morti-fied, the Earthmen must accept their terms, and under the agreement freight rockets arrive at fixed intervals bringing the worker bees and taking the Earth’s most precious resources and manufactures back in return. The men of Meel always seem to excel in their calculations, regulating the number of bees and slowing down the speed of their freight rockets to make sure the flower does not diminish too far. It is all exasperating for the men of Earth, but what they find most exasperating of all is the Meelan remark, ‘Why do you think we called it “the Flower of Prosperity”?’ MOTIVATION OF COMPANIES Company policies are the themes in Hoshi’s ‘Yudai-na Keikaku’ (‘The deep-laid plan’)8 and ‘Endai-na Keikaku’ (‘The grand design’).9 Long-term planning is a well-known characteristic of Japanese business practice, and it can hardly be denied that the adoption of long-term perspectives, careful groundwork, and preference for market share over short-term profits have proved to

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be important ingredients in the Japanese recipe for economic success. In normal circumstances, of course, this is in no way reprehensible and indeed it may be regarded as manifesting a combination of forethought, restraint, and tenacity that the rest of the world might do well to emulate. Not all long-laid or deeplaid schemes are honourable, however, and in these two stories Hoshi highlights two of the dangers that can adhere to longrange planning strategies if moral scruple is abandoned for the sake of narrow sectional gain. The first of these two stories concerns industrial espionage. The world of international espionage is already familiar with the planting of long-term ‘moles’ in one country by another. Here, a Japanese company, driven by fierce competition in the domestic market-place, decides to do this to one of its rivals. A young man named Saburo takes the entrance examination for R company, and one day while he is still waiting for his result he receives a visit from the company president. He is utterly amazed to receive this unexpected honour. After all, a letter would have sufficed. His heart thumping, he realizes he must have been selected for something out of the ordinary. His visitor informs him that he has passed with top marks but he would like him to take the entrance examination for K Company instead. This is R Company’s rival which is always one step ahead, and the young man explains that he chose R Company to take up the challenge of reversing the situation. The president is pleased to hear this and goes on to explain the real purpose behind his visit. He wants the young man to become his protege, rise gradually through the ranks of K Company, and then pass on its important trade secrets. He will be amply rewarded financially, and a directorship will be waiting for him at the end. The young man enters K Company, winning promotion after promotion. Because of his special role, tedium and fatigue do not overcome him. His work is always interesting and exciting. He suffers from no ‘third-year disillusionment’ and outshines all his colleagues. He prospers more and more and reaches a position powerful enough to sack a subordinate who becomes suspicious of him. He receives an offer of marriage to the daughter of one of the directors; to refuse might incur suspicion, so he accepts. He is a good husband to her. Failure to win the family’s trust would also invite suspicion. Eventually he becomes the managing director, and he is now in a position to hand over all the company’s secrets to R Company but by now he has decided that his fortunes are better

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served by remaining where he is. In chagrin R Company denounces him as an industrial spy, but the employees of K Company do not believe the allegation. Indignantly they rally to the support of their new president, working all the harder to increase their sales, finally driving R Company into bankruptcy. The second of these two stories is far more sinister and concerns long-term mental conditioning of the population by a commercial company. In some ways it is reminiscent of J.G. Ballard’s The subliminal man’ but here the scheme is much bolder and deeper in its audacity, design, and long-term planning.10 Mr and Mrs F have just had a baby and one day when they casually open their mail they stare in wide-eyed wonderment at a beautiful catalogue they find inside an envelope. It carries a colour photograph of a strange, new device called ‘The Universal Child Rearer’. It is evidently a very complicated piece of advanced technology, and when they read the explanatory literature they find it is designed to take care of everything involved in a child’s upbringing from babysitting to education and discipline. Furthermore it is quite easy to use. No purchase price is mentioned, so assuming there will be a long-term instalment plan they write away for further information. By return mail they receive the article itself and are amazed to find it is absolutely free. Somewhat suspicious of such a free gift they proceed with caution, wondering if there is a government subsidy behind it. Of course, they can always throw it away if they find it unsatisfactory or dangerous. Quite contrary to their suspicions, however, it turns out to be excellent. It warms the baby’s milk to the right temperature, changes its diapers whenever necessary, comforts it when it cries, and sings it to sleep with soft lullabies. As the child grows it teaches it to speak and tells it fairy tales. No dangerous thoughts are included and Mr and Mrs F are entirely happy to leave everything to the machine. It manages the child’s discipline, telling it to ‘Do this’, or ‘Don’t do that’, speaking always in a gentle voice and administering a firm but gentle smack on the child’s bottom if it disobeys. In this way the child grows up into a well-behaved adult, as do all the other children brought up on this machine. Of course, there are some people who criticize the machine, saying it produces standardized human beings, but it is better to have decent people all of one mould than individualistic villains, and Mr and Mrs F, like all the other parents, are satisfied with its work.

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About the time the young adults have entered the workforce a sentence begins to be heard on radio and television programmes as part of a co-ordinated campaign. ‘Buy this product. Do not buy any other brand.’ There is nothing unusual about the sentence. The problem lies in the voice. Obediently all the people brought up on the machine do as they are told. THE INSURANCE INDUSTRY The insurance industry is singled out for social comment in Hoshi Shin’ichi’s satirical and witty story ‘Go-kigen Hoken’ (‘Mood insurance’).11 In this story an insurance company offers to compensate its policy-holders for everything that may happen to cause even the slightest disturbance to their equanimity. In Japan, as in most if not all capitalist economies, the insurance industry is highly developed, and commentators have noticed a spread of the demand for security throughout widening sections of the community as free-enterprise-based economies move into a more technologically advanced phase. Nobody, it seems, wishes to miss out on the good life and demands previously confined to the upper and middle classes spread to all as wealth and information expand. Japan is no exception to this, and the story may be seen as indicative of a changing public mood, which is quite likely to have profound implications for the future of Japanese social policy. In one important sense Japan is not like the USA. The Japanese people are far less litigious than their American counterparts, and malpractice suits, liability claims, and damages awards are both less frequent and less exorbitant than they are in the USA. Of course, the higher the awards made by courts the higher will be the level of insurance premiums. The problem is not nearly as acute in Japan, and there are deep seated historical reasons for this. The Rule of Law, so deeply ingrained in the American tradition that the very phrase has a majestic ring about it, has traditionally had very different connotations in Japan. Ever since the reign of the First Emperor in China (221–207 BC) the very word legalism has smacked of tyranny in the Far East and Japan is an inheritor of this tradition. Even today it is thought better to strike a gentleman’s agreement and settle out of court than to insist upon exerting one’s ‘rights’ against others in court. Japanese group consciousness and the interlocking network of social responsibilities and obligations, which is the legacy of Confucianism, do not encourage it.

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Another tradition, equally strong, exists in Japan. This is the concept of amae, roughly translatable as ‘spoiling’ or ‘mollycoddling’. It forms an important bond between mother and child and by extension between superior and inferior, senior and junior, and is said to be one of the fundamental props of Japanese social loyalties. The phenomenon is discussed in detail in Doi Takeo’s Amae no Kozo,12 translated into English by John Bester under the title The Anatomy of Dependence.13 It is along the lines of this concept of amae that Hoshi develops his theme of the insurance industry gone wrong. ‘Mood insurance’ is once again a reductio ad absurdum, yet forces at work in society are brought forward in the reader’s mind as the focus is turned on dangers latent in contemporary commercial development. Non-Japanese, and especially American, readers may have even less difficulty in grasping the dangers inherent in modern trends affecting the insurance industry. The story begins one morning when Mr N has just got out of bed. He dials the number of the Universal Life Insurance Company and complains of a stray cat that has disturbed his sleep by its cries. The voice on the other end of the phone offers to send for a cat-catcher but Mr N realizes there will be no point as the cat has now vanished. Instead he agrees to accept a sum of money to compensate him for his annoyance. Later, as he puts a spoonful of sugar in his coffee he notices that the pattern on his sugar bowl has begun to peel off, so once again he rings the insurance company to complain about the shoddy workmanship and the poor business ethics of the company that sold the bowl to him six months before. Although he has only been insured for two months and cannot remember the name of the company that sold the bowl to him the insurance company still agrees to compensate him for his hurt feelings. Several times more throughout the day he rings again to complain about something that does not quite suit him. On the train he has repeatedly tried winking at a beautiful girl but she has ignored him completely. The company reminds him of a clause in his contract which states explicitly that in matters of love it cannot attempt to coerce the other party, but it nevertheless offers him an acceptable sum of money. At work he receives a scolding from his boss and this again is the occasion for a large payout to compensate him for his psychological pain. The company even advises him to go to a bar and spend the money consoling himself there but he is reluctant to diminish his carefully accumulated savings account. Further

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annoyances are settled in a similar way—the defeat of his favourite baseball team, a television programme with too much violence in it, and yet another with not enough. At the end of the day, however, his feelings are quite uplifted thanks to the numerous payouts he has received. He is still feeling quite good at the end of the month when he goes to the bank and gazes happily at all the sums he has been able to deposit, thanks to the payments from the Universal Life Insurance Company. He then draws them all out, and adds to them a considerable proportion of his salary to pay his next premium.

6 Human concerns and values

This chapter will look at the various approaches that are taken in Japanese science fiction to human values. Previous chapters have provided an indication that for all Japan’s modern success all is not satisfaction and contentment in the Japanese mind. Jading both with the current life-style and the media and concern over the consequences of current commercial practices have surfaced in sufficiently varied ways to suggest the existence at least in latent form of serious reservations about the direction in which Japan appears to be travelling. This and the fact that the readership of the genre is so youthful may harbinger, if not exactly predict, changes at least in emphasis and possibly in direction in the future. But evidence of jading, dissatisfaction, disillusionment, and concern is not in itself sufficient to give any positive indication of the possible direction of future thoughts, let alone the commitment, intensity, or passion with which they may be held. For this to become even possible it will be necessary to look at the values which are held by the Japanese people and particularly by its younger generation. Here, once again, the study of science fiction presents itself as a potentially useful tool; the values explicitly expressed or implicitly inlaid in a literature evoking the enthusiastic support of members of the younger generation are for that very reason more likely than not to figure significantly in the formation of attitudes, policies, and strategies in years to come. Some of the values may be negative, some positive. In either case they have the potential to be helpful in enabling the observer to broaden and deepen his appreciation of the changing currents in Japanese thought and society. Let us now turn to concrete examples. The first attitude presented in this chapter is a negative one: a suspicion of the materialist outlook that is felt by many to have governed Japan since the end of the Second World War.

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WARNINGS AGAINST MATERIALISM That the world is drowning in a sea of crass materialism is a theme frequently encountered in Japanese science fiction stories and it figures particularly prominently in the works of Hoshi Shin’ichi. Many of his works referred to already in the previous chapters contain an element of this theme, and this is perhaps a reflection as much as anything of the theme’s ubiquity; it is also of course a tribute to the fact that many themes and concerns appear structurally interwoven into the same story. Nothing less need be expected of Japan’s science fiction authors. It is, after all, a characteristic of good writing. Concern over materialism, then, is a theme already encountered. Its very pervasiveness, however, throughout the concerns of the jaded Japanese, their dissatisfactions and disillusionments with the media and advertising, and their misgivings over the several aspects of commercial and economic life, is itself a reason for not treating those many themes under this one heading. Remaining then are those in which the theme is especially strong in relation to the others, and those in which the primary emphasis is on adventure. The first story presented here ‘Piita Pan no Shima’ (‘Peter Pan’s island’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi, is an example of the former kind;1 the second, Moeru Keisha (The Burning Slope) by Mayumura Taku, is an example of the latter.2 ‘Peter Pan’s island’ is a story of children of fanciful disposition who are taken on a trip to a remote island. They are delighted from the very moment they see the ship that is to take them to their destination. Little do they guess it is a vehicle specially designed to take them to their destruction, and that this is society’s way of ridding itself of children with incurable non-materialistic tendencies. The vessel has a blackish, wooden hull and it is rigged out just like a pirate ship. It even flies a Jolly Roger from the top of its mast, but although it has the resemblance of a sailing ship it is also equipped with modern means of propulsion. But the children are too excited and wrapped up in their dreams to take any notice of such trifles. The captain carries a parrot on his shoulder and a cutlass at his hip, and has a hook where his left hand should be. In short he and everything else about the ship are modelled on the story of Peter Pan, and the children take everything at face value as they sail away to the island of their dreams. One of the children, maintaining the literary parallel, is named Wendy. She, like all the others, has been selected for the trip because of her

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imaginative and dreamy nature, which was first noticed by her parents about a year earlier when she made a remark about a boy living inside a tulip flower. Her parents turned pale at the statement and did all they could to reform her. Failing, they had no alternative but to send her to a special school where a thoroughly systematic effort was made to drive all such unacceptable thoughts from her head. Some children responded positively to the treatment and were cured, but she was not among them. Now she and all the other incorrigibles have been brought together and put on this vessel. For society it is a last resort and for their parents it is a matter of gloom, but for the children it is a wonderful Christmas treat. They are living in an age when all forms of myth and superstition have been banished. Totem poles and such things have all been destroyed, and the spirits of the loathsome past have been well and truly laid to rest. Only in the minds of such children as these do they occasionally come to life, in which case society knows what it must do. The ship at last arrives at the island, and the children, having listened to fairy tales every night on their way out, are full of happy anticipation and eager to go ashore. The captain gives them parting gifts of a knife and a gun as the boat is lowered, and they set off alone for their new life on the island. It does not last long. At the captain’s order a button is pressed and the ship’s jet engines roar into action. Shortly afterwards a new energy test blows the island to smithereens. The story is thus a warning against the propensity of materialistic values to obliterate everything else in life. The Burning Slope by Mayumura Taku is a long adventure story set in the far distant future. In one episode at a time when Earthmen have expanded their control to a range of 150 light years in Space, those who love arts, philosophy, and so on live exclusively in an area of the Earth known as the Easter Zone. Otherwise, the whole of this human civilization is dominated by science and technology primarily as a result of the methods of colonization: whenever a new planet is opened up a party consisting only of engineers and other specialists is sent there in a state of cryogenic suspension. Shirota, 30 years of age, works for Universal Services Ltd. He holds technology in high esteem, but as he has a father who came from the Easter Zone, he also has some inclination to attach importance to individuality, the spiritual side of life, and the emotions. Desperate at the pervasiveness of the attitude that regards technology as everything, he buys a policy with Dream Insurance

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to escape from the Earth and asks to be transferred to a totally new world where there are no human beings. By instant telekinesis equipment he is sent to a planet 18,000 light years away from the Earth inhabited by a race known as the Eridanians. Since their bodies comprise mainly carbon and oxygen they are not physically very dissimilar from Earthmen but they have a dangerous enemy known as the Eibarts who have annihilated many races and aim to control the whole Galaxy. This enemy race is all the more formidable by virtue of its ability to reproduce itself out of any material by using its own bodies as catalysts. The Eridanians desperately need to strike an alliance with the Earth to help them defeat their foe. For this purpose they need subjects to examine in order to enable them to understand the physical and mental characteristics of Earthmen, and it is precisely with this aim in view that they have established Dream Insurance Ltd on Earth. Shirota is their first guinea pig. The Eridanians differ from Earthmen in two important respects: they have a totalitarian society, and heterosexual attachments have been abandoned as these have long been considered to be conducive to a spirit of individualism incompatible with the optimum form of social organization. They have noticed that of late the Earth has been making rapid progress, and they wonder if they have anything to learn from the Earth’s example. From Shirota they learn that sexual desire has played an important role in the development of human civilization. With mutual understanding much improved and human values enhanced, Earthmen and the Eridanians form an alliance, and with the Earth’s support the Eibarts are vanquished. In this way human values are powerfully asserted, and the excessive materialism of the Eridanians is shown to be the central reason for their lack of success prior to their mending of their ways. POLLUTION AND CONSERVATION Another concern to figure prominently in science fiction is human beings’ relationship with nature. Worry over the effects of pollution and a growing desire for conservation of the environment have been typical of new movements in western thought over the last two or three decades, and while it cannot be claimed that Japan has been at the forefront of such movements as the ‘Save the Whale’ campaign it is clear that the Japanese have their own movements on matters which are of concern to them. The anti-nuclear

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movement, for instance, is particularly strong, as the hazards of radiation have a particularly painful relevance for the Japanese, and this concern will be dealt with in Chapter 13, ‘War and the bomb’. ‘Minamata disease’ (mercury poisoning caused by the consumption of contaminated marine products) is also a very well-documented Japanese case study of the disastrous effects of pollution. Science fiction, however, is above all imaginative fiction, and its concerns accordingly are not so much existing, known disasters as future imaginary ones. Japanese writings on such themes reveal a widening area of concern with a scope beyond specifically Japanese issues. We need not be surprised, therefore, if the Japanese like others come to express a mounting reservation over human pollution of the environment and a growing interest in conservation issues. The following stories represent a cross-section of Japanese approaches and contributions to the world-wide literature on these subjects. ‘Jinrui Saiban’ (‘Judgement on man’) by Komatsu Sakyo is a full-blooded criticism of human beings’ attack on their environment.3 According to this story people are pathologically incapable of doing anything except destroy; they are themselves the blight afflicting the Universe. A few centuries have elapsed since humans first began to travel in Space. By now they have settled down on several planets outside the Solar System, some of which have their own life forms. In recent years, however, many accidents have befallen human exploration teams as they venture farther into Space. At first these began to happen at a distance seven light years away from Earth, but now the ring has closed in and people are unable any longer to travel more than one light year without encountering an invisible wall. A luminous object resembling a spaceship approaches the Solar System, rendering all in it powerless and drawing everyone’s attention. It is the Judge of the Universe, who declares that his court is now in session and the human race is on trial. Three charges are to be answered: first, that on a planet in the Centaur System human beings killed plants and insects wholesale and have annihilated almost all bacteria; second, that they have robbed a planet of the Altair System of huge amounts of natural resources and have left behind large piles of industrial waste that have destroyed many animals and plants; and third, that on a planet in the Eridanus System they have murdered large numbers of

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primates bearing a close similarity to themselves. The Chief Justice of the Earth’s Federation defends the human race on the first two charges, claiming that these two actions are legal on Earth. He does not attempt a defence on the third charge, however, but offers in mitigation a statement that the killing of other beings recognized as human is very rare. The Public Prosecutor of the Universe produces witnesses to refute this claim—a Mexican Indian killed by Spanish troops, an African enslaved in America, a Vietnamese killed in the Vietnam War, a Jew killed on the orders of Hitler, and a Japanese killed by the atomic bomb. To these are added the spirits of birds, insects, trees, plants, and domestic animals, and the Judge is moved to comment how lamentable the record is and wonder why human beings have found it impossible to combine virtue with scientific progress. Before sentence is passed the defence counsel claims that the law of the jungle has been taken for granted for much of human history, and in fact has been necessary to the progress of human civilization. The sentence is none the less severe. Every living thing except human beings shall be removed from the Solar System and only one man and one woman will be permitted to reside outside it. In ‘Aozora’ (‘A blue sky’) Komatsu reduces his scope and time frame, the subject being atmospheric pollution, the setting Japan, and the time the near future.4 It could almost be set in the present. The first-person narrator and his woman friend live in a huge, sprawling metropolis which is plagued by smogs. In the hot, humid weather of summer the range of vision in the streets is restricted to 10 metres; even at noon the light is as dim as if it were dusk. The couple keep a date on a street corner. He likes her low, husky voice and finds it sexually attractive; both of them like the smog because they find the light neither too dark nor too dazzling. When they enter a restaurant she removes from her pharynx a soot-filled filter and thereafter speaks to him in a higher-pitched voice. He finds this attractive too, and he gives her a kiss on her lips, having first pushed aside the long, dangling hairs of her nostrils. In short, they are both thoroughly adapted to life in the smogbound city. When a holiday comes they decide to take a trip together to the countryside. Now for the first time in their lives they see a clear, blue sky. In spite of their sun-glasses and thick skin creams they are strongly affected by the sunlight and suffer skinburn and severe pains in their eyes. Things are so bad that they decide to

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call off their holiday and return home ahead of schedule. They realize that for them the city is a far better place to live. ‘Seishuku no Tsuro’ (‘A quiet corridor’) is also set in Japan in the near future but this time Komatsu’s mood is much more sombre.5 The narrator’s wife Kyoko is taken to hospital, where she has her third miscarriage. Since the couple are eager to have a child both feel depressed, but while the wife is recovering in hospital the husband has an affair with one of the nurses. She is young and good-looking, takes the pill, and regards lovemaking both as a means of communicating with men and as a kind of sport. She has been living like this since the age of 14. Kyoko, however, is more old-fashioned in her views about sex and, perhaps because she was brought up in the countryside, she regards it as a means of procreation. She and her husband undergo various medical examinations and decide to have their baby by in vitro fertilization and an artificial uterus, and since the fertilization is a success she goes to the hospital every day to observe the growth of the embryo in its artificial environment. Shortly afterwards the narrator-husband is appointed to investigate the reason for the death of trees and plants in a park built on reclaimed land. A senior public official from the Forestry Department tells him the scene is reminiscent of areas of Vietnam defoliated by the US military some twenty years before and that the park and a large modern residential area nearby are situated in an area where there had been a heavy chemical engineering plant and an oil refinery until about fifteen years before. A hole is excavated in the worst affected spot until a substance resembling tar is discovered at a depth of about 5 metres. Laboratory analysis reveals harmful elements and compounds in the substance and it is eventually concluded that the defoliation is the result of seepage of these toxins into underground water combined with changes in the flow of the underground water resulting from the construction of the new residential area. On his return home he finds his wife Kyoko in bed with a senior official of the Health Department. She immediately asks him for a divorce. Their embryo has died and she has come to the conclusion that marriage is meaningless without the hope of having a child. The official then explains in greater detail the reason for her desperation and apparent change of personality. Until six or seven years ago the maternity wards of most hospitals had been full of the cries of new-born babies. But now they have grown quiet as a

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result of a drastic reduction in the birth-rate. Furthermore most of the new-born babies are deformed and are unable to survive beyond the age of 3. This is because of the long-term absorption of toxic chemicals into women’s bodies. Hearing this, the husband understands. A broad-brush approach to the problem is characteristic of the treatment it receives at the hands of Hoshi Shin’ichi. A hole in the ground also figures in his story ‘Ooi, Dete Kooi’ (‘Hey! Come out of it’) but here the hole is not the result of human excavation.6 Nor is it merely 5 metres deep. It appears, apparently naturally, in a village that loses its shrine in the middle of a fierce typhoon, and its depth is unfathomable. About 1 metre in diameter, it is as black as pitch, and it seems to be so deep it might reach even to the centre of the Earth. ‘Hey! Come out of it,’ calls a young man, peering down the hole. But from the depths there comes no answer, not even an echo. He then throws down a pebble, but still no sound comes back. The villagers make a fence and cordon off the area, and then return to discuss what to do about it. They are still deliberating whether to build their new shrine on top of it when a press car draws up. Newspaper men are followed by an academic, who pompously peers down the hole with a know-it-all expression on his face. Next come the sightseers and one or two people with a shrewd and crafty air about them who look as if they might be concession-hunters. A policeman is assigned to the spot to make sure nobody falls in. A journalist tries fixing a weight to the end of a string and lowering it down. It will go farther and farther down but will not come back, and finally the string breaks and the journalist gives up. The academic returns with high-performance amplifying equipment to test the depth acoustically but as there is no echo at all he is completely baffled. Even turning up the volume to a level that can be heard tens of kilometres away produces no results. Miffed and feeling small, he simply says to someone ‘Fill it in’, as if he is in complete command of the situation, in this way managing to evade the issue and cover up his ignorance. But somebody does have an idea for filling it in. This is an entrepreneur who offers the villagers a new shrine somewhere else if they will give him the exclusive rights to fill in the hole. His offer is too tempting to refuse, and he for his part is as good as his word. He builds a new shrine closer to the village with an assembly hall attached, and when the autumn festival is held in the new shrine, his company has its sign on display

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by the side of the road. He has set his canvassers to work throughout the urban areas to advertise his hole as a suitable depository for all forms of garbage, and he also succeeds in securing a government licence to dispose of the radioactive waste of atomic reactors. Soon a regular convoy of trucks begins to arrive to throw down everything from heavy leaden containers to secret government documents, and concerned villagers are assured that there can be no ill effects from the toxic wastes for several thousand years. Furthermore, they will have a share of the profits as well as the benefits of a fine new road linking them to the city. In this way their misgivings are assuaged. In due course the dead bodies of vagabonds and tramps are thrown down the hole too along with all sorts of animal offal. Everybody is pleased with these easy means of disposing of garbage and all find it more congenial to engage in constructive work rather than deal with the unpleasant task of treating waste. One day when a construction worker is taking a rest after driving rivets into a steel girder high up on a high rise development site he hears a voice calling down to him from the blue sky: ‘Hey! Come out of it.’ This is followed by a small pebble that narrowly misses him. But he does not notice. His eyes are fixed on the skyline of the city, which is daily becoming more and more beautiful. Irony is again employed by Hoshi in ‘Uchu no Sekisho’ (‘Space checkpoint’).7 Once again pollution and contamination are the themes, but the setting has moved off the Earth, and as in the case of Komatsu’s ‘ Judgement on man’ the issue is set in Space. The outcome of the story, however, is very different; indeed in some ways it may be regarded as its mirror opposite. The mood is positive in tone, and far from being a tale of the ravages of pollution it is a noble account of its determined prevention. An artificial satellite manned by a crew of several score outstanding upright men orbits the Earth, performing an important function. It is an inspection station that was established as a matter of necessity as people advanced into Space. Its purpose is to stop anything dangerous or harmful from making its way through to Earth, and with the sophisticated equipment they have on board the crew ensure the protection of the Earth from any contamination from Space. Not only bacteria but also anything that might wreak havoc on the Earth’s economy, such as a tree capable of gathering gold in its roots for instance, is rigorously prevented from getting through. The director of the inspection station is vested with

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absolute authority to investigate or seize anything, and a radar and surveillance network covering all approaches to the Earth ensures that nothing can escape his detection. Typically whenever a spaceship returns from a distant planet, its crew members are all thoroughly disinfected. All seeds and materials are examined thoroughly and all papers are scrupulously checked. Even then the inspection is not complete; the incoming crew must be kept under observation to see if any alien intelligence might have invaded their brains. Only when the director is completely satisfied that everything is perfectly safe are they permitted to proceed to the Earth. Aware of his awesome responsibility he leaves nothing to chance. Although he has the authority to fire upon and destroy any ship that does not comply with his order to submit to inspection, most captains appreciate the reasons for his thoroughness and give their friendly co-operation. He has just completed a friendly inspection of an incoming ship when he is informed of an outgoing craft that is applying for permission to pass without inspection. Permission is refused and the captain is angry when he is brought before the director. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ demands the irate captain. ‘We’re an expeditionary team bound for Cygnus. Haven’t you been informed?’ The director insists on seeing the complete inventory and orders all weapons to be removed from the ship. He also orders it to be disinfected. In this way the inspection station prevents anything dangerous or harmful from passing in either direction. Not only does it prevent contamination of the Earth from Outer Space, but aiso it prevents contamination of Outer Space by the Earth. There is a hint that the director and his subordinates might themselves have been influenced by some sort of thought pattern from Outer Space. Closely allied to the theme of pollution is the theme of conservation. In many contexts they go hand in hand, a point that is reflected in both Komatsu’s ‘Judgement on man’ and Hoshi’s ‘Space checkpoint’. In ‘Tomo o Ushinatta Yoru’ (‘The night we lost a friend’) Hoshi’s concern is not so much pollution as the danger of extinction faced by other animals as a consequence of the human race’s advance.8 The animal chosen is not exactly a small cuddly one, but it is nevertheless popular and capable of arousing sympathy in the public’s imagination. Hoshi’s presentation here is warm and touching yet at the same time the scenario, set in the

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not-too-far-distant future, is chillingly real. The subject is the demise of the world’s last elephant. ANIMAL TRAINING AND EXPERIMENTS The relationship of human beings with their fellow creatures is a subject that reaches deep into the human psyche. For long periods of history attitudes may not have changed very much in any one society, although there have been striking differences between different societies. While Christians have regarded humans as being possessed of an immortal soul responsible to its creator and thus marked off as distinct from the beasts of the field, Buddhists have tended to see all creatures as possessing a spiritual entity, albeit at different levels. Hindus regard the cow as sacred; Moslems see the pig as unclean. In Japan Shinto has traditionally seen divinity as immanent even in inanimate natural phenomena, while under the Buddhist tradition the Japanese have never regarded humans as distinctly possessed of a soul not to be found in animals. That religion has played its part in the human attitude towards animals is undeniable. Of course, it has also played a major part in determining people’s attitudes towards other people and this too in these days of secular humanism must have a bearing on human attitudes to fellow creatures. The Japanese tradition is very different from any in the west, and it is therefore not likely to be surprising if traditional Japanese attitudes are quite different and distinct from those of the west. If one looks to twentieth-century literature for an example of radically different modes of thought from our own, one need only consider Hakai (The Broken Commandment), written by Shimazaki Toson in 1906.9 This is the story of the plight of a young teacher of eta10 background who is warned by his father never to reveal his identity. Although Japan, by this time a rapidly changing society, has already rejected any legal distinction according to caste, the old religion-based prejudices still remain. The eta are those who have incurred religious impurity chiefly by association with four-legged animals as butchers, tanners, disposers of offal, and so on. Although many more years have now passed since the abolition of the legal distinction, it still exists in the minds of the Japanese and discrimination persists. For all this, Japanese science fiction does not in the main show attitudes on this subject that would be out of place in the west. The

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reason, it is presumed, lies in the fact that science fiction is the literature of a society that is conscious of change. It is in many respects the child of Charles Darwin: it is conscious of evolution. It is, indeed, the fiction of evolution. Even where hardware and new scientific discovery are not introduced it is conscious of scientific method and the scientific approach. Attitudes towards animals are changing both in the west and in Japan, and the literature of science fiction would appear to suggest they are on a course of convergence. ‘The night we lost a friend’ strongly supports this impression. The conservationist sentiments expressed in the story would in no way be out of place in the west; perhaps Japanese public opinion is behind the western in this respect. Attitudes towards whale-hunting, for instance, would suggest that it is, but when writers of science flction can write such emotionally moving stories about lovable animals as Hoshi has done here, the minds of the younger generation are obviously subject to an appeal on behalf of humanity’s threatened fellow creatures. The growing fad for cuddly animal toys serves only to reinforce this impression still further. To be sure, ‘The night we lost a friend’ is not typical Hoshi. He seldom appeals so directly to the emotions. His usual weapon is irony; while he frequently mentions animal training and experiments in his works they seldom constitute his major point. More frequently they are incidental or instrumental in bringing out some targetted facet of human nature. A notable exception is ‘Fuman’, which literally translates as ‘Dissatisfaction’11 Perhaps a better English title would be ‘The malcontent’. The story is told in the first person by an unwilling astronaut who is put on board a rocket and shot off into the sky. Why they have treated him so terribly he cannot understand but he knows it is useless to resist and so he accepts it as his cruel fate. ‘What do you find so interesting about doing this to me?’ were his thoughts as he glared at them when they shut him up in the rocket. But they were not in the least bit interested in his thoughts, and they kept on smiling at him as they banged the door shut. Not long after take-off he begins to experience weightlessness. He bangs and screams to be let out, but all to no avail. Presently he stops, knowing it is hopeless. Damn them, he thinks to himself. But not long afterwards he begins to scream again when something even more frightening begins to happen. He notices that it is gradually growing colder. In spite of all his efforts to keep himself warm he slowly begins to freeze, and regretting that he has been so compliant

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all his life he curses the brutes who have done this to him and prepares himself for his end, finally losing consciousness. Suddenly he comes to, and, looking around, he wonders if he is in the land of the dead. He is in a strange room surrounded by a crowd of beings in tight-fitting red suits who are all gazing down at him. The walls are shining with a golden light and as he sits up and gazes around at his strange new surroundings he mutters inadvertently to himself that it is not such a bad place after all; he should have died sooner. But one of the red-suited figures replies, ‘You’re still alive.’ He is amazed both by the information and by the fact that they have been able to understand him. ‘Our civilization is far in advance of yours,’ they explain. The device we’ve attached to your head conveys all your thoughts to us and ours to you/With his fingers he feels a metallic object on top of his head and through it he learns they have found him drifting in Space in a state of deep freeze and have brought him back to their own planet to revive him. All his thoughts are taken seriously, and they are perfect gentlemen in their treatment of him. What a contrast to those scoundrels on Earth… When they ask how he came to be floating in Space he denies any bravery on his part. Rather, he tells them, he has been a coward. He then goes on to tell them what has gradually been forming in his mind: ‘I suppose their real aim was to subjugate and occupy a planet like this some day.’ With this a look of distaste spreads over their faces. They tell him the Earth in its existing state of civilization has no hope of conquering their planet and they advise that the idea be dropped. They will send him back to Earth to convey this message. This suggestion he strongly resists: ‘You may think it strange that I speak so ill of my own planet but I doubt there’s any place more devoid of sense. You can see for yourselves what they did to me against my will. They didn’t care whether I wanted to go or not. They just forced me to go willy-nilly. If you let them carry on in this way there’s no telling what they’ll do next. It would be better to do something while there’s still time. It would be for everybody’s benefit.’ He has never been able to express his thoughts so freely on Earth, and he goes on in this way until he finally breaks down their

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gentlemanly resistance to the idea. Finally they are convinced that the Earth must be destroyed for the sake of Universal peace. But even now they decline to press the button that will blow the Earth to smithereens. The Earthling must do this for himself. Without a moment’s hesitation the monkey obliges.

7 Consciousness of generational change

GENERATIONAL CHANGES IN ATTITUDES TOWARDS THE WORK ETHIC In this chapter we shall take a look at the changing attitudes of Japanese generations. Quite possibly there is no more profound or telling change in a nation’s temperament or mood than that which emerges in the dominant discourse of the younger generation. Frugality and the work ethic have long been regarded as Japanese virtues, and how the new generation of Japanese is going to react to the era of plenty against the background of a long history of rigid family and generational controls is likely to be a powerful indication of the nation’s future course. Science fiction, the literature that appeals to the young although not exactly written by them, has the potentiality to address the concerns of the thinking young who take the changed economic circumstances and technology-induced life-style for granted. It may even at times ‘zero in’ on their major preoccupations, although in this regard caution should be exercised lest the very notion of ‘zeroing in’ be taken to imply that any one issue is exclusively in focus. Japan is a pluralistic society with many ideas and concepts in competition with each other for the minds of the people, especially the young, notwithstanding the fact that a large, and by international standards, a striking, homogeneity exists between them. Their concerns are many, and the concerns of science fiction are many. It is not a purpose literature designed to mould the mind in any one particular way as is the ‘Science Fantasy’ of eastern Europe and the People’s Republic of China. It is a free literature, freely ranging over any of the topics or concerns that may enter the fertile imagination of its writers and evoke a response in its readers. It is, however, the literature of a society in change and

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of those within that society who are most conscious of change. It is therefore likely as much as any other medium of expression to reflect changes, if they exist, in the fundamental attitudes of the Japanese nation to its basic values, and of these the attitude to work and to those with whom one works are unquestionably among the most critical to the future of the Japanese economy and Japanese society. Changing generational attitudes to work are the subject of ‘Minarai no Daiichinichi’ (‘The first day of an apprenticeship’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi.1 If one is to become a master of one’s craft it is necessary to study hard and learn every aspect of the trade. This is a traditional Japanese outlook and the virtue of learning from the master is deeply engrained on the Japanese mind. Even in these days of rapid obsolescence of new as well as old techniques the Japanese tradition dies hard. Even the cut-throat competition of modern industry has not removed the virtue of thorough training from the Japanese value system, and conscientious unflagging effort is still seen as the road to success. Indeed, traditional values are underlined all the more by the fact that the business concerned is not a legitimate one. The apprentice in the story goes to work for his uncle who is a thief. The work promises to be more interesting and enjoyable than any ordinary humdrum craft. Here, at any rate, we may see an acknowledgement of boredom with commonplace tasks and of a growing desire on the part of the Japanese young to seek satisfaction and personal fulfilment in their work. We also see in this story the desire of the young to take short cuts. The young man of the story, however, is quickly disabused of any misconceptions he may have about the nature of his new work. His uncle is a superb master of his craft and in a lifetime of thieving he has never been caught even once. This has been due to his consistent attention to detail. He is the maestro, and he demands strict discipline and attention from his pupil. ‘Today’s youngsters are too slack,’ he sternly lectures his nephew. ‘They lack staying power.’ On the first day all the apprentice has to do is watch: ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s war you’re talking about, or love, or work, or revolution. If you act just out of impulse and starry-eyed enthusiasm you’re certain to fail. But if you plan

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it through to the last detail before you make your move, you’ll win every time. Our objective tonight is a clock.’ When the young man mutters that this hardly seems worth the effort, the old man upbraids him still further. The important thing is the thoroughness of the training. First they begin with physical exercises until the sweat pours from them. Then the old man elaborately disguises his face, only to cover it with a mask. ‘The mask might slip,’ he explains, with a warning about hidden cameras and ever-improving crime-prevention devices. He then puts on a specially made pair of large shoes and a pair of rubber gloves to make sure he will leave no identifiable footprints or fingerprints. Preparations all completed, he makes his raid leaving his apprentice outside to keep guard. On the way back home he speaks in a slurred voice pretending to be drunk. Only after he has examined the clock carefully does he resume his normal speech. His pretence of drunkenness has been necessary to get him off lightly should there be any listening devices inside the clock. The young man is amazed at the old man’s skill and comes to the conclusion that he should choose an easier lifestyle. INTERGENERATIONAL RELATIONS While generational differences in attitudes towards the work ethic have been the major focus of the story just reviewed, relations between the generations themselves come to the forefront in the stories that follow. Respect for the older generation has been a primary obligation laid upon the young throughout the whole of Japan’s recorded history, and like the writing system itself (and hence the ability to record that history) it is derived from China. Of course, the Confucian ethical system, while prescribing loyalty to parents, seniors, and superiors as a primary obligation of the young, also enjoins benevolence on the part of the recipients of that loyalty towards their juniors, and in a properly ordered, ideal Confucian society this would no doubt be the case. That the system has, on the whole, operated fairly well over many instances throughout long periods of history need not be denied. Numerous cases, however, are on record in the histories of both China and Japan to indicate that the old have not always behaved out of benevolence and that the power of the older generation has been exercised in capricious, selfish, and oppressive ways. Much of the twentieth-century

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literature of these two nations dwells on these problems, and examples of intergenerational strife as they are revealed in the modern mainstream literature of Japan are both outside the scope of this volume and much too numerous to permit an attempt at a comprehensive coverage here. It is hoped that merely the brief mention of four such stories will give an indication of the kind of coverage the topic has received. ‘Sei’ (‘Life’) by Tayama Katai (1908) shows a vivid picture of a family ruled by the tyrannical hand of its mother during the hard but changing times of Meiji Japan.2 Although tyrannical, the mother is not unsympathetically portrayed in this typical work of the Naturalist school. ‘Seibei to Hyotan’ (‘Seibei and the gourds’) by Shiga Naoya (1913), a writer of the Shirakaba school noted for its beliefs in individualism, is the story of the repression of a young boy’s creative urges by a stern father and a bigoted teacher.3 In more recent times, two novels, Kuchibue o Fuku Toki (When I Whistle)4 and Ichi, Ni, San! (One, Two, Three!),5 both by Endo Shusaku have served to shed a further updated light on Japanese generational differences. The former story contrasts the misplaced, abused yet unselfish idealism of the prewar generation with the self-seeking, self-centred, rat-racing materialism of the post-war breed; while the latter, taking a different perspective, dwells upon the pressures placed upon the younger generation to acquire the all-important respectable gakureki (academic record of achievement) to the complete destruction of personality, in contrast to the pomposity of an older generation trying to cover up its corrupted past. The contribution of science fiction, of course, allows much greater reign to the imagination. In some cases downright hostile to each other, the generations presented in the following stories by Komatsu Sakyo lack mutual comprehension. In all cases except the first the stories may be seen as reflecting a profound change that is under way in intergenerational relations. ‘Shintoshi Kensetsu’ (‘The construction of a new capital’) takes the f form of a lament by a member of the older generation on the changing times.6 An old man complains about the construction of new capital city in the area where he has long lived. He finds it sad and unreasonable that the good traditions of his country should be abandoned to make way for so many novelties. His grandson, however, objects, insisting that it is only through the introduction of good ideas from other countries that progress can be made, and adding that when all the new building is completed the area will be

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a much cleaner and more convenient place to live. The old man is still not convinced; for him the area was clean and convenient enough when he was a boy. He takes a walk with his youngest granddaughter, the apple of his eye, around the construction sites and gazes sadly at the huge, loud-coloured columns, the sparkling green roofs, and the geometrically laid-out streets. These he feels, cannot possibly harmonize with the Japanese tradition, and he begins to weep. The time is the eighth century, and he is standing in the new Japanese capital, Nara. The story thus makes the telling point that the older generation has always been inclined to bemoan changes, and in this respect it tells us nothing new. Of course, there have always been differences between generations and the age-old gap in outlook between the old and the young is always something we should bear in mind in assessing generational change. There are many instances, however, leading us to believe that changes in generational outlooks and in generational relations themselves are particularly and unusually acute in the present age, if only because of the accelerated pace of change itself. From one narrow point of view the story may not be regarded as science fiction at all; perhaps it could be called a period story. But hardware is not everything. Science fiction is a literature that is conscious of change, particularly of the evolutionary kind, and a story reflecting generational change such as this fully deserves to be counted among Komatsu’s SF works. The science fiction technique is in fact visible in Komatsu’s use of special licence in the way the grandson is permitted to argue with his grandfather. This is not true to the historical traditions of Japan. Other stories flowing from the pen of Komatsu Sakyo are more sombre in their treatment in intergenerational relations, and in two of them the generations are virtually in a state of war. In the first of these, ‘Yami no Naka no Kodomo’ (‘The child in the dark’),7 adultsare chasing children with the object of slaughtering them, while in the second, ‘Semarikuru Ashioto’ (‘The sound of chasing feet’),8 itisthe turn of the aged to be hounded for their lives. ‘The child in the dark’ begins with a small boy in traditional Japanese clothing dashing into the house of a writer of science fiction. He pleads for refuge, saying that a terrible adult is out to catch and kill him in spite of his having done nothing wrong. Shortly afterwards a man dressed as a samurai bursts in and asks the writer if he has seen the runaway boy. The writer covers up for the boy

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and puts his pursuer off the scent, only to find that the boy, acting out of a complete mistrust of adults, has made off taking the writer’s own two children with him. The writer chases after them but eventually loses track. On his return home he is just on the point of telephoning the police when he himself receives a call from a friend. The friend is a newspaperman familiar with Kabuki dramas, and when he hears what has happened he advises him that the incident must have something to do with the Kabuki play that is currently being performed at the local theatre close to the writer’s house. They hurry into the theatre, and there they find both the man and the boy he was chasing performing on the stage. The play is a ‘samurai drama’, depicting the loyalty of the warrior class. In it the parents kill their children in order to demonstrate their loyalty to their lord, and although they cry over the deaths of their children they believe they have done the right thing. As he watches the drama the writer cannot help but regret that the behaviour of the parents is both selfish and crazy and he finds himself pondering why the play has been so popular with Japanese audiences for so many centuries. He cannot help but think there is something wrong with the traditional Japanese attitude towards their children. In ‘The sound of chasing feet’ older people are the quarry of the young. Regarding the old as corrupt, cunning, and bigoted, the young have started to kill them, and this has been going on for about thirty years at the time the story begins. It is an age when most goods are produced by automated machinery, and people do not inherit skills or culture from the older generation. A 78-year-old man is living alone in a single room of a small, shabby apartment house. He has managed to live to the age of 78 only by skilfully disguising himself, and since there are very few middle-aged or old people left alive in the world he feels very lonely. One day, when he decides to go out, he begins as usual by disguising himself thoroughly as a young man. Firstly, he carefully massages his skin with a skin lotion and smoothes it down. Second, he dyes his hair black and puts on a toupee. Third, he puts eye iotion into his eyes to make them sparkle. Then he puts in his false teeth and finally dresses in bright clothes with the appropriate accessories. After completing all these preparations he goes out. The young people in the street are dressed in gaudy, grotesque, and highly individualistic attire. One young man, for instance, has painted half of his body black, and another is wearing spaghetti and ketchup on top of his head. A girl is

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wearing a dress made up simply of folding fans, while another has her body wrapped in satin tapes and her pubic hair painted purple. The sight of all these young people almost makes the old man forget his age. He goes into a bar where he drinks a glass of spirits containing an aphrodisiac. He then picks up a girl of congenial temperament and after talking with her for a while he paints a giant picture of the female genitalia on her naked body. As she begins to dance he feels as if the genitalia are dancing in front of him. Things now begin to go wrong; she asks him to get undressed in turn. Naturally he is reluctant to do so but all the people around grab hold of him and undress him, and he is now revealed as a senile, ugly old man. He flees for his life, those behind shouting, ‘Oldster, oldster, oldster!’ He runs as fast as he can, but the effort is too much for him and he dies of sheer exhaustion. This picture of intergenerational conflict is modified in Komatsu’s next two stories merely to one of generational change. In the first of these, adults are simply absent and children have to fend for themselves, making a very fair fist of it. The story is thus optimistic in tone and bears a striking contrast in mood to William Golding’s celebrated Lord of the Flies in which a group of choir boys, stranded on their own without adults on a desert island, revert to savagery.9 The method of the children’s isolation in ‘O-Meshi’ (‘The calling’)10 ismuchmore mysterious, as is not unfitting for a work of science fiction (cf Robert Sheckley: ‘Fishing season’),11 but more importantly the point is quite different: that children left on their own can behave responsibly and intelligently. Possibly religious undertones may be detected here: the Christian concept of original sin versus the Confucian concept of original virtue. But to a much greater extent the works are contributions to separate ongoing philosophical debates in the west and in the east. Golding is refuting Rousseau’s concept of the noble savage and its impact on western pedagogical practice. Komatsu is concerned to counter the ancient Confucian acceptance that ‘father knows best’. The challenge to this outlook is of relatively recent origin in the east (Taoist doubts aside) and impetus to it has come first from the west and more recently, in Japan’s case, from the impact of modern technology and learning. ‘Hamonika’ (‘The harmonica’) addresses this question even more directly.12 ‘The calling’ begins with an analogy from fish cultivation. When the fry reach a certain size in their nursery pond they are transferred to a larger pond. Komatsu examines how human beings might react

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if they found themselves in a similar situation. One day millennia hence the Minister for Cultural Affairs receives a report from a subordinate. A record has been found of events that have taken place 3,000 years before. The record is in the form of a contemporaneous first-hand narrative and it appears to have been written by a boy, who states how the children have coped after all adults have been removed to a parallel world. In ‘The harmonica’ we find a middle-aged man relaxing at home reading a book, while close to him his youngest son, a fourth-grade primary school student, and his American girlfriend from next door are playing with a home computer. Completely conversant with the software, they are talking to each other in a computer language the boy’s father cannot understand. The second son (the boy’s older brother) understands a little of the computer language, however, and he interprets their conversation into normal Japanese for his father. Apparently the American girl has spent all her monthly allowance and is asking the youngest son to lend her some money, but he too has spent up all his money and is unable to oblige. The second son, who is now a junior high school student, has himself learned computer language at the primary school. But this is the older computer language, now superseded by a newer variety which he understands only with difficulty. His younger brother on the other hand has been learning the new language since the age of 2, and is as conversant with it as he is with ordinary Japanese. As there is only one computer in the home the two sons have often fought over it, and the youngest has asked his father to buy another. The father has answered that another would be an extravagance they could not afford. He is left pondering the incident, however, and he reflects how he first bought the computer for himself on reaching middle age. Since then the technology has advanced so fast he has been unable to keep up, so instead of using it himself he has given it to his sons to play with and use as they see fit. He goes on to reflect further. He remembers how his father had opposed his own entry into postgraduate school and how he had pressed on regardless of his father’s wishes. The result had been that he had been able to remain active in his professional life much longer than would otherwise have been the case. After all these considerations he finally agrees to buy another home computer for his sons, and, the decision made, he picks up a harmonica he used to play in the days shortly after he was married. His wife, who hears him, tells him he is playing a very old tune.

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Relations between specific Japanese generations also feature in ‘Sedai Kakumei’ (‘The generation revolution’) by Ikushima Jiro.13 By now in effect a period piece, this story is told in the first person by a young man who has just been appointed to a position as section chief in the planning and production department of a leading advertising agency. In this capacity he has to work on a plan for a new television programme, and his departmental head insists that he work on a science fiction story. The head has heard that such stories are popular with university students and believes that the results will be satisfactory to his company’s clients. No market research has been done on the subject but the new section chief is in a weak position and has no alternative but to follow his boss’s hunch. The boss is, of course, a member of the older generation and lives in every expectation that his hunches will be obeyed. His idea is something of a plagiarism on the book Martians Go Home by Frederick Brown. The new section chief is working on the idea alone in the office when a green dwarf resembling one of the Martians in Frederick Brown’s book suddenly appears to him. He tells him that he is part of a party that has come to Japan to help the war generation (those born between 1926 and 1940) to carry out a revolution against the Meiji generation (those born before 1912). It is the Meiji generation, he explains, that has plunged Japan into the folly of the Second World War, and it has not accepted its full responsibility for its actions. On the contrary, under the protection afforded them by the seniority system, they are still dominant in Japanese society. Furthermore, in recent years they have been insisting on Japan’s rearmament. As a result of the Meiji generation’s machinations, the younger generation is completely frustrated in its hope for a say in affairs, and what is more it has to bear the brunt of the hard work that has to be done. With the aid of a green dwarf on their shoulders the members of the younger generation are now able to communicate without speaking. As the police force and self-defence forces are made up chiefly of their own generation they are able to carry out a Generation Revolution. Throughout Japan war criminals who have escaped justice and are now occupying important positions are brought before a new Tokyo Military Tribunal. The worst offenders are executed and the rest of the Meiji generation is taken to concentration camps where its members are classified according to their attitude towards the war generation.

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This story, angrier in tone than the works of Komatsu Sakyo or Hoshi Shin’ichi, is indicative of generational attitudes that existed in Japan in the aftermath of the war up to the late 1960s. It is reflected in many other stories of the period in mainstream literature as well as science fiction, and indeed the aftermath of war constitues a major theme in Japanese literature. The pursuit of a war criminal and resentment of his respected position in society figures in Endo Shusaku’s One, Two, Three! mentioned earlier in this chapter. Segawa, the criminal concerned, is a thoroughly despicable figure and pompous to boot. Even discovery of his crime cannot shake him; his position is too secure. Here, however, the contrast is with a still younger generation, the one born after 1940, that must walk the treadmill of Japan’s stifling education system. It is noteworthy that in both cases the crimes of the Meiji generation are seen principally as those committed against their own countrymen, particularly their subordinates. This is the case in much of the literature dealing with the war as we see in ‘Nobi’ (‘Fires on the plain’) by Ooka Shohei,14 ‘Hikarigoke’ (‘Luminous moss’) by Takeda Taijun,15 ‘Yohai Taihei’ (‘Lieutenant Look-east’) by Ibuse Masuji,16 and Shinku Chitai (Vacuum Zone) by Noma Hiroshi.17 THE UPBRINGING OF THE YOUNG Perhaps it has not always been seen in this way, but the upbringing of the young and their education have always been central to the relationship between the generations. Naturally, the attitude of children towards their parents will be moulded by the way in which those parents bring them up. So too will be their attitudes towards their forebears, their feeling of continuity or discontinuity, and in due course the way in which they themselves bring up their own children. Of course, other factors are at work too. The rapidity of technological innovation must necessarily affect the rate at which the older generation’s knowledge and experience are discounted. Furthermore, political, social, and economic changes must also have their effect. Japan today has a rapidly changing, technology-based society—the condition that gives science fiction both its occasion and reason for existence as well as its literary role and its social function. The nation has undergone profound economic, psychological, and social changes, including the cataclysmic effects of nuclear bombing and defeat in war. The defeat of 1945 was a watershed in intergenerational relations. This

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has already been reflected in ‘The generation revolution’ and indeed in much of the literature that has emerged from Japan in the decades following the war. Among other effects it has undermined the confidence of the older generation in the values in which it itself was brought up and hence in its readiness and resolution to impose those values on the young. The war generation’s disillusionment with the Meiji generation’s leadership has rubbed off on the post-war generation both by example and as a result of its lack of confidence and this combined with the influx of liberal, largely American ideals, followed by a new, previously inexperienced prosperity, has led to an unparalleled pampering of the young. Quite possibly the system of amae elaborately described in Doi Takeo’s The Anatomy of Dependence already mentioned has combined with this to create in the Japanese young of today a distinctive breed unknown in the world at any other time or in any other place.18 If so, the results may be particularly difficult to predict. But the function of science fiction is not to predict, it is to express concern: to extrapolate, hypothesize, and explore into the unknown. One of the techniques employed is reductio ad absurdum, and this is seen in the two stories ‘Kowai Ojisan’ (‘The nasty man’)19 and ‘An-An’ (‘The wail’),20 both by Hoshi Shin’ichi. In the former a young couple reluctant to discipline their own child employ a team of outsiders to perform the unpleasant task, and the father has eventually to take a parttime job with the team to pay for the service. In the latter all manner of pampering is attempted in order to stay a child’s wail. A smack is not even considered.

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8 Sex

References are frequently made by social commentators to the differentiated sexual roles in Japanese society. Typical is the picture of the husband-and-father at work all day long, and the wife-and-mother staying at home managing the household budget and bearing almost singlehandedly the responsibility for bringing up the children, urging them to conform to the social norms, and (what amounts in the present context to an extension of the same thing) nagging them to do their homework. It is a stock situation reflected in literature, film, and television, and sure enough it is a fair reflection of the dominant pattern of modern Japanese social life. That a few striking exceptions may exist serves only to bring out and delineate the dominance of this pattern. Improved education for girls since the end of the war and the existence of a Women’s Liberation Movement have opened up employment opportunities for women, including married women, but the married woman is still expected to be, and in the typical situation expects herself to be, a homemaker. There are no legal disabilities standing in the way of the advancement of women in Japan. Since the adoption of the present constitution in 1946 all such disabilities have been removed. But however western in inspiration the Constitution may originally have been it is interpreted by the Japanese in a distinctive manner of their own that is informed by a centuries-old tradition of Confucian beliefs and practices. No matter if an individual Japanese today does not acknowledge, or even consciously strives to disregard, his or her Confucian heritage. Some do; some do not. But none can escape the fact that he or she is living in a society that for all its recent inpourings is still the product of an ancient tradition totally unlike the traditions of the west.

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Of course, today that society is changing under the impact of rapid techological innovation. This has, of course, been the case for the last one hundred years and it has not brought about a convergence in Japanese and western ideas on the subject of sex. What Japan and the west have in common, however, is that both are changing in the sense of having to come to terms with the new possibilities opened up by new technologies and the new information placed at the disposal of all. Science fiction is above all else the literary genre that sets out to examine and explore implications of these new technologies and opportunities, and it is appropriate therefore that we should look to science fiction for any new perspectives it may be able to reveal on attitudes to sex and the relationship between the sexes. Many works have been written on the subject within the genre and the selection in this chapter will serve, it is hoped, as a fair representation of such works. Several references have been made to sex already in stories covered earlier in this book. This is natural enough, as in some stories it is incidental to the main point while in others it is the main point itself. In Chapter 2 we encountered ‘The love curve’,1 ‘The wedding shrouded in grey’,2 ‘Theartifical human being’,3 ‘The robot and the weight of the bed’,4 The demon of vibration’,5 ‘The music bath at 18.00 hours’,6 ‘The egg’,7 ‘After twenty-six millon years’,8 and ‘The brainwave controller’,9 but this is not to say that sex did not appear in some form in other stories recounted in that chapter. ‘The love curve’ concerns love as its central theme while in ‘The wedding shrouded in grey’ we witness a love triangle and a bridegroom who is less than physically whole. ‘The artificial human being’ posits the notion of artificial reproduction and begins to explore its legal ramifications. ‘The robot and the weight of the bed’ is an ingenious device for guaranteeing marital fidelity or at least for punishing infidelity. In ‘The demon of vibration’ and ‘The music bath at 18.00 hours’ sex is hardly the major point but in the first story it provides a powerful motivation for two crimes, while in the latter it surfaces in a number of ways: sexual relations are restricted, adults keep cuddly toys to compensate for the lack of children, and androids are produced en masse. ‘The egg’ and ‘After twenty-six million years’ both refer to a future oviparous human race which of course reflects a change in the method of reproduction. ‘The brainwave controller’ introduces us to the artificial beauty, a subject of many stories in the modern age.

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The popularity and persistence of this theme in modern Japanese science fiction is itself an interesting phenomenon. Sexual attitudes in Japan differ from those in the west not least in the choice of one’s marriage partner. The go-between system of arranging marriages still thrives and is highly regarded even though love matches are on the increase. Men accustomed to staying out long and not discussing their business with their wives often resort with their colleagues to the comfort of bar hostesses who listen to their tales of woe and provide them with the amae which their mothers used to give them but which they find it impossible to extract from their wives. Marriage and pleasure have always been understood to be distinct in the Japanese system, and this may well account for the existence of numerous stories concerned with robots or androids constructed purely for sexual pleasure. We have already met two further such stories in addition to ‘The brainwave controller’. In Komatsu’s Sakyo’s ‘The age of models’10 we will remember the reference to the artificial ‘Dutch wife’ as a means by which men can gain sexual gratification in an age in which in vitro fertilization and an artificial uterus have rendered normal sexual relations redundant and reduced them to the level of a mere pastime. The high price of the services of prostitutes in massage parlours is also cited as a reason for the resort to this method of gratification. In Tsukushi Michio’s ‘The image freezing business’,11 wehaveseen reference to the construction of a ‘pet woman’ produced among several other things by scientist Okamura on the basis of Onodera’s richly endowed imagination. We now turn to a selection of stories dealing principally with such artificial women produced for the gratification of men. For our first example we shall take a look at the artificial bar-girl Bokko-chan in Hoshi Shin’ichi’s story that bears her name.12 Bokko-chan is a well-constructed robot owned by a barkeeper. The robot will pass as a beautiful woman and customers who come to the bar like to make conversation with her. She is not an android but is purely mechanical. Inside her there is a plastic tube that will convey any drinks she takes down to her foot. The barkeeper can then tap the drinks and sell them again. He does not put the robot at any of the tables or chairs, but keeps her behind the bar to avoid the risk of detection. The robot is programmed to speak, but not very intelligently. She can answer her name and reply, I’m not very old’, when asked her age but any other questions she is asked she can answer only in a

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vague, non-committal sort of affirmative to which the Japanese language easily lends itself. Such programming is relatively easy; it consists simply of repeating the question and supplying the appropriate verb form at the end. The reader is left reflecting that this is really all the successful bar-girl has to do in Japan. Bokko-chan is thus a good hostess: an uninquisitive, sympathetic, and agreeable listener. Trouble arises only when a depressed young man comes to pay her his attentions and asks her if she would be prepared to commit suicide with him. As usual she replies in a vaguely encouraging affirmative, and thus encouraged he goes ahead and poisons her drink. Later the barkeeper drains the drinks out of her and recycles them to his customers, also taking one for himself. Nobody goes home that night, and when the radio that has been blaring away finally ends its programme and closes down for the night all the customers are dead and only Bokko-chan is left standing to respond to the announcer’s ‘Good-night’. The business of pleasing men has long been big business in Japan, and perhaps it is not surprising that it should occur to science fiction writers to apply the possibilities of robotics to this highly lucrative industry. In Waga Sekusoido (My Sexoid)13 by Mayumura Taku the manufacture of robots for sexual pleasure has advanced a long way from the early stage envisioned in Hoshi’s ‘Bokko-chan’. The robots are no longer mechanical. They are androids: artificial to be sure but made, with certain limitations, in the image of human beings and possessing a will of their own. It is an age in which robots, including androids, have become very numerous and have invaded many walks of life. They, and computers, are responsible for much unemployment. One particular kind of android has been devised specifically to provide sexual pleasure for men and this is called a‘sexoid’. If women can be produced artificially for the pleasure of men, then logically men too can be produced artificially for the pleasure of women. The idea of artificial males engaging in sexual activity has not been explored to anything like the same extent, however. This perhaps has much to do with the nature of the ‘water trade’ or the business of providing sexual pleasure in Japan, which has traditionaily been strictly one of providing gratification for men. The inequality of the sexes in this regard is obvious. But another reason is possibly the fact that in the main the writers of such science flction stories are men. How would a a woman see the issue? One answer to such a question is provided by Kurahashi Yumiko in her story ‘Gosei Bijo’ (‘An artificial beauty’).14

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The story is set in AD 2161; by this time mechanical robots made of metals and plastics have become widespread and in the last few decades artificial live men have been produced out of protein by bio-technological means. The androids here thus represent a further advance in technology above those encountered in the previous story. They cannot be produced on a large scale, however, and as they can be made only by means of individual artistic skill they are extremely expensive and only the most privileged people can afford to buy them. Michiko, a housewife, decides to buy an artificial maid. This will be a status symbol for her as a member of the privileged elite. She and her husband go to an old established speciality shop dealing exclusively in the sale of artificial human beings. They are guided to a salon where they see a dozen artificial beauties parading like fashion models, and they buy the most beautiful—and also the most expensive—one in the shop. Overjoyed, Michiko treats her newly purchased android with the greatest care, teaching her how to make up her face, do her hair, and wear fancy dresses. It is after about a month, when the beauty first experiences the menses, that Michiko begins to feel jealous of her. She now sees the prospeet of lovemaking between her husband and the newcomer as a distinct possibility. Her husband is extremely handsome and intelligent, and what is worse from her point of view, he has begun to use the android as his secretary. Now overcome by jealousy and suspicion, Michiko engages a private detective to follow her husband and report back on his behaviour. She is ready to divorce him if she is provided with proof of his infidelity. The detective’s report, however, is even more disconcerting than she could have imagined: her husband’s behaviour indicates that he too might be an artificial man. About fifty days later she is provided with proof in the form of a film showing them in passionate embrace. Immediately she grabs a knife and stabs the artificial beauty in the throat. This fails to kill her, and then she receives the final proof that her husband is an android too. Together they decide to kill her. It is the intelligent artificial men such as he who form the privileged class, and it is only they who can afford to purchase the expensive artificial beauties. Because of her discovery she must die. Preoccupation with sex figures strongly in many Japanese science fiction stories and in some cases it is quite bizarre. In ‘Adam’s descendants’ mentioned in Chapter 2,15 Komatsu Sakyo envisoned a future in which high technology has rendered all human activity

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other than sex redundant and the evolved humans are simply enlarged genitalia with the other organs reduced to the level of mere atrophied appendages. In many other stories, too, he approaches sex in imaginative ways. In ‘Hainekku no Onna’ (‘The woman in highnecked clothes’)16 we find a woman who is really an escapee from another planet attempting to hide on Earth and enter human society by cohabiting with a man. In ‘Aohige to Oni’ (‘Bluebeard and the demon’)17 itisthe woman who is normal and the man is the representative of a new species. ‘Shaka no Te’ (‘The hands of Buddha’)18 isa story of a love triangle involving travel in time; a man with a strong-willed conventional wife enters into an escapade with a wild and capricious woman who is able to travel into other ages. While all of these stories and many more written by Komatsu may be seen as indicative of a disposition to utilize sex as a means of escape from the humdrum, a particularly illuminating reflection on changing attitudes towards sex may be found in his ‘Shojo o Nikumu’ (‘The man who hated young girls’).19 Set in the late 1960s, this story is filled very largely with the reminiscences of a man who was in high school in the years immediately after the war. Before the war ended boys and girls at high school had not been allowed to associate with each other, but after the war ended all this had changed. It had fallen to him as class president to select certain of his classmates to serve on a student council which would associate with girls who were the representatives of their schools. Naturally boys of ‘bad’ reputation wanted to become members of the council and he, unable as easily as they to put aside the old ethics, experienced difficulties in relating to the girls with whom he was now thrust into contact as a result of the official policy of ‘democratizing’ Japan. One day the boys and girls went off to play hide and seek in the fields. Although the hero did not know it it was the intention of the others to pair off for lovemaking. A pretty girl, the brightest of the group, came to him and touched him and he could not help but feel a pleasant sensation and smile back at her. As she lay down on the grass and looked up at the sky she said, ‘It feels so nice to have no air raids any more.’ He too lay on his back beside her and experienced the same feeling. Instantly he understood the meaning of ‘youth’ and ‘peace’, no longer as abstract concepts but through his own experience. The world around them was in chaos. Violence, rape, robbery, and murder were rampant, and badly behaved GIs, Koreans, the

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Yakuza, and prostitutes seemed to be dominant. Under these circumstances the company of this girl brought him relief. Now, twenty years later, he has learned that this girl was raped and killed two years after the war. Since this discovery something inside him has snapped and he finds it impossible not to shun the sight of naive, pretty girls. The relationship of the sexes has undergone a change, and as the last story has clearly recalled, this change began immediately after the end of the war. As Komatsu also reminds us in this story, it began in the schools. Since then it has permeated its way through Japanese life as the boys and girls brought up under the new system have entered adult life and themselves become parents. The ending of legal disabilities upon women, better opportunities for girls, a growing ‘my home-ism’ and with it a change in the relationship between the generations have all led in the direction of greater emancipation for the female sex. While the proportion of women living under the thumbs of their parents-in-law has declined and the number of married women staying on at work has increased, however, it should not be assumed too readily from these developments, or from the rise in the divorce rate, that attitudes towards male and female roles in Japan have come to approximate western attitudes. For one thing it takes time for fundamental changes to work their way through the demographic structure and for another must not be forgotten that Japan is a confident nation, confident in its own (albeit changing) values. It by no means regards itself as under any compulsion to ape the west. If anything it tends to see the west as degenerate and is increasingly inclined to regard itself as a pacesetter in human civilization. Certainly the argument that a nation that does not employ its women productively is throwing away half its talent and is thereby impoverishing itself relative to those that do is not likely to be seen as very appropriate in a Japan that has shown itself to excel in the world’s competitive markets. That the age is already theirs is a theme that may be found in the works of certain writers. The ‘feminization of Japan’ has been referred to by numerous right-wing critics who bemoan the passing of the warlike samurai ethic and who see in today’s commercialized capitalistic Japan a degeneracy born of an effete defeatism. Such ideas can be seen running through the works of Mishima Yukio and other rightist idealists. But they can hardly

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be said to be symptomatic of the prevailing trends of thought in modern Japan. However misguided they may be in their prescriptions for Japan’s future, however, they are right in at least one respect: the Japan of today is not the same as the Japan of yesteryear, and the male-dominant values of the past have been replaced by a significant feminization of the culture. One story not written from an ideological point of view that takes a humorous look at the feminization of the culture is the science fiction work ‘Roshutsu-sho Bunmei’ (‘The exhibitionist civilization’) by Tsutsui Yasutaka.20 Told in the first person by a married man who introduces himself as a hater of telephones, it is set a few years into the future when an even worse device has come along to disturb his repose. Science fiction writers have already written it into their stories and given it such names as the ‘television-telephone’, the ‘visiphone’, or the ‘telescreen’. It is a refinement of the telephone which includes a camera and a cathode-ray tube as well as a sound receiver and a microphone. The device has now been put into manufacture and has begun to spread throughout the community. It has not yet become general, however, and to get one it is necessary to go and see a public official and lodge an application form. Our hero is reluctant to do this. Incoming calls on the telephone are already a bugbear to him, and an intolerable restriction on his freedom and leisure, and even his sleep. He cannot imagine why anyone would want his face as well as his voice to be transmitted over the wires every time he makes a call. The person who thought of it must have been an exhibitionist. His private thoughts, however, are of no avail. His wife has learned that her neighbour has got one, and she must have one too. Reluctantly and with great misgivings he goes to the public offices to apply to have the dreaded contraption installed. Here, however, everything is not plain sailing. First of all he has to take his place in a queue. Then when his turn finally comes he finds himself confronted with a request to give his name, address, age, occupation, and details of his family. He is irritated, too, to find that the supercilious official puts him down for referring to the device as a ‘face-telly’ rather than as a ‘viewphone’, which is its official name. ‘Face-telly’ is the name by which it is commonly known, and it is this that his wife has told him she wants him to get. Things now go from bad to worse. When he asks why the official wants to know his income and assures him it is high enough to afford the viewphone he is told that merely to be able to afford

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it is not enough. One must also be able to afford the life-style that goes with it. A viewphone does not merely show the speaker’s face, it reveals the background as well. People of lowly means may want to possess a viewphone out of vanity or to impress people improperly but the instrument will reveal their true surroundings, and an untidy room or tatty furniture will give them away. Next he is asked if his home has a maid. He answers this question in the affirmative, but unfortunately he uses the Japanese word jochu in his reply and is told it is not considered fitting to grant a viewphone to people who use a word like that. Medo from the English word ‘maid’ is used in the right circles. He agrees to use the English-derived word, but he is somewhat puzzled as to why it is necessary to have a maid at all. The official explains it might be embarrassing to callers to be answered by the man of the house in his nightwear or the lady of the house in a bath towel. He is now asked to supply photographs of all members of his family and of his maid. Ugly faces are not allowed to appear on the viewphone. He says that he has a friend with a mis-shapen face who actually has one, but the official tells him the man must be particularly rich with a salary of at least 100 million yen a year. People in this income bracket are not required to give any further particulars. The official, though, asks under his breath if such a person really exists, and the hero lightheartedly admits he has just made him up. A colour photograph of the room in which he plans to have the viewphone installed is now required. Since the viewphone is black and white this request seems strange—until he is assured that a new model with full colour capacity will be coming out before long. The official’s next request, however, takes his breath away. He is asked to give a full psychoanalyst’s report on all members of his family. The reason, he is told, is to protect the users from exhibitionists. There are people who would like to use the service to organize pornography syndicates, and others who might wish to expose themselves indecently to filmstars and other such beauties. While nuisance calls on the telephone could be monitored with relative ease, on the viewphone network it will be practically impossible as it would involve keeping a duplicate viewing screen for every screen in the system. It is therefore necessary to examine the viewers first. The hero now begins to get angry. His own view, of course, is that anybody who wants to use this device is an exhibitionist anyway. The official calmly informs him that there is

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a difference between the people who wish to show off their homes or their kitchens and the people who are exhibitionists in a pathological sense. After all, the desire to show off one’s possessions in magazines, etc. is the way by which some people have become famous and it is a characteristic of modern civilization. Notwithstanding all these blows to his pride and his sense of values, the hero nevertheless persists and completes his application. The last straw comes when he is told that he may have to wait for two or three years before the device is installed as priority is given to those who have no quibbles. He leaves the office in a rage, telling the official he does not want the thing anyway. When he tells his wife about it on his return home she reflects that men are all alike. Her neighbour’s husband had had precisely the same experience but the neighbour herself had gone in the next day and had succeeded in having it installed immediately. She decides to do the same. In this way she succeeds where her husband has failed. She knows what she wants and she does not rub up the official the wrong way. The machine is duly installed and the wife happily talks for hours gossiping with her friends, placing her orders, and talking about the things women talk about. The husband cannot get near it, and on the odd occasion when he needs to make a call concerning his work he has to go out and use a public telephone. The viewphone, or the ‘face-telly’ as they call it, is truly a woman’s instrument. Its spread reflects the feminization of the age. It has truly become a woman’s world. The satirization of modern trends in this story is probably as fitting a climax as any to the writings of male science fiction authors on sex and the relationship of the sexes. The ascription by Tsutsui of a growing pride in furniture and other possessions to women may or may not be true (it can scarcely be less than half correct, and since men are thought to have other preoccupations it may well be considerably more than half correct), but the growing materialism of Japan and the spread of softer living are certainly trends which have caught the attention of rightist writers and ideologues. Their yearning for things past and their desire to put the clock back undoubtedly mark them of f as men out of step with the directions which modern Japan is taking. Yet the fact that they may press their minority views so insistently through street hailers and other similar means bears eloquent testimony to the fact that a real change of some significance has come over Japan. The feminization of Japan of which they speak may on their lips be intended as no more than

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a taunt aimed at the men whom they see as having abandoned Japan’s old imperialistic and militaristic goals. Certainly pacifism is one of their targets of attack which may well be associated too with the aspirations of women and their growing voice in social affairs. It is just as likely, however, and a good deal more obvious, that it is associated with the events of the Pacific War and the defeat, not to mention the subsequent commercial revival. Japan is doing very nicely, thank you, on her present course and is unlikely to alter it unless forced by circumstances to do so. The questions raised by this observation, however, along with pacifism itself are matters we shall reserve for Part IV. This alleged feminization of Japan, as seen by certain male authors, may well have different meanings to different people, and not all authors, and certainly not all observers, would even agree that a feminization has taken place at all. Indeed most might well still see Japan as a male-dominated society. Anyone looking at the work-place and not at other aspects of life can hardly escape that conclusion, and any observation of Japanese etiquette and the deference shown by women to men would reinforce this impression. All is not what it may seem on the surface, however, and it is easy to form a hasty conclusion by failing to take into account the effect of the sharply differentiated roles of men and women in Japan. That women lead different lives from men is obvious, but it does not follow from this that they are any less important or influential in the functioning of the system. Indeed, as Jane Condon suggests,21 it may well be true that they are Japan’s ‘hidden asset’, vital to the success of Japan’s economic performance. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to conclude that Japanese females do not have their problems. Many serious problems encountered by young women contemplating marriage are recounted by Jane Condon in her book, and it is hard not to sympathize with the young woman who recoils from a marriage in which her mother-in-law plans to give her ‘training’ in how to perform as a young wife, or with the wife who leaves her husband because he insists on spending all their savings on a new home for his parents. Here, however, one thing is noteworthy. In each case the young woman seems to be quite capable of getting on with her husband or husband-to-be if only his parents would not interfere, and if he did not have such a feeling of attachment to them which leads him to put his concern for them ahead of his concern f or his wife. For

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all the modernity of Japan’s industrial performance and prosperous life-style, the old Confucian traditions die hard. Many Japanese today may say Confucian traditions have been abandoned and they may acknowledge no allegiance to this traditional philosophy either openly or consciously. Yet unconsciously its values carry on. The Confucian tradition that puts the relationship between parent and child first and relegates the relationship between husband and wife to a secondary position still lives on in the mind. It is perpetuated in the way children are brought up and is taken as a model in work-place organization and other social situations. It is pervasive throughout Japanese society and it is this tradition from which the young find it hard to escape. Cramped housing conditions reinforce the power of the old, and those who marry find it harder than those who remain single to make their way independently of the influence of the older generation. In those circumstances the young woman who wishes to escape the controlling influence of her mother-in-law finds it hard. ‘My-home-ism’ is on the increase, but progress towards ‘liberation’ is slow. Here it will be obvious that ‘liberation’ for young women means as much, if not more, liberation from their in-laws and the older generation as from their husbands. Here, it would appear, lies the nub. The problem is more a generational one than a sexual one. The writings of Arai Motoko, a member of the new generation of Japanese science fiction writers who have begun to come into prominence in the 1980s, aptly reflect this problem. It is noteworthy that her heroines do not wish to discard their femininity, and even the differentiated roles of men and women are not something to be discarded holus-bolus. Women, however, seek adventure and desire freedom. Above all, this means freedom from the older generation and tradition. In Hoshi e iku Fune (A Ship to the Stars)22 a 19-year-old girl by the name of Morimura Ayumi impersonates her elder brother to use his ticket for a journey to a Japanese-colonized planet in remote Space. This, it is explained, is easy to do because strict checks are seldom made on the journey out as it is government policy to encourage emigration into Space. To attempt the same sort of deception on the return journey would be a very different matter. The girl resents the fact that while there is no official discouragement of female emigration, family pressures all but rule it out. She is expected to marry a young, elite businessman and perform wifely duties in the tradition-honoured way. It is precisely against this that she rebels, and when her brother has second

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thoughts about making his trip she seizes her opportunity and secretly sets off with his ticket. Once on board the spaceship she finds herself involved in a public argument about her compartment, a development that makes it all the more difficult to maintain her masquerade. It is agreed that the compartment will be shared and it is with awkwardness and embarrassment that she contrives to continue to hide her true identity from her two male companions. Eventually an incident occurs in which her femininity can no longer be concealed. One of her companions has guessed the truth already but now she is relieved to abandon her pretence. She is now able to pour coffee for them and not feel awkward at standing aside as they do it for themselves, and she is able to dress in a skirt, her favourite one that she has brought along with her in her bag amidst her brother’s clothes. Now herself, she is able to play a constructive part in the drama that begins to unfold. The story is replete with skulduggery and political intrigue with many a twist and turn to the plot. Through it, however, shines a young woman’s determination to shrug off the bonds of family-based tradition and succeed on her own in a harsh new world. This does not, however, imply a desire to turn her back on her own feminine characteristics, nor does it carry with it a resentment of the common conventional politenesses associated with the feminine role. The author too does not envisage that in the distant future men and women will be dressed alike or will wish to be. Independence and freedom from tradition are what are desired. Identity with the male sex is not. The dead hand of debilitating tradition is even more pointedly decried in Guriin Rekuiemu (Green Requiem) which the same author wrote in 1983, two years after A Ship to the Stars. Like the earlier work, Green Requiem too is available in an English translation.23 This time an alien ship visits the Earth and is consumed in flames. The survivors belong to a race of plant-people who live by photosynthesis. One of them is a young female who falls in love with an Earthman. She is compelled by a haunting melody learnt from her mother, however, to abandon him and drown herself in the sea. In this way the story of shipwrecked aliens on Earth is combined with a forthright condemnation of the curse of tradition. Love could have found a way, but the values inherited through one’s mother prevail and destroy life itself. The author’s stance is eloquent and plain. The young of Japan must stand up to the pressures of tradition and assert their independence from the

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baneful controls of the older generation. These are cultural and the revolution that overthrows them must be cultural. It is the mind that needs to be set free.

Part Three Matters of the mind and spirit

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We have now arrived at a stage where it is perhaps beneficial to take stock. Several aspects of modern Japanese life have now been subjected to review, and it has already become apparent that the science fiction genre has shown itself to be particularly adept in casting multi-angled reflections on the changing patterns of this very dynamic society. We have seen evidence of the view that the Japanese, while conscious of their growing technological successes are beginning to grow jaded with their new prosperity and its trappings and that a purely materialistic measure of success is proving to be inadequate to meet their psychological and social needs. While they have confidence in their news media and are barraged by a welter of information of all kinds under the sun, they appear to be suspicious of the commercial motivations of the innumerable advertisements to which they are subjected, and the particularist objectives of business concerns are seen by some as potentially disruptive and subversive to the general good. With traditional values such as austerity fatally undermined there is a search, not yet centralized or directed, for new values to which the nation can in good conscience subscribe. The mood is one of acceptance of change and readiness for further change, but the new directions are not yet determined. Concern and some uneasiness are felt over trading policies but not in sufficient force to indicate a gross dissatisfaction that is likely to bring about change from within. Reaction to stimulus from outside or from extraneous events, however, may well be sufficiently strong to turn Japan on to a new tack: one that is less hidebound by tradition and less stereotyped in its approach to generational and sexual roles. Work may well come to mean less and life-style more. If these are indeed elements in the emerging consciousness of the younger generation

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and the young at heart who form the bulk of the readership of the science fiction genre, then there may well be a prospect that Japan will emerge in several important respects as a different kind of society from that which it has been hitherto. The directions taken, however, will inevitably depend in large measure upon the Japanese value system and any developments that may take place therein. This, then, will be our next object of focus. Are the Japanese becoming more like the rest of the world? Certainly they are experiencing the advantages of advanced technology and are in many ways leading the world in this respect. As the world is drawn closer together by improved transportation and communication techniques it is inevitable that the isolation of the past will progressively be diminished. It does not follow, however, that the Japanese will become more ‘western’ in their thinking. As the Japanese are in the process of teaching us right now, progress is not an exclusively western attribute. Nor is the role of world economic leader—or moral leader, or any other sort of leader for that matter. Is Japan fitted to offer the world any social, moral, or educational leadership in addition to being a technological leader? Until very recently a question such as this would have seemed to any western observer to be absurd, and even now there are many in the west who would regard Japan as having a long way to go to catch up with the latest ‘modern’ western ideas on generational relations and the relationship between the sexes, for example. That this is not the way the Japanese see it is obvious. The ability of the east to teach the west as well as learn from it is clearly implied in Hoshi’s ‘The law of leaps’.1 Westerners would do well to ponder upon its implications. But what about matters of the mind? Japanese moral values, ethics, and religious beliefs are certainly different from those of the west and certainly westerners may posit that they see nothing superior in Japanese attitudes here. They are, of course, entitled to their own beliefs, and their preference for their own traditions may well be strengthened by some of the criticisms of Japan’s own practices that appear in Japanese literature. Endo Shusaku, for instance, brought up as a Christian, is acutely conscious of the difficulties of leading a Christian life in any western sense of the term against the backdrop of Japanese society, and he is particularly scathing of the lack of any widespread Japanese consciousness of ultimate transcendent good or even a willingness to stand up for what is right if it does not affect one’s own immediate circle. In Ichi,

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Ni, San! (One, Two, Three!)2 for instance, Mariko castigates the cowardly eyes of the Japanese passengers in a train who all look away and fail to come to the aid of an innocent man who is being bullied by a hoodlum. The scene is typical of Endo’s preoccupation with what he perceives as a Japanese unwillingness to stand up and be counted. And herein lies one of the major differences between Japanese and western religion-inspired morality. Westerners are expected to stand up for what they believe to be right, and to have some ideas of an absolute nature on the subject. Japanese people are expected to conform and to meet their obligations within their own circle, but not to poke their nose into other people’s business. To have their own absolute ideas on what is right or wrong is seen as egotism, a serious failing in a society which places its emphasis on group solidarity. Martyrdom is a western virtue; it has no place in Japanese society. From these considerations it will be evident that before we go on to enquire into the consequences of Japan’s rapid changes it will be desirable first of all to examine the psychological outlook of the Japanese people and the way in which it may be likely to influence their behaviour. What, if anything, does science fiction have to tell us about such aspects of the Japanese mind?

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9 Moral values, ethics, and religious beliefs

A comprehensive review of the morals, ethics, religious beliefs and practices of east and west is beyond the scope of this book. Changes in ideas, however, and new applications of them are reflected in science fiction, and in any case it is normal for each new age to reflect upon its traditional beliefs and practices in the light of its new circumstances. The more profound the change in the circumstances the greater will be the urge to reinterpret and review them, and this indeed is one of the functions performed by science fiction, in its role as the literature of a changing society. Japanese ideas are changing, just as western ideas are changing. But this does not necessarily mean that Japanese ideas have to change in the direction of western ideas. Rather it is more appropriate to say that new Japanese ideas are emerging out of past Japanese ideas in the light of Japan’s new circumstances, while new western ideas are emerging out of old western ideas in the light of the west’s new circumstances. Similarities are only likely to be found in so far as the new circumstances of Japan are similar to the new circumstances of the west. But even then the modernized updates in Japanese thinking are outgrowths of Japan’s past, not the west’s. In the light of this it is possible that Japanese thinking on moral values, ethics, and religious beliefs, as they are reflected in science fiction, may offer western readers a valuable insight into how a society with different traditions from their own sets about coping with the problems and dilemmas characteristically thrust upon the human race in the modern technological age. JAPANESE GODS Science fiction is not particularly noted as a genre that dwells heavily on religion. On the contrary it is usually sceptical of

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religious claims, priding itself on its scientific consciousness which it sees as able to offer alternative answers to questions that have traditionally been left to religion to solve. Conscious of evolutionary processes and envisioning science as perpetually pushing back boundaries of people’s ignorance and hence the opportunities for religion to offer explanations of the unknown, it has tended to see itself as the opponent of religion and the speculative vanguard of a more rational approach to human beings’ relationship with nature. There have been exceptions of course. C.S. Lewis, for instance, is noted for his support of religious belief through his science fiction writings. More frequently perhaps, religion itself has been taken as an object of speculation, as, for instance, in the case of Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End.1 Most western science fiction however, if it has dealt with religion at all, has viewed it as the monotheistic faith of the west. Very little of it has looked at religion from a polytheistic standpoint or from a perspective that is Oriental. In this sense Japanese science fiction offers a radically different view. Whether religion itself is the focus of the story or whether it is merely hovering in the background, the perspective provided by Japanese science fiction is necessarily very different from that produced in the west. And this still tends to be the case when the religious ideas in focus are western in origin: the Japanese simply see them differently. We have already encountered a number of stories containing a religious element, and the reader will have already noted a polytheistic approach. Hoshi Shin’ichi uses Japanese gods quite frequently to illustrate a condition of the human mind or to examine the consequences of human folly. In certain cases his gods are recognizable as traditional ones, although their behaviour may seem a little bizarre. In other cases (as for instance in ‘The god of television’) he simply creates them himself.2 Even here, however, he does not do serious violence to the Japanese religious tradition. The Japanese religious background is actually not so much polytheistic as pantheistic. To a people accustomed to seeing a divine potential in virtually everything the creation of fresh gods for new phenomena is not a tremendous leap in consciousness. The syncretic nature of Japanese religious belief further facilitates the inclusion in Japanese writings of religious notions and practices from a wide multiplicity of sources that might seem quite baffling and bewildering to a reader steeped in the religious traditions of the west. To their own Shintoist, Buddhist, and Confucian traditions

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the Japanese can add elements of Christian thought without experiencing a feeling of uncomfortable incongruity or ‘cognitive dissonance’ as western psychologists after L. Festinger might call it. For all the sceptical nature of modern Japanese society the Seven Gods of Fortune (Shichifukujin) are well revered in Japan even today by the superstitious, and it is not at all uncommon in Japan to pray for good luck. Most conspicuously this takes the form of a visit to a shrine on New Year’s Day but imprecations at other times are not at all unknown. The seven gods of fortune (Ebisu, Daikoku, Benten, Bishamon, Fukurokuju, Jurojin, and Hotei) are themselves of mixed religious origins including Chinese Taoism, but no matter: the Japanese are used to taking elements of their religion from different sources and accept this in their stride. In speaking of a ‘god of fortune’ Hoshi does not specify which one he means; but to his Japanese readers this scarcely matters. The functions of these gods very largely overlap, especially in the none-too-pernickety Japanese mind, and in any case it is Hoshi’s intention to portray them somewhat out of character with their traditional roles. The vagueness of Japanese religious belief and the ready acceptance of novel interpretations plays right into his hands in treating them the way he chooses. The god of fortune in the story of that name3 is a driving force. that will not allow its victim to relax. The hapless Mr L is reminded that his mentor is not a god of fun. In ‘Goka-na Seikatsu’ (‘Luxurious living’)4 also by Hoshi the donor of a 1,000 yen note is reminded that he has bought only 1,000 yen’s worth of good luck. The gods, in other words, are thoroughly attuned to the modern age with its emphasis on relentless competition and its treatment of money as the measure of value. More precisely, they are the modern age. The opposite kind of god, a god of poverty, is introduced in ‘The god with the laughing face’5 and ‘The shack dweller’.6 That thegodis totally different in character and in appearance in the two stories serves only to underscore the multifaceted approach to problems of human nature that Japanese deities are able to represent. In the first story the god is cheerful and is happy to use the greed of one man to impoverish all the others. Underhand in his methods and impish in his personality, he represents the harm that can be done to the human race in general by the unrestrained desire of individuals to succeed in a competitive society that worships wealth as success. In the second story the god is as sincere as he is miserable. He does not want to inflict misery on humanity; he

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merely knows that this will be the inevitable result if his face is exposed to public view. The desire of television people to exploit a human interest story and arouse the emotions of their viewers with an appeal to instant sympathy sees to the rest. The story ends in widespread economic disaster, just like the first. The God of Television is a new-fangled deity for a newfangled instrument and is entirely the product of Hoshi’s fertile imagination. He is, however, the tutelary deity of a well-known phenomenon, and in this sense his existence is a proposition that will do no violence to Japanese susceptibilities. Typically of a Japanese god he confers his favours upon his most ardent devotee, and again, he rewards him in a way that is consistent with his own powers and sphere of influence: he gives him advance knowledge of the ail-important programme ratings. Armed with this, his client is certain to become prosperous and famous. Only when he reduces his time devoted to viewing the box does the god withdraw his tutelage. In this way the god’s behaviour remains consistent with that expected of a Japanese deity, and in keeping with these principles Hoshi gives the story a further twist at the end with the introduction of a new god, the God of Stupidity. The ratings issued by the former client of the God of Television have now come to enjoy unquestioned acceptance, and by following the dictates of the God of Stupidity he is able to increase his prosperity still further at the expense of the general public. Hoshi has written many other stories dealing with traditional Japanese gods; in fact, he has written a whole collection of short stories under the title of O-sekkai-na Kamigami (Meddlesome Gods).7 TheGod of Poverty makes yet another appearance in ‘O-sekkai’ (‘The meddlers’),8 not included in this collection, in which he takes the form of an old man suffering from amnesia. Wearing a benign smile he receives widespread media attention, and lots of people opine it would be a good thing to restore his memory. Japan is living in prosperous times and many forms of treatment and care are now available. Many people think they may have seen him before, but they are unable to recall the exact circumstances and his identity thus remains elusively just beyond the threshold of their memories. Eventually shock therapy is tried and the god returns to his former self. His benign smile gives way to an utterly wretched expression befitting his clothes and his pitiable frame. He is now immediately recognizable as the God of Poverty who has

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been so well known in earlier times. His remark, ‘Ah, now I remember! I must get busy,’ augurs ill for the future. Another traditional god of a different kind makes his appearance in ‘Matchi’ (‘The matches’).9 This time he is the tutelary deity of a sacred tree that has stood for centuries in the mountains before being cut down and used for making matches. He appears whenever one of the matches is struck and disappears whenever it goes out. A box of these enchanted matches comes into the hands of a Mr N who has been unsuccessful in business and who has been crawling round bars in an attempt to forget his poor fortunes. He strikes one of these matches to light a cigarette when he finally arrives home and turns on his television set, and he first becomes aware of the god when he hears an archaic voice exclaiming, ‘Be this a vision then?’ At first bewildered, he becomes better acquainted with the god by striking more matches. He learns of the god’s past and the god’s unfamiliarity with city ways. Managing to convince the god that he himself is not to blame for cutting down the sacred tree he assuages the god’s wrath and agrees to take him on a tour of the city. The god is fascinated and truly appreciates the view from a television tower, which is far better than the view he enjoyed from his sacred tree. Mr N now tries to take advantage of the association he has established with this god to help him make money. But the god is not a god of fortune, he is a rustic god. When Mr N asks for help in making money on the stock exchange, the god thinks he is talking about turnips. The misunderstanding arises out of the use of the word kabu, a homonym meaning stocks or turnips, and of course the modern commercial practices of urban life are quite beyond the god’s ken. The god is perfectly willing to help him, but his powers are limited to his own sphere of influence. He can help prevent mountain fires or avalanches, and assist in prayers for rain and the control of insect pests, but he seems unable to give the city-dweller any kind of help that he might want. Mr N racks his brains to think of a suitable plan. In modern society to pass up a chance like this would be virtually a crime. Thinking of crime Mr N asks if the god would help him in a burglary, and to his relief the god readily agrees. He plans to break into the offices of a trading company, but as he is in the dark alleyway outside he notices he is not alone. Someone else has a similar plan. Striking his matches he causes the god to appear. The other party draws his gun and shoots at the god with no effect: the

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god is immortal. But the sound of gunfire brings the police. The criminal is caught, and Mr N is thanked and rewarded for his bravery. The last match is struck and the god returns to the mountains. Mr N does not explain about his divine companion to the police. He prefers to let them think he is brave, and in any case he would not be believed if he attempted to tell the truth. THE LIMITATION OF DIVINE POWERS It will already be evident from the last two stories and from quite a few others we have previously considered that, contrary to the western concept of divinity, the Japanese deities we have met are far from almighty. In fact their powers are strictly circumscribed and are normally limited to their own spheres of influence. In ‘The god of fortune’, for instance, apart from preserving life and then only as a means of achieving his ultimate goal, the deity concerned is quite incapable of doing anything other than amassing wealth. This is, no doubt, a refinement put on the god’s powers by Hoshi Shin’ichi for the purpose of making his point in his story. The seven gods of fortune each have their own characteristics and are frequently seen as ‘taking charge’ of more than one aspect of human life. Their interests are narrow by comparison with those of the western omnipresent, omnipotent, monistic God, but they are not necessarily as narrow as Hoshi presents them. Delimited spheres of influence for the various gods are, however, implicit in any polytheistic system and Hoshi’s strict interpretation of such delimitation is of a type that is likely to stimulate and fascinate the Japanese reader rather than create any sense that the basic principles of his or her religion are being abused. Another limitation we find imposed upon the gods is the apparent requirement that they achieve their objectives through the mediacy of humans. The god of fortune can achieve his objectives and compete successfully against his rival gods only through the efforts of Mr L. It is as if he is a jockey riding a horse. He can afford no let-up, and he is determined not to let Mr L grow slack and fall by the wayside as happened with his previous mount, Mr R. The god with the laughing face is equally dependent upon finding a human client to work his will, and even the shack dweller knows that his influence will be felt only if his face is revealed to the public. The god of the sacred tree reveals himself to Mr N and to others only when a match is struck. These limitations not only as to sphere of

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influence but also as to dependence on human agency and their summonability demonstrate quite clearly the restricted powers of the Japanese gods, and are symptomatic of a totally different Japanese approach to the divine from that of the west. They may well go far in explaining the lack of any generalized concept of transcendent good in the Japanese mind and the particularist loyalty structure of Japanese society. While religious scepticism is strong in Japan and many, probably most, Japanese must be regarded as not taking their traditional religion very seriously, this same scepticism must doubtless be seen as militating against any acceptance by the Japanese of a western type of religious outlook. Even avowed atheists tend to retain many of the religion-based thought patterns and value systems rooted in the past of the societies in which they have been brought up, and in this sense non-religious people in Japan are similar to the nonbelievers of the west. A modification of Japanese traditional thinking is the likely result of their scepticism. A modification of traditional western thought patterns would be quite out of place in this Japanese context: it would have no basis in Japanese life. PRAGMATISM The lack of belief in an omnipotent God and the concomitant lack of belief in absolute transcendent good have combined with a sense of pragmatism in everyday life to give the Japanese a somewhat elevated view of human beings in relation to their less than ail-powerful gods. Of course, if divinity is thought of as residing potentially in everything, then this includes people too; and this necessarily must have the effect of narrowing what in western societies must seem to be the awesome gap between humans and their Creator. A creation myth exists in Japan too, but ordinary Japanese have not throughout the ages made a habit of offering prayers to the Sun Goddess. Rather, the myth of the divine creation has served to enhance the majesty of the Imperial family, and while such religious notions were played up during the period of militarism they have officially been abandoned following the defeat, and the Emperor has formally renounced any claim to divinity. The secular, commercialized state of today has no official interest in religion and the Japanese people are free to embrace their own religious beliefs or none at all. For all this, religious practices die hard and most Japanese would regard themselves as being attached,

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however tenuously, to some form of Buddhism as well as possibly paying attention to certain Shinto-derived rituals. They certainly hope for good fortune and pay their respects to the dead. Ancestor spirits and minor gods are not so far removed from the level of the people themselves, and it is not out of keeping with Japanese religious susceptibilities to combine their minor superstitions with some sort of pragmatic test. The notion conveyed in ‘Luxurious living’ that the god’s assistance is directly proportional to the client’s offerings is not at all shocking to the pragmatic and commercially orientated Japanese, and by the same token it is quite acceptable to the Japanese mind that faith in a supernatural force should be directly proportional to results. ‘Masukotto’ (‘The charm’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi is precisely an example of this principle at work.10 Told in the first person by the charm itself it tells how it has been used and misused throughout the ages. It is a representative of one of the gods of fortune and its duty is to bring good luck to whoever owns it. For a long time it resided inside a gold coin, but after the coin had gone out of circulation it was remade into a keyholder. An antique dealer who keeps the keyholder in his shop prospers until the day he sells it to a young mountainclimber who buys it without haggling over the price. Intent on rewarding the young man for his generosity the charm arranges for a rock containing a vein of precious ore to fall down right in front of him on his next mountain-climbing expedition, but failing to see the value of the gift before his very eyes and considering himself to have had a narrow escape from death or serious injury the young man parts with the charm as soon as possible and gives it to a friend who is an aspiring painter. The painter is not without talent but he is unable to make headway because of the ignorance of the dealers to whom he tries to sell his paintings and because of a woman with whom he is living and who is a drag on his creative efforts. Acting in its owner’s best interests the charm causes a rupture in his relations both with the art dealers and the woman, but instead of seizing his opportunity the young man bemoans the misery of his fortunes and goes off in search of the woman, trying to win her back. In disgust he gives away the charm saying it only brings bad luck, and he disposes of it to a man who wants it just for that purpose—for the bad luck it will bring. Plotting evil in his heart the new owner gives it to his wife, telling her to keep it close to her at all times. He then proceeds with his plan to murder her, but as she is now under the charm’s

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protection she is saved, and the plotter falls to his death as a balcony rail gives way under his hand. The charm shudders at the thought that it would have had no alternative but to help him in his scheme if he had retained possession of it. The wife, however, is unaware of the charm’s effect and grieves the death of her husband. Determined to rid herself of this ‘bad-luck charm’, she throws it away into a pond where it is content for the time being to rest. The limitations of the power of the charm in this story are quite striking. It would even have been obliged to assist in a murder quite against its own predisposition if it had remained in the wrong hands, and its ways of helping its owners are so indirect that its powers are easily mistaken and misunderstood. A charm, however, is not a god. As it explicitly tells us in the story it is only the representative of a god. Since the gods themselves have only circumscribed powers it follows that a force of even lesser consequence must have weaker authority still, and under these circumstances it is hardly surprising that it finds itself treated by human beings with contempt. The limitations of Japanese divinities’ powers closely follow Chinese ideas, and ‘Koigataki’ (‘The rivals in love’), also by Hoshi Shin’ichi,11 is an example of a story set in China in which a minor demon frankly admits his inability to perform the services asked of him; only a restricted service can be offered. Yet a further story of Hoshi’s, ‘Koun e no Sakusen’ (‘A strategy for good fortune’),12 concerns the use of the supposed supernatural powers of cats and dogs for the securing of good fortune. At the lower end of the scale Japanese religious sensibilities show a tendency to trail off into superstition and magic. In this respect they have much in common with Chinese Taoism although not all of the Japanese beliefs and practices can be attributed to these sources by any means. Some are associated with Shinto and others with Buddhism. Such is the pluralistic and syncretic nature of the Japanese religious scene. Whatever the ultimate origins of the deity, demon, or supernatural force involved, however, it is clear that the complex hierarchy of Chinese demonology has its reflections in the Japanese consciousness, and the varied levels and types of powers in the Japanese pantheon lend themselves to a multiplicity of human responses and even manipulations in the search for human objectives. Buddhism, it cannot be denied, has done much to modify the Japanese mind and associated behaviour, and many distinguished observers have commented upon the unique ways in

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which it has combined with Confucian theory and practice to produce a work ethic analogous to, although not identical with the Protestantism and Capitalism of western society of which Max Weber writes. Such studies, however, are outside the scope of this survey. At a lower level than the central value system of the society superstitions and traditional religious susceptibilities play an important part in determining the nation’s overall mindset, and the search for good fortune is both widely spread throughout the Japanese community and widely reflected in its literature, including, as we have seen, science fiction. Western religion has not come to dominate Japanese thinking, and owing to the strength of traditional Japanese culture it appears unlikely that it ever will. Nevertheless, most Japanese people are at least superficially aware of it, and while converts to Christianity remain relatively small in number certain aspects of this western religion have taken Japan by storm. Most major department stores play Christmas music in their stores throughout the whole of December, and huge posters of Santa Claus (or, just as likely, a scantily clad female Santa’s helper) decorate the sides of retail buildings. The Japanese may be said to have captured the full spirit of Christmas in its true commercial essence. Only the religious trappings are absent! Christianity too, then, has made its appearance on the Japanese scene. It and other associated western notions have been accepted into the Japanese system and have been largely transformed and interpreted in terms consonant with Japanese forms and practices in the process. Japanese traditions have scarcely been overturned as a result. Rather, they have been strengthened by the addition of more grist to the syncretic, multi-faceted mill. We shall now take a look at Japanese reactions to western religious ideas as reflected in science fiction. WESTERN RELIGIOUS INFLUENCES IN JAPANESE SCIENCE FICTION Christianity per se does not figure prominently in Japanese science fiction. True, it appears in Takahashi Yasukuni’s ‘Uchujin’ (‘Cosmic dust’), a story of a disaster in Space.13 In this story a spaceship is hit by a rock in Space and disabled. The crewmen realize that they are doomed, and one of them sings the Christian hymn ‘Rock of Ages’ as he prepares himself for his death. The crew member concerned has a Chinese-sounding name although most of

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the others have names of European origin. The story, while post-war, is fairly early in style and concentrates on the reaction of the crew in the face of disaster. That the crew is obviously multiracial is a testament to the author’s belief in the future of racial co-operation on Earth and the fact that an Oriental is the one chosen to be the vehicle for the expression of this western religion may be seen as further evidence of the author’s dedication to internationalism. It is worthy of note that Christianity, a minority religion in Japan, is associated with international feeling because of its obvious western connections, and it is not surprising to find that the Japanese to whom it appeals are among those who tend to have an internationalist cast of mind. The story may be contrasted at this point with Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘Uchu no Otokotachi’ (‘Men in Space’) 14 in which two men in a similarly disabled rocket react in a more Japanese way. The pilot, knowing he is going to die, sends off a communication rocket expressing concern for his parents. When his companion mentions to him that he has failed to sign it he responds it does not matter: he is an orphan. His companion’s bemusement turns to admiration when he realizes that in this way he has brought comfort to all parents who have lost a son in Space. The traditional Oriental virtue of filial piety thus finds expression in this story and in this way it may be seen as a kind of eastward-looking parallel to the earlier story. Japanese science fiction tales that look at western religion have, however, chosen not to look in the main at the Christian faith in terms of its central tenets but rather at the tangential trimmings. Many Japanese stories dealing with western religion have chosen to focus their attention on the Devil rather than on the positive aspects of Christianity. Western theologians may differ over how far the concept of the Devil is an essential feature of Christianity but there is no doubt that in the case of Japan the Devil first put in an appearance at the same time as Christ. The western missionaries brought their religious ideas and notions to Japan all in one piece and in one bundle. The point is made quite forcibly in Akutagawa Ryunosuke’s ‘Tabako to Akuma’ (‘Tobacco and the Devil’, 1916),15 which also draws attention to the western responsibility for the introduction of the smoking habit into Japan as well. In this story the Devil is at his traditional game of buying souls, and the story is an amusing tale of how he comes to be frustrated in one of his attempts with a Japanese peasant.

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We find the Devil at this game in modern Japanese science fiction too. In ‘Torihiki’ (‘The negotiations’),16 again by Hoshi Shin’ichi, the Devil attempts to persuade a robot to follow his commands. The robot is programmed to obey, and what the Devil takes to be a yielding to temptation is merely a programmed response. He teaches the robot how to win at dice games and in return demands the robot’s soul when it dies. But the robot has no soul to deliver, and its gambling prowess will not serve any evil purpose as no human being will venture to stake any money against it in a game of chance. Once again, therefore, the Devil is frustrated but in this story the setting is entirely modern, or, to be more precise, a little futuristic, and the Devil is this time the loser to the hardware of science fiction. The Devil, however, is not always the embodiment of evil in Japanese science fiction. The Japanese are used to treating their deities and their demons as neither wholly good nor bad, and when they are not tutelary to some mountain, rock, stream, or physical entity they tend to be seen as representing human emotions or conditions. In this way they readily recommend themselves to story-tellers wishing to expose human folly or weakness of some kind, or to those wishing to make a critical comment on current human affairs. The Devil in the stories recounted above has behaved in a manner broadly true to his western image and stereotype. But the Japanese treatment of deities and demons is much more flexible than this, and it is a commonplace of Japanese religious experience and consciousness that virtually all religious concepts and superstitions are subject to a pervading syncretism that ascribes either wholly or more frequently in part the characteristics of religious entities sprung from one setting to entities sprung from quite a different quarter. We should not be surprised, therefore, to find the Devil appearing in various modified forms in Japanese literature; and Japanese science fiction, just as much as any other form of Japanese literature, is subject to these influences and trends. Hoshi’s ‘Kyujin-nan’ (‘A shortage of staff’)17 is a commentary on a modern Japanese social and economic phenomenon scarcely paralleled in the west except perhaps in West Germany and some of its neighbours, where, however, it has been significantly relieved by the recruitment of Gastarbeiter and such. The Ruler of Hell in this story is not like the ‘Christian’ Devil, and is not absolutely like the Roman Pluto either. While perhaps more similar to the latter than the former he perhaps bears more similarity to Offenbach’s

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character in Orpheus in the Underworld than to any classical conception. He is, in the final analysis, Hoshi’s own creation, and is introduced here specifically to satirize what had become a serious problem in Japan at the time of writing. Mr S is the manager of a small factory. For a long time the management of his factory has gone smoothly but recently difficulties have arisen over shortages of staff. He has tried to recruit labour by searching carefully among all his acquaintances and using whatever contacts he has, but whenever he has found any promising new employee he has immediately lost him to some other company offering better pay and conditions. Depressed by his inability to run his factory properly he consoles himself with drink, and as he is walking home from a bar late one night with his head down, he spots an old-fashioned purse with a metal clasp lying by the side of the road. Opening it, he finds it contains nothing but one banknote. He thinks of reporting his find to the police but as the purse contains no identification of its owners and one banknote is hardly a large sum he decides it is simply not worth the trouble. Worse, the police may suspect him of removing the other contents from the purse and subject him to endless questioning. The police officer interviewing him might well be inexperienced; the police too have been suffering from a shortage of staff in recent times. He decides to go home in a taxi and pays with the banknote he found in the purse. To have dug into his wallet would have taken that much extra effort, and he is drunk and tired. The next morning when he looks at the purse again he is amazed to find there is still a banknote inside it, and it is not long before he discovers that every time he removes it and recloses the purse another one will be waiting when he reopens it again. He quickly masters the art of opening and shutting the clasp and in this way begins to amass money. The trick will not work if he simply holds the purse upside down and he acquires blisters on his fingers by constant operation of the clasp. This, however, is a small price to pay for his new-found fortune, and all his worries about staff shortages in his factory fade from his mind. One little worry remains, however: the notes may not be genuine. Just to make sure, he takes one to a bank to have it examined. Experienced bank staff are said to be able to detect a forgery merely by the feel of the paper against the tips of their fingers, but banks, too, have recently been suffering from a shortage of staff. None the less the note is subjected to careful scrutiny and is pronounced

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genuine. Reassured, he continues to use the purse to produce his new wealth. Strictly speaking he should report these extra earnings to the Tax Office, but they are not the sort of earnings over which evasion is likely to attract the attention of the inspectors, and in any case the Tax Office is short-staffed. He carries on unchecked. Then one day something unusual happens. The note inside the purse appears to be stuck. Tugging at it, he finds himself dragged inside by a force greater than his own. Either he has grown smaller or the purse has grown larger, but he now finds himself completely enveloped in the purse, and he discovers he has a companion in the dimness. This stranger introduces himself as the Ruler of Hell. Now afraid, Mr S wonders if he is dead and if he is about to be subjected to Hell’s torments. The stranger reassures him on both counts, and asks him to pay back the money he has advanced. When Mr S confesses that this is impossible as he has spent it, the Ruler of Hell says he will require him to work for him until the loan is paid off. ‘That should suffice,’ he adds. ‘By then somebody else should come along to relieve you. I’d really rather not resort to these methods, but you see in Hell we have a shortage of staff too…’ In a further story by Hoshi, ‘Kagami’ (‘The mirror’),18 a devil allegedly of western origins is quite impotent to influence events and does not even try to do anything but escape its cruel human captors. It is not a motive force at all. The initiative lies entirely with the human beings who use the devil as a butt for all their aggressive and destructive urges. With this motif Hoshi chillingly explores the psychological state of people in their modern working environment. A childless couple live together in a high apartment block. The husband is a section head in a business firm, and as they have no children the wife has kept the job as a radio actress which she had before they got married. For this reason she sometimes has to stay out late at night to make recordings. It is Friday the thirteenth of a certain month, and the husband has decided to put into effect a certain plan that has been suggested to him by a Spanish penfriend. Reading the Spanish instructions he aligns a mirror taken from the washroom with that of his wife’s dressing table along the lines of terrestrial magnetism, testing the accuracy of their positioning with a magnetic needle. Having satisfied himself that he has got them in perfect symmetry so as to create the impression of an unending corridor he then takes out a bible and opens it as instructed. Then, counting down the seconds to the stroke of midnight, he snaps the bible shut at precisely the

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right moment, and finds, as predicted, that he has caught a devil by the tail. He immediately knocks the mirrors out of alignment to prevent any escape, and the devil lets out a piercing scream. In size it is a little larger than a rat but not as big as a cat. Apart from its long tail and its large black ears it looks like a human being. Its face is miserable and its look pathetic. When its captor asks it to perform some trick for him it replies it cannot and simply begs to be let go. The man is disappointed with his capture but the devil’s pleas for mercy only inflame the cruelty in him. He swings it by its tail against the wall, and as it buries its head and wails in sheer helplessness on the floor he gives it a kick. The wife now returns home from her recording session and is intrigued to find what he has caught. As he explains to her its inability to do anything for them he twists its ear to make it wail and plead for mercy. The wife finds this amusing so she twists the other ear to produce the same kind of result for herself. They decide to shut the devil away inside a glass jar, knowing that it will not need fresh air or food to stay alive. It is easier than keeping a bird. In the morning when the husband gets up he enjoys a cigarette and then sticks it into the devil. He then enjoys further cruelties before going to work, leaving it to his wife to do the teasing and tormenting for the rest of the day. In this way they find they have acquired an excellent pet; not matter how cruelly they abuse it, it will not die. Furthermore, tormenting it provides them with a ready-made release from their pent-up frustrations, and all their aggressive urges generated at work find easy expression in the outlet provided for them by the devil. In these circumstances both prosper in their employment and are highly regarded by their workmates and associates. The husband, now promoted to head of the whole department, feels sorry for his subordinates who have to find solace in diversions like drink and pachinko.19 But his new-found responsibilities only increase the potential frustrations of his job and he grows even crueller in his treatment of the devil. One day he buys a hammer and an anvil and takes to bashing the devil’s head, but however hard he hits it, it will not die. His wife takes to sticking it with needles and cutting up its tail with scissors, only to find it thoroughly restored the next morning after a night in the jar. In this way several months go by, the couple prospering at work and the devil suffering mounting cruelty at home. They tell no one of their pet, and both are thought to be highly personable and likeable people.

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Then one night as the wife is brushing her hair in front of her dressing table she raises another mirror behind her head to gain a better view. Without warning the devil jumps into the mirror and is gone. Deprived of their outlet for all their anger they quickly fall to quarrelling between themselves, but their habit of wreaking their vengeance to the full is unabated and before long the husband picks up his hammer and the wife her scissors. Blood is splattered on the floor already strewn with broken glass from the mirrors, and as the clock moves noiselessly on through the early hours of Saturday the fourteenth, no sign of life remains in the room. Other references to western religion in Japanese science fiction are numerous but as we have seen from these examples the treatment is hardly straightforward or consonant with what western believers would recognize as their own religious consciousness. Of the stories mentioned in this book only ‘Cosmic dust’ treats Christianity in a positive way. Apart from stories dealing with tangential aspects of Christianity there are others that bear reference to other western religions. Voodoo, for instance, is the theme of Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘Aku o Noroo’ (‘Let us decry evil’).20 In this story pin-sticking is practised on a doll in a Japanese setting by a person in possession of the intended victim’s hair, and the victim (a thief who is being hunted by the police) is saved only by the fact that he is wearing a wig. Greek mythology and Dante’s Divine Comedy21 feature in Abe Kobo’s ‘Dendorokakariya’ (‘Dendrocacalia’),22 but here they are only by way of passing reference in a story about a man who changes into a plant and back again. Buddhism, however, is the prevailing religion of Japan, and it is to instances of references to Buddhism in Japanese science fiction that we shall now turn. REFERENCES TO BUDDHISM A simple yet amusing story written in evident sympathy with Buddhism is Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘Shibutoi Yatsu’ (The stubborn fellow’).23 A spaceship carrying strange creatures with golden horns and red tentacles arrives in the vicinity of the Earth. They are colonists looking out for a new planet they can use for pasture for their herds and the Earth seems ideal. First, however, they must eliminate the creatures that inhabit the planet, so they decide to set

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an electronic trap by a river bank in order to catch one and study it to discover its weak points. It is not long before one of the creatures is caught. Hauled up by the electronic net into their spaceship, it simply sits in a quiet corner repeatedly mumbling something to itself. Of course, they do not understand the meaning of the mumblings, but they go ahead with their plan to study the creature by testing its reactions to a variety of ordeals. First they press a button and an automatic whip comes into play, administering blows to the accompaniment of loud cracks. The creature, however, remains unmoved. It continues its mumblings without any variation in tone and it does not seem to suffer any ill effects. Surprised by its stubbornness, they try other tortures: acids, alkalis, and other toxic substances are showered on it, all having no noticeable effect. Extreme heat and extreme cold are then applied in turn, but the mumblings carry on without a break. Nothing, it seems, will induce the creature to succumb, and eventually the aliens give up, deciding that the creature is too difficult to control. Plans for introducing their herds to the Earth are put off, and as their ship speeds away carrying the creature back to their own planet for further study, the mutterings continue unabated from the corner of the cabin: ‘Let me escape to Nirvana, let me escape to Nirvana.’ The Buddhist concept of Nirvana—the extinction of the self into nothingness—also features in ‘Nehan Hoso’ (‘The Nirvana broadcast’) by Komatsu Sakyo.24 Typically the devout Buddhist yearns for entry into Nirvana and this is the evident objective of the life-weary devotee in The stubborn fellow’. In Komatsu’s story, however, Nirvana is imposed. All members of a family are watching television one night. As usual they are gazing at the box in fascination and delight. To them everything they watch is a form of entertainment, not to be taken for reality. They remain unalarmed when the box shows them a student demonstration in front of their home, and their calm continues even as the announcer tells them of the start of the Third World War. They are an unusual family in that they have confidence in their home life to keep them safe from the perils of the outside world, and this mood continues even as they hear the 108 strokes of a temple bell, marking the end of the year, and in this case the end of existence.

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10 The psyche, perception, and emotion

In the last chapter we have taken a look at matters of the Japanese mind and spirit, focusing particularly on how the traditional—and not so traditional—religious and moral consciousness of the Japanese people plays upon and reacts against the modern world of change, technology, and science that is the Japan of today. Of course, these matters are important. Religion and ethics play a significant part (some would say a crucial part) in underpinning a society’s willingness to work productively, its attitude towards important social relationships, and its degree of readiness to accept change. Such issues, however, fall a long way short of exhausting matters of the mind and spirit and in this chapter the intention will be to examine other, possibly deeper, levels of the Japanese mind as they appear in science fiction. What does the genre have to tell us about the state of the Japanese psyche, the Japanese approach to perception, or the deep-rooted emotional urges of human beings? First of all, let us take a look at certain causes of psychological stress. PSYCHOLOGICAL STRESS Westerners by now are no doubt accustomed to regarding the Japanese as a group-oriented people, and from the sociological point of view this judgement is undoubtedly right. The typical Japanese is brought up to expect less independence, and more group dependency, than his western counterpart. Individualism is not highly esteemed in Japanese society, and the individual who attempts to ignore the demands of his or her group finds life especially hard. None the less the Japanese individual has his or her own psyche just like anyone else, and this psyche has its problems to face, its battles to fight, and its hurdles to surmount just as in

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any other society. Indeed, it is possible to claim that the highly structured, group-oriented society of Japan places more stress upon individuals in requiring them to suppress their basic urges than Occidental society does. This, however, is arguable; at least the society in which status is ascribed relieves the individual of fighting, and constantly looking over his or her shoulder, to maintain position. In Japan’s case however, status is not completely ascribed. In the education system which is preparatory to entry into the work-force status must be achieved by hard and diligent study in a competitive system that forces ambitious young Japanese (or the children of ambitious parents) to go through the hell of repeated examinations before they can gain acceptance to the right university and faculty—an essential route to their desired company wherein once again their status will be largely ascribed by seniority. Females to a large extent are exempt from this competitive rat race, but they too must think very seriously about the kind of marriage they make if they are to avoid the clutches of a domineering mother-in-law. And they too compete fiercely in their turn as kyoiku mama (education mothers) who take their responsibility for educating their children so seriously that they too become involved, as jockeys if not as horses, in the educational rat race of the next generation. Indeed, it is they who turn on the heat, and thus help to perpetuate the system. Even within the relative tranquility and paternalistic atmosphere of his company, however, the typical Japanese salaryman cannot feel that his worries are over. He must always show due deference to his superiors (not to mention, when he is older, at times embarrassing benevolence towards his juniors) and, above all, he must be careful not to blemish his record. A blot on the record can severely damage his prospects, and even the mere thought of an imagined blot can be very worrying. This is the point of Hoshi Shin’ichi’s story ‘Aru Noiroze’ (‘A certain neurosis’).1 The cause of the neurosis is that distinctly modern invention, the computer, and the story is told in the first person by a man whose life has been completely changed by it. The change began one day when he had an idle moment in the office and picked up a pair of scissors to trim his nails. Being in a relaxed mood, he allowed his mind to wander, and he found himself thinking back to a mistake he had made several years before. He had inadvertently written down some wrong figures in an order form, and as a result the company had suffered some loss. The sum had not been particularly

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large, and since that time he had worked all the harder to expunge his mistake. As the years went by everybody had forgotten it. Now, however, he feels a certain nagging in his brain and as he tries to figure out what the reason for it might be, his mistake suddenly comes back to him. He remembers that he made it shortly after the company computer was installed. It will still be on the record and every time his name comes up for promotion the information, fresh from the computer’s data base, will be laid out cleanly and concisely for all the directors to see. How can they give a post of responsibility to a man with a record like that? Come to think of it, his salary has not been rising as it should. Human beings can and do forget, and with diligent effort an early mistake can be erased from their memory. But with a computer this is impossible. His mistake will dog him for the rest of his life. He thinks of asking to have the episode removed from his record but to do this he will have to put in an application in writing which will itself be added to the record. This will damage his prospects still further. He thinks of leaving the company and joining another, but even this drastic (and unJapanese) course of action will fail to achieve the desired result. The new company will want to see his record, and the old company will supply it from the computer printout. Next he thinks of destroying the computer and he lays a scheme to enter the building at dead of night and blow it up. But its memory banks might be housed in a robust metal casing, and in any case there might be a duplicate record. In despair he abandons the idea. To try and then fail would make him a pariah for life. He grows ill with worry and is unable to eat. Seeing a doctor would be useless; the problem lies not with him but with the computer. Then it comes to him. He should have realized it all along. The only course open to him is to form his own company. His new business is a clinic for curing people with computer neurosis and the story is told from the perspective of a year’s progress after its founding. First, many patients come to him in response to the small advertisement in a newspaper. Then, as more people respond to further advertisements he appoints his first patients, now cured, to his staff. Patients and staff both continue to grow and it seems the business will continue to expand for ever. After all, this is the age of the computer, for which the hero is very grateful. As we see from the last story the Japanese individual does have a need for privacy, for all the group-oriented structure of Japanese society. At the very least he needs to be able to cover up his past

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mistakes and hide anything shameful from the public eye. The need to avoid any admission of professional incompetence is clearly recorded by Ruth Benedict in The Chrysanthemum and the Sword2 under the heading of giri-to-one’s name, and it may be regarded as an essential feature of the Japanese value system. Japanese literature and television drama abound with cases of family cover-up and it is understandable that in Japanese company life, where the record is all-important, an individual should be seriously concerned about a blot on his record that he cannot by diligence erase. But it does not stop there. In all East Asian societies ‘face’ is of the utmost importance. The Confucian tradition requires both that the individual be seen doing the right thing and that he should not be so indelicate as to expose others with whom he has any responsible connection to public opprobrium or disgrace. The group ethic requires it in the name of harmony, and is upheld by it. To most Japanese, therefore, it is important that even their minor peccadilloes should not be exposed to public gaze or scrutiny, and the fact that everybody may be in much the same position does not diminish each individual’s urge to maintain his own appearances. Sensitivity about such matters is the topic of Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘Usugurai Hoshi de’ (‘On a dim planet’).3 The sun is remote on a distant planet surrounded by a heavy, corrosive gas where two robots discarded by their masters have come to rest. They have served their masters faithfully and have come to acquire an intimate knowledge of their masters’ most intimate secrets in the course of their operational lives. Because of this they cannot be left idling’within reach of inquisitive strangers. Affection for them has prevented their masters from simply having them scrapped on the spot, so they like other robots have been shot into Space. Many are sucked into the sun, where their secrets melt with them. Others drift on for ever into endless Space, but these two have been pulled into this dim planet with its corrosive gas, and here they exchange conversation with each other until they finally decompose. After preliminary exchanges their scratchy voices turn to the subject of their masters. Each asks the other what kind of a man its master was. ‘My Master? I can’t really say. All men are like him, more or less. He was moderately romantic with his wife and he was moderately serious. He was moderately cunning and he was moderately sentimental. What about yours?’

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‘Mine was much the same! Humans beings do not differ very much from each other. It makes you wonder why they are so averse to letting other people find out about their private lives. I find them hard to understand.’ ‘So do I’ The conversation goes on to include such subjects as death. Human beings appear to be averse to this also, but to themselves it is pointless to think of it; they must accept what happens to them. The conversation becomes desultory and finally comes to an end. It is followed by metallic sounds as screws corrode and pieces fall apart; and then silence. The human desire for privacy is once again the main theme of this story, as in ‘A certain neurosis’, but here Hoshi’s treatment of it is far less sympathetic. This is not, however, an inconsistency on the author’s part. For one thing, the desire is viewed from quite a different angle. The desire to cover up the petty trivia and indiscretions of one’s private life is not the same thing as the desire to overcome the consequences of an unfortunate error by diligent work. The first is reprehensible conduct by Confucian standards (one should, after all, try to eliminate indiscretions and unworthy motives from one’s life), but the second is entirely admirable. Everybody has a duty to try to rise above previous errors and improve himself by honest effort. The Confucian view is that personal motivations must not be permitted to stand in the way of performing one’s duty; if they do, they are to be repressed, If Sigmund Freud is right in his claim that the history of civilization is the history of psychological repression, then Japan may indeed lay claim to being the most civilized nation on Earth. This is not to suggest that Japan is a society tyrannized by an oppressive government; however the discipline is internalized, and the repression is psychological. In a society as obsessed with a Confucian-derived sense of loyalties and duties as Japan still is, the price paid for the maintenance of harmony and Japan’s much vaunted ‘teamwork’ is very high in terms of psychological stress. The pressure placed upon the young to perform well in examinations recorded so vividly in Kume Masao’s ‘Jukensei no Shuki’ (‘Notes of a student examinee’)4 is but a further example of the sometimes intolerable strain that the system imposes upon its members. These strains are not incidental to the system. They are essential to its smooth running and continued operation. The

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Japanese are driven along like a high-pressured steam locomotive to perform at maximum pressure to achieve the results that society has accepted as the nation’s targets. In this highly pressurized hothouse atmosphere there is nowhere the ordinary individual can turn for refuge or respite. Relief may well be yearned for by many, but it is difficult to see how relief can be found without a fundamental change in national objectives and in social and industrial policy. Many may be ready in their hearts for such a change, but it does not appear that any such change will be forthcoming until the existing tack pursued so relentlessly by the leadership for so long is shown not to work. By then a traumatized Japan may be ready to consider new policies and new directions— in other words, a new tack. This has been done before in Japanese history and can be done again. But the trauma itself by definition will be a stressful situation. This time new people will experience new kinds of stress, and it is precisely out of such a situation that a new-look Japan will emerge. PERSONALITY AND PERCEPTION Personality is, of course, one of the main objects of study by psychologists, and since the days of the early epoch-making works of Sigmund Freud an increasing awareness of psychological theory has gradually spread throughout the human race, affecting virtually all the humane disciplines. Literature, of course, is not exempt, and Japanese literature has been affected just like any other. Science fiction too has reflected people’s growing awareness of psychology; indeed, it has shown itself to be a particularly adaptive vehicle for psychological speculation of many kinds. The book Introductory Psychology through Science Fiction by Katz, Warwick, and Greenberg is a particularly good example of how the subject can be approached in this way.5 As Japanese science fiction, following its western counter parts, has moved from the area of hard scientific speculation into the soft sciences, it has quite naturally looked at the human and psychological consequences of the march of science through time. It has also, just like its counterparts, offered stories in which technological hardware is either largely or wholly absent and in which the speculation centres entirely upon matters of the human mind. Personality and perception thus form the mainstay of a whole field of Japanese science fiction literature. One of the earliest stories of this kind was written by Yokomitsu Riichi. A

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writer of considerable fame who established himself as the leading member of the Shinkankakuha (‘the New Sense School) which included such luminaries as Kawabata Yasunari (who went on to win the Nobel Prize in 1968) he turned his attention in 1930 to matters of human psychology. Largely out of reaction to the dominant twentieth-century literary trend of portraying delicate human feelings in the finest detail, as he himself had done in works dedicated to his dying wife, such as ‘Haru wa Basha in Notte’ (‘Spring in a carriage’),6 and also out of a desire to experiment with new approaches he developed a theory of mechanical psychology in which people reacted to situations simply as a result of what they were and the roles they had to play. Just such a story is ‘Kikai’ (‘The machine’).7 The story is told in the first person (although this does not prevent the author from interposing comments of his own, as an experimental ‘fourth person’) by a mechanic who takes a job in a small name-plate factory in Tokyo. The owner of the company is a remarkably simple-minded and good-natured man, who makes a perfect foil to the others. A mechanic named Karube already working there regards the newcomer with suspicion, thinking he may be an industrial spy intent on stealing the company’s secrets. He is a relative of the master’s wife and has hopes of establishing a collateral branch in due course, and knowing of the master’s simple-minded ways he decides to protect the company by keeping his new colleague under surveillance. The I responds by treating him with contempt. When the master entrusts I with a secret chemical formula for treating metals, Karube attacks him and beats him up, only to be defeated psychologically when T shows him the formula and offers to let him perform the task himself. Karube is ignorant of such matters and is unable to do the job himself. Work expands and a new man named Yashiki is taken on. It is now the turn of T to be suspicious, but it is Karube who finds Yashiki coming stealthily out of a dark room one night and who overpowers him, trying to make him confess. T comes to the aid of Yashiki, only to find that the two then turn on him. At the end they are all exhausted, wondering why they have fought each other. The next day the big order on which they have been working is finished, but the master is robbed on his way back from collecting his money. The three mechanics get drunk and the next day Yashiki is found dead, having imbibed a toxic chemical along with his sake. T concludes that he too must be becoming simple-minded like the

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master as a result of using toxic chemicals. He cannot understand either why they fought or why Yashiki died, and he cannot even understand himself. The author, in his ‘fourth person’ commentary, explains that a Great Machine controls human actions, thoughts, and will and we are powerless to resist it. The same theme is pursued at greater length by the same author in ‘Shin’en’ (‘The garden of slumbers’ also known as The tombs of the emperors’)8 in which a team of Japanese archaeologists is conducting excavations in China. The leader of the team, like the master in The machine’, is a nai’ve personality around whom the others, including his wife who is having an affair with one of the team members, react. They too are caught up in the workings of the all-seeing, all-powerful Machine and are driven to act as they do because of their situations and roles. For all this, the story is generally regarded as a characterization novel and as such it is accorded a place in the ‘mainstream’ of Japanese literature. It is in another short story, ‘Shizukanaru raretsu’ (‘Silent ranks’),9 that Yokomitsu returns to his science fiction mode, and this time he does so with a vengeance. Far from being a characterization piece, the story contains no individual characters at all. It tells of two rivers, S and Q, and how they cut their respective gorges and valleys on their way to the sea. The story covers a long passage of time, with different constellations taking up the dominant position in the heavens. Human settlements are eventually formed in the fertile valleys of the two rivers, but the fortunes of the two civilizations are determined more by the fortunes of the two rivers than any particular human will. As one river changes course and takes the headwaters of the other, its vailey’s civilization prospers and the other declines. Silting also affects the fortunes of these civilizations. One valley civilization was originally founded by emigrants from the other who had lost out in an internal struggle. But here again the individual performance of the rivers is supplemented by a logical sequence of events in human affairs as settlement grows and civilization advances (hints once again of the Great Machine), but that’s all. The interpretation of events is purely mechanistic. As settlement spreads and civilization proceeds the two societies merge and as capitalism develops huge factory chimneys belch smoke over the combined civilization of the QS river systems. Social strife begins and the haves and have-nots are now the two combatant sides, not the inhabitants of the two separate river systems as in earlier years. Their weapons are advanced and

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destructive and after a bitter struggle nothing is left except the silent ranks of dead, twisted, and grotesque shapes. But the rivers continue to flow, and the constellations continue to replace each other in the heavens. The story thus has a long-term perspective and is concerned with the fate of the human race rather than with individual people—a feature claimed by some, including W.S. Bain-bridge,10 to be one of science fiction’s major characteristics. While, however, in these stories Yokomitsu has played down the importance of human will, it cannot be stated that this approach is typical of Japanese science fiction. As we have seen in Hoshi’s story ‘A certain neurosis’ human personality is seen to matter a great deal, even if, as Hoshi alleges in ‘On a dim planet’, from the perspective of a robot all human beings are very much alike. Further stories by Hoshi Shin’ichi dealing with the human personality follow, and as we shall see he has found it possible to approach the topic from a wide and interesting variety of angles. In ‘Shojo’ (The symptoms’)11 a man, Mr K, goes to visit a psychoanalyst. The problem, he explains, is his dreams. The doctor does his best to put him at ease and assures him that there will be some underlying cause for his anxieties. But the doctor’s Freudian approach appears to be inadequate to deal with the kind of dream the man relates. First he dreams of getting up, then having his breakfast, going out to work, coming home at night, and then going to bed. At this point he wakes up. The doctor consults his books but is unable to find any similar case. Mr K is disappointed to learn that the doctor has no cure for him and in desperation he walks over to the window and throws himself out. From that point on he never has any trouble with his dreams again, and he asks himself why he had not thought of this solution sooner. What is put into question here is reality itself —an approach more likely to appeal to those who live in a Buddhist society with its emphasis on the ephemeral, transitory nature of life than in a society with a background rooted in Christianity or in western rationalism. A psychoanalyst’s consulting room is once again the setting for ‘Kanja’ (‘The patient’).12 This time a young man of 25 has been taken back under hypnosis to the age of 10 at which he received a traumatic shock, and the doctor, having diagnosed his problem and having administered the appropriate suggestion therapy, is bringing the patient back to his real age, whereupon the cure will be

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completed. The young man’s problem has been a fear of women. When he gets him back to the age of 25, however, the doctor hesitates. He is motivated by jealousy not of the young man (he himself has a beautiful wife and a high income, thanks to his many patients) but of his colleagues who have gained high reputations for published works. Seizing his opportunity, therefore, he goes on, and says to the young man: ‘Right then, you are now 26.’ When he asks the young man what he now sees, he is told, ‘A woman.’ Fascinated, the doctor goes on, but his fascination turns to horror when he discovers that the woman in the young man’s subconscious is his own wife. Finally the doctor says: ‘All right, you can stop now. We’ll put you back to 25.’ He then goes on to take him back all the way to 10, and when he finally takes him out of hypnosis he explains regretfully that he has been unable to find a cure. The young man goes away disappointed, looking just as timid and nervous as when he first came in. Personality and perception again intermingle in Hoshi’s ‘Kata no Ue no Hisho’ (‘The secretary on the shoulder’).13 Here, however, the focus is not on any contrast between imagination and reality but rather between verbal communication and the reality it attempts to represent. The Japanese language, perhaps more than any other, is full of long-winded periphrasis designed to soothe the feelings of persons participating in conversation. The other person must not be offended and when appropriate—as it frequently is—his ego should be bolstered. Above all he must not be made to lose face; and the speaker himself does not want to lose face either. In short, face must be maintained all round, and in a society in which appearances are almost everything the form of words in which messages are conveyed is all-important. The very form of the verb indicates a level of respect, and many other parts of speech are used for this purpose too. But the matter does not stop there. Strings of long-winded sentences are used just for the purpose of buttering people up, and what could be said in just two or three syllables is expanded out into whole passages of oleaginous circumlocutions. It is not that others do not do this too; rather it is that the Japanese have refined it into an art form. Confucian society is based on respect and recognition of position and while the Chinese of the Mainland at least have dropped most of their traditional honorific expressions and practices, in Japan the tradition persists. The

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Japanese today are the world’s pastmasters in the art because most other societies do not have an equivalent need of it. In this amusing little story Hoshi has each character carry a computer on his or her shoulder in the form of a brilliantly plumed macaw which has the ability to interpret long polite speeches into the two or three words that form the real gist of the message. It has the ability to interpret in the opposite direction too, and by this simple device Hoshi has enabled himself to poke fun at the periphrastic language used by the Japanese. It is not suggested, however, that the whole exercise is unnecessary. Everybody in the age described uses one, and even the hero of the story, a door-to-door salesman named Mr Zaim (whose ethnicity seems impossible to determine from the surname), has one. He too at the end of the story is in need of the soothing words spoken by a bar madam’s macaw. It is an age slightly in advance of our own, and Mr Zaim goes on his rounds on a pair of autoskates that roll smoothly over the plastic pavements. At 4 o’clock one afternoon he just has time for one more call before reporting back to the company office. He presses the door bell, and as the lady of the house opens the door he mutters, ‘Hello,’ to his macaw. Stimulated by this scarcely audible sound, the macaw addresses the housewife: I’m very sorry to trouble you at a time like this. I know you weren’t expecting me and I know you must be very busy. I hope you don’t mind.’ The housewife’s macaw replies, Thank you for coming. I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but my memory is not very good, and I don’t remember your name…’ Mr Zaim’s macaw now inclines its head and summarizes for him: ‘Who are you?’ Mr Zaim replies to his macaw, ‘New Electronics Co. Buy an electric spider.’ The macaw then rattles on: ‘As a matter of fact, I am a sales representative for the New Electronics Co. As no doubt you are aware, our company is proud of its long tradition and the high public confidence it enjoys. If it were not so, I would not have called on you today. I would like to show you our latest product, which has just been perfected by our Research Division. Here it is—an electric spider… At this point he takes a shiny, metallic object resembling a spider from his case, and his macaw prattles on:

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‘…this is it. Whenever your back feels itchy, all you have to do is slip it inside your clothes. It will locate the itch all by itself, and then scratch with its legs and give you wonderful relief. It’s a very handy thing to have. A high class home like yours should not be without one. With this in mind I came round specially to bring one for you.’ When Mr Zaim’s macaw finishes, the housewife’s macaw interprets it all for her in a voice too low for her visitor to hear. ‘He wants you to buy an automatic back scratcher.’ The housewift replies, ‘No.’ Her macaw then takes it up. ‘It’s a wonderful gadget. Your company is always bringing out new products, isn’t it? I’m afraid, however, that at our house we would not be able to afford such a superb article.’ ‘Nix!’ reports Zaim’s macaw. ‘Try harder,’ he mutters. His macaw continues with increased enthusiasm, but its long spiel loses all its impact as interpreted by the housewife’s macaw. She tells it he’s a nuisance, so it replies: ‘When I’m making purchases I never agree to buy anything without consulting with my husband first. Unfortunately he’s not at home right now, so I can’t make any decision. We should be able to have a good talk about it this evening, so perhaps you might like to come back some other time. I like it myself, but that’s no good. I’m really very sorry.’ Zaim’s macaw sums it up for him: ‘Get lost!’ As he gives up and puts the spider back in his case he mutters, ‘So long,’ to his macaw, which relays the message in polite terms: ‘I understand. I’m really very sorry too. Please give my regards to your husband.’ As soon as he is back at his desk and pushing the computer keys to tot up his sales he receives a call from the divisional chief s macaw. As he groans in expectation of another sermon his macaw translates his comments into a respectful: ‘Yes sir. I’ll be in directly. I’ll just straighten my desk…’ The chief’s macaw delivers a speech in serious tones, and Zaim’s

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macaw translates the solid wigging he receives into: ‘Raise your sales.’ ‘Just like that?’ Zaim whispers back. The macaw addresses the chief in meek tones: ‘I understand perfectly. I am determined to increase my sales still further. But recently our rivals have brought in new methods and new products. They are trying all sorts of things. Sales are not as easy as they were. Of course, I shall redouble my efforts, but if you could pass on to the Research and Production Divisions the message that they need to keep coming up with new products I should be doubly obliged to you.’ A bell rings and it is time to go home. Exhausted by the day’s work he feels the need to drop in at a bar for relaxation. He has no sooner opened the door when the bar madam spots him and her macaw accosts him in a sleazy, soft, seductive voice: ‘Ah, Mr Zaim! Do come in. We haven’t seen you here for a long time. The atmosphere here has been lonely without you…’ These are the very words he most wants to hear. The story thus ends with a reminder of the human desire for comfort and gratification although we are left wondering how genuine the satisfaction can be if it is provided in a ritualized form of words or, worse still, issued by an automaton. Nevertheless, for all the set patterns of Japanese speech and behaviour and for all the Confucian ethical overlay we are reminded that the Japanese, like any other community, have their psychological motivations and drives. The culture does not obliterate them; it simply obliges them to express them by means and outlets that may be different from the channels most readily available in western civilization. HUMAN DESIRES AND EMOTIONS Love, of course, is an important human emotion, and although Japanese marriages have traditionally been arranged (and many still are) love has been expected to develop in married life with growing association and the passage of time. An increasing number of young Japanese prefer these days to make a love match although not all Japanese (especially the older ones) are convinced this is the best recipe for a stable married life between compatible individuals. Divorce is on the increase too, and while it has by no means reached American proportions, it is arguably the more frequent outcome of

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love matches than arranged marriages. In many instances the difficulties of a young bride arise from the problems she encounters with her in-laws, (especially her mother-in-law) than with her husband, who in any case is likely to be spending most of his waking time at work and with his colleagues according to time-honoured Japanese custom. Overcrowding still means that in many cases in-laws have to 11 ve together, although this is diminishing with dekasegi (leaving the home area and going to work elsewhere) and the growth of modern industrial society. The problem is as much, if not more, one of intergenerational relations than one of relations between the sexes; and while intergenerational relations feature in science fiction, generally emphasizing the wide difference in generational outlooks and interests, sexual love on the whole does not. There is, to be sure, a story by Hoshi entitled ‘Ai no Kagi’ (‘The love key’)14 in which with a display of real affection a man succeeds in unlocking the door to his sweetheart’s apartment after they have quarrelled. It is an age when doors are unlocked by a special phrase which only the owner knows, and by an expression of the right sentiments and a conquest of selfish pride his love wins through. This story is in a sense unique in modern Japanese science fiction. While sexual attraction features in many stories as a motivation for human activity, love as such has not normally been projected as the key to anything in Japanese science fiction except in negative tones. It is the key to a double suicide in Kozakai Fuboku’s ‘The love curve’15 written in 1926 and it may be said to be the reason why Yoko employs a professional lady to administer a prod, in Hoshi’s story of that name, to her dilatory boyfriend.16 These are, however, stories of frustrated or unrequited love and while their points are strikingly made they are hardly assertions of the positive power of love as in The love key’. Many Japanese science fiction stories have dwelt on sex robots and androids, and Japanese science fiction has even given us the new ‘English’ word ‘sexoid’, as in Waga Sekusoidu (My Sexoid) by Mayumura Taku.17 But such stories are on the whole even further removed from anything that might be perceived as genuine love. Rather, they may be seen as recording a future projection of the traditional and ongoing practice on the part of the male Japanese of seeking relief from exhausting work and burdensome social pressures in amorous pastimes. The simple fact is that matters of love and related family and generational matters are in the main the subject of another form of literature: the romantic novel. Existing

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both in the form of higher literature and popular literature this kind of writing plumbs the depths of human emotions in multifaceted situations, potentially leaving no stone unturned. These writings are matched by plays, films, television dramatizations and serials, and even soap opera. They are the stuff that Japanese women read voraciously, and spend much of their time viewing on television. They form an important aspect of Japanese culture, reflecting upon it, and no doubt influencing it; but they are not the stuff of science fiction. Science fiction is a genre concerned with human and material trends, possible or imaginative futures, and the destiny of the human race. The destinies of individuals, while they may be portrayed, are not the point of focus and science fiction is not concerned with recording the depths of individual feelings. While not denying that they exist, it places its attention elsewhere. Their expression is not its chosen mode. It prefers instead to speculate on changes that may well affect the way we feel, and prefers to leave the depth and scope of the feelings we may experience in these changed situations to our own imagination. It is in this spirit that science fiction approaches the matter of love, and the other emotions too. It has things to say about them, and speculations to make. But their detailed portrayal is not its role. Of the baser human emotions, greed appears many times, while envy and jealousy are to be seen in the story ‘Mimina-riyama no Yurai’ (‘The origins of Mt Miminari’) by Yano Tetsu.18 In this story with an ancient setting we are given a science fiction account of how Mt Miminari near the Nara Basin got its name. A space-traveller who comes to be known as Tomo makes friends with a young man named Wakahiko and his sister Wakana. The village sorceress is envious of his powers and the village strongman is jealous of Wakana’s attraction to him. He picks a fight, only to be shot down by the spaceman’s handgun. Wakana then leaves with the stranger, defying her brother’s objections. The mountain derives its name from the roar of the spaceship, and the story of human passion is thus only incidental. The story is an example, however, of how such passions can appear against a science fiction backdrop. They are not normally the focus or the point of the story. The darker side of human nature may well be regarded as a fitting subject of science fiction in a somewhat different sense, however. In ‘The mirror’19 Hoshi has exploited the human capacity for cruelty to show how the frustrations and anger generated by the trials and tensions of working life can be redirected on to a

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scapegoat, to the advantage of the smooth pursuit of a career. The thought is hardly a new one: human beings have long been accustomed to the adage that the master kicks his servant and the servant kicks the dog. The story is remarkable only for the excess of cruelty involved and the manifest difference it makes to the careers of the man and his wife in the story who practise it. The story is thus a sharply critical comment on human nature and at the same time a telling reflection upon the extent to which the natural urges of the human personality must be bottled up and suppressed in the working environment. While these pressures are no doubt present anywhere they understandably must weigh particularly heavily on the Japanese who are required by traditional Confucian custom to bow to the dictates of authority and the group rather than stand up directly either for their own interests or for what they believe to be right. The same need for an outlet is found in ‘Nemuru Mae no Hitotoki’ (‘ Just before going to bed’).20 In this story as in ‘The mirror’ the scapegoat Hoshi provides is ‘immortal’. In this case, however, it is not a devil but an elaborately constructed electronic robot designed to resemble the ideal butler. Answering to the name Sandaiyu, it serves its master, a highly respected company manager simply called Mr N, with loyalty and efficiency every evening, only to be shot to pieces before he retires to bed. In this way he is able to maintain his bland exterior and be extraordinarily polite, civil, and affable, thus securing the prosperity of his business. After being shot to pieces the robot comes together again at night, thanks to magnetism. It is also capable of repairing its damaged parts so that the following day it looks once again like the perfect butler. The story ends when a robber intent on stealing from Mr N enters the kitchen and overpowers the robot. He then disguises himself as the butler and answers the master’s call for Sandaiyu… The story differs from The mirror’ in one or two important respects. The robot, unlike the devil, is not a sentient being and thus, while there is an outlet for the pent-up frustrations and rages of its master, there is no actual living recipient of the acts of cruelty. The reader’s reaction to Mr N, therefore, is by no means as unsympathetic as was the case with regard to the perpetrators of cruelty in ‘The mirror’. Rather, he is seen almost as a Mr Everyman (this is implied by the appellation Mr N, as in so many of Hoshi’s stories), with whom all can identify and feel even a little envious of for having found an outlet for the frustrations all to some extent

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share. The ending, too, is different. Here the final agony is not visited on the authors of cruelty as in the case of ‘The mirror’ but on another character, the only real ‘wrongdoer’ of the story: the robber who sets out to take advantage of the apparently easygoing Mr N, but does not know what he is letting himself in for. Cruelty is again present in Hoshi’s story ‘Kobito’ (‘The dwarf’).21 Here, however, it is worth remarking that cruelty of an unacceptable kind is once again displayed, as in ‘The mirror’, but this time natural public sympathy for the victim is deceitfully used as a trick to alter the entire nature of society. Here Hoshi is saying that while cruelty is abhorrent, our very abhorrence of it may be turned to our general disadvantage. Sympathy for the sufferer is natural but our very sympathy may be played upon by the unscrupiilous to gain undisclosed ends. This is a political observation which deserves to be considered more fully elsewhere. It is, however, worthy of our attention at this point that the phenomenon of bullying and cruelty is multifaceted in its implications both for those who perpetrate it and suffer it and for those who merely observe it. One of the functions of science flction is to explore all the ramifications and implications of the acts of which human beings are capable. It is not a record of deeds actually done and emotions actually experienced in reaction to those deeds. Rather it is a speculative exploration of the deeds of which people are capable. Emotions and psychological urges are relevant in so far as they have the capacity to drive people to perform those deeds and in so far as they constitute people’s reaction to them. A dialectic is present here: deeds spurred on by the psyche produce a psychological reaction that leads to further deeds. This point is not lost in Hoshi’s The dwarf. In this and in his other stories treating of cruelty we see this versatile author’s many-sided approach to the exploration of the human psyche and its interrelation with the human condition. RESTRAINTS Human emotions and drives are clearly not all admirable. This inevitably leads to the question of restraint, and indeed it is an ancient tenet of Confucianism that while the higher urges should be carefully nurtured and encouraged, the lower ones should be held in check. Traditional belief also holds that the lower urges should for preference be checked by self-restraint and that outright repression should be employed only as a last resort. The last two

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new stories to be introduced in this chapter turn to the question of constraints. The first shows an appreciation of their necessity. The safety device in the story of that name is insurmountable, yet gentle in its application. The necessity for moral restraint is accepted in ‘Keien’ (‘Reluctance’)22 too yet the story also contains a powerful insistence that human beings remain free to make their own choices and not be reduced to the level of automatons. In ‘Anzen Sochi’ (‘The safety device’)23 Hoshi’s Mr Every-man, Mr N is disturbed one night by an intruder whom he finds in the wardrobe of his bedroom. The stranger is wearing a tightfitting, bright blue suit of some metallic fibre, and has an intelligent-looking face and green hair. He is evidently not a burglar, or even an ordinary man at all. As Mr N plucks up courage to speak to him, it is evident that his origins, whatever they are, are beyond Mr N’s comprehension. To questions such as, ‘Do you come from the future?’ or ‘Perhaps you’ve come from another planet?’, the stranger can reply only that it is difficult to answer. The question of future or past, he tells Mr N, is a matter of the time dimension, and the question of the space dimension can’t be explained if one removes the element of time. ‘If you’re talking about another planet, that is if you’re talking about interplanetary travel, the problems of Space and Time are interwoven. So you see, it’s hard to explain accurately and simply…’ By this time Mr N is completely lost but at least he understands that the stranger comes from a civilization very much in advance of his own, and that is all he (and we) need to know. The stranger apologizes for the inconvenience he has created and promises he will immediately be on his way as soon as he has fixed a defective piece of equipment. By this time, however, Mr N has grown fascinated with a silver-coloured piece of equipment the stranger carries at his hip and asks if he may keep it as a souvenir. The stranger demonstrates its power by lifting it up, pulling the trigger and destroying the top half of a tree that is growing outside Mr N’s window. Mr N is surprised to see a weapon of such awesome power from a supposedly peaceful civilization, but before any further explanations can be given the stranger’s defective equipment is repaired and he vanishes, leaving Mr N alone with the gun. The next morning he goes out to practise with it in the mountains and finds he can remove the tops of mountains merely by taking aim and pressing the trigger. The gun also has a warning device which

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gives off a loud bleep should he inadvertently find himself in any kind of danger. With this new possession in his hands he realizes he is able to turn the situation to his advantage. Ideas that have lain dormant at the back of his mind now begin to stir themselves as he realizes how simple the instrument is to use. He offers his services to demolition companies and is able to make a lot of money. As he grows rich he also grows arrogant, eventually expecting the world to give him special privileges and minister to his pride. The world responds by immediately dividing itself into two groups: those who deplore his conduct and consider it disgraceful, and those who become his hangers-on in the hope of gaining something for themselves. Surrounded by such toadies he quickly takes on a sumptuous life-style. Not only does he make more and more money, but also he wields great power, and now and again he takes to brandishing his gun in order to flaunt it. As opposition grows a missile is aimed at him, but the warning device records the danger with a bleep, and with a single shot from his gun the missile is exploded in the sky. Everyone is now afraid of him, and he even takes to quoting the Confucian scriptures in a pretentious way to bolster his own position. He boasts: It is written, ‘Improve your person, regulate your household, manage the kingdom, and bring peace to the world.’ That means first of all arm yourself with real strength, build up your personal wealth, take control of the state, and then make the world your own. This is the path I have chosen to follow. Success is assured. His remark brings criticism from someone within earshot, and enraged by the critic he pulls the trigger. But this time no beam shoots out and his critic does not die. Instead, the ray gun falls apart and scatters in pieces on the floor. Only now does he realize that what he has possessed is simply a superb piece of civil engineering equipment with a warning device for the protection of its owner. It also has an added safety device causing it to self-destruct if its owner should try to use it improperly with the intention to kill. This story of human pride and greed and how they can grow if left unchecked can in some ways be regarded as in tune with the Confucian morality stories of pre-modern times. Only its dimensions and its science fiction hardware and transportation

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system set it apart. The Confucian nature of the message is underscored by the quotation from the Chinese Daxue (Japanese Daigaku, The Great Learning),24 selected from the Liji (The Record ofRitual),25 and elevated to the status of one of the Four Books by the great Song philosopher Zhuxi, the author of Neo-Confucianism, and by the fall of the man whose baser emotions led him to reinterpret its meaning in a way satisfactory only to himself. For all that, the constraint is gentle, entirely in accordance with Confucian ideas. The safety device merely deprives him of his source of power; it does not of itself do anything to punish him. Pride plays a part too in ‘Reluctance’. In this story, however, it is not seen so much as a human weakness to be kept in check so much as a characteristic of human nature that affects the kinds of checks that can realistically be applied. That human beings possess weaknesses is seen as one of the given facts of life. These, according to the Confucian tradition, must be taken into account when the checks on human conduct are devised. They can in no way be seen as justifying a regime reliant simply upon forcible repression, or upon drug-induced compliance. A certain research centre develops a ‘morality drug’. Simply by taking a single tablet one can change one’s personality and become a moral person; and what is more the effect will last a lifetime. On receiving the report from the head of the section in which the discovery has been made, the president of the centre is euphoric: This is marvellous!…You have made the most important discovery of the century—no, in the entire history of man. It means an end to the evils of society and the start of a revolutionary change for the better…’ He is assured that its efficacy is guaranteed. A computer, no less, confirms it. All data on cerebral physiology, psychology, psychoanalysis, and personality studies have been fed in and cross-checked with the chemical formula for the drug and the answers show it to be quite foolproof. When the president asks if there are any side-effects he is told that animal experiments have shown there to be none. Sceptically he asks if this means the section has produced moral pigs, but he is told it is not clear that there can be such a thing as a moral pig, a moral ape, or a moral goldfish. Morality seems to be a phenomenon characteristic of humans. The animal experiments have simply indicated that it is safe to use; its effect on human morals is guaranteed by the computer. When the

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president asks the section chief if he has taken a tablet himself, the latter replies that he was thinking of offering it to the president to try first, as a mark of respect in view of the importance of the discovery. The president however considers himself to be a moral man already, and hence in no need of such a drug, and the section chief possesses the same sentiments too. They decide, therefore, to look for a person who is in need of it, and the discovery is announced through the mass media. Everybody greets it with enthusiastic praise, but nobody comes forward to ask for a tablet. Discussions are held on whether everyone should be required by law to take it, but the question of human rights is raised as well as the practical question of whether a criminal who took it would be placing his own life at risk, as others who had been associated with him might fear the revelations he was about to make. All members of the committee discussing the question eventually admit that they would not take the drug themselves and when it is suggested that all children be administered the drug at birth, this idea too is rejected. None of the committee would like it to be given to his own offspring, and the remark is made that it would be a peculiar world if all children were moral. Although the drug is put into mass production nobody in the country appears to want it. An attempt is made to export it but this brings an immediate protest from foreign countries who see it as a plot to transform all their citizens into comic-book heroes. Suspicions mount, and sharp-eyed spies are seen loitering around the research centre. All involved are consumed with fear, not knowing when a bomb might be thrown. Finally the decision is taken to destroy all samples and documents and remove all traces of evidence that the discovery was ever made. Perhaps, muses Hoshi at the end of the story, the drug will be discovered again. But who will want to take it? The story thus underpins the independence of the human spirit, accompanied with a little pomposity perhaps. All wish to take responsibility for their own lives and behaviour. Humanity is asserted against regimentation; we are left with the consideration that when humanity is not allowed its free assertion, trouble cannot be far away.

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Part Four The consequences of change

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Japan is a rapidly changing society. The march of technology, the growth of affluence, and the spread of information are all in the process of combining with generational change to produce a new social environment in which the Japanese people live, work, and play. Many Japanese are acutely conscious of these changes and wonder where they might be leading. Others of a more conservative bent of mind cannot help but notice the mounting challenges to the thoughts and practices that give them comfort, and react with unease when the unfamiliar comes along to disturb their equanimity. They too, like the radicals of the younger generation, may stop to wonder where it is all leading. In many ways none of this is new. Japan has been a rapidly changing society ever since the early days of the Meiji Restoration. Indeed it may be claimed that no other society in human history has changed as far and as fast as did Japan in the Meiji era. This was noticed by the authors of the time, and in addition to the political novels that speculated on the future workings of the Japanese constitution and put forth the authors’ views on what the political configuration of Japan should be like, several men of letters wrote of the problems faced by individuals in coming to terms with the problems of change. Futabatei Shimei’s ‘Ukigumo’ (‘The drifting clouds’, 1886–9),1 translated by Marleigh Greyer Ryan and hailed as Japan’s first modern novel, tells the story of two young men, Utsumi Bunzo and Honda Noboru, who respond differently to the challenge of the times. The latter is successful, the former fails utterly. Natsume Soseki in his Kojin (The Wayfarer)2 translated by Beongcheon Yu, has his leading character, the troubled intellectual Ichiro, remark:

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Man’s insecurity stems from the advance of science. Never once has science, which never ceases to move forward, allowed us to pause. From rickshaw to carriage, from carriage to train, from train to automobile, from there on to dirigible, further on to airplane, and further on and on—no matter how far we may go, it won’t let us take a breath. How far it will sweep us along, nobody knows for sure. It is really frightening.3 Other mainstream writers too reflected on the pace of change and quite typically their writings reflected the personal, familial, and social tensions that resulted from changes in Japanese life. We have already seen how the first decade of the twentieth century spawned a number of works outside the mainstream, forerunners of science fiction in a sense, that dealt with fears of the future consequences of war, normally targetting the Russian Empire as the most likely enemy. Political content was present in the science fiction works of the 1920s and 1930s. In some senses these could be regarded as anti-war, such as The wedding shrouded in grey’ written by Kizu Tora in 1928,4 but as the period wore on support for the objectives of the military tended to grow. Criticism of the Soviet Union was still strong as in ‘The human record’ (1936) by Yumeno Kyusaku,5 and ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ (1939) by Kuze Juran.6 Western spies are the opposition in some of Unno Juza’s works, but in ‘The music bath at 18.00 hours’ (1937)7 the militaristic regimentation and excessive fostering of patriotic music appear to be the objects of his satire. Militarist values, however, come to the fore in Yokomizo Seishi’s ‘After twenty-six million years’ (1941),8 when Myrmidons are denounced as a degenerate Hellenism and the duty of all able-bodied men to fight for their state is espoused. Even in this year, however, Unno Juza was still able to satirize the dangers of excessive or misdirected militarism in his ‘The patented formula for a multi-armed man’.9 It is to the literature of modern times, however, that we must turn if we are to gain insights into current Japanese thinking, and here again we will find that science fiction writings have something to tell us about the sociopolitical concerns of the Japanese of the present day. Of course, all concerns have their bearings on each other, and in a very real sense political attitudes are the final repository of all the other concerns that affect a nation’s thinking.

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Everything we have considered hitherto can therefore be regarded as relevant to some extent to what we shall come to consider next: the Japanese political mind. We have seen ample suggestions in science fiction literature that despite their high level of prosperity, or possibly because of it, the Japanese are jaded with their present life-style, and that, showered with information and barraged by the media, they are susceptible to suspicions of the objectives of those who may try to catch their attention and the manipulations that the new technology makes possible. Many aspects of Japanese economic and commercial life are subjects of worry too. Yet for all the pervasiveness of economic values in modern Japan human concerns and values remain important, with warnings against excessive materialism and pollution joining with cries for conservation and more considerate treatment for the less fortunate, including animals. Generational change is in many ways the key to the future and this too has been reflected in science fiction. The relationship between the sexes has been the focus for attention as have matters of the mind and spirit. With this battery of topics behind us we are now in a better position to consider the political. Political hangs-up, fears, and hopes are of course the product of history. Beyond being merely the result of events they are also the resuit of the reaction between a people’s hopes, motivations, social situations, and concerns. Of course, no claim is made here that science fiction alone will provide us with the answers to Japanese political questions. Science fiction is not prophecy and Japanese science fiction does not tell us what Japan will do in the future. Nevertheless it is a powerful tool of the imagination and the distinctive form of literature in which possible futures and new perspectives on current events and trends are aired in a society conscious of a rapidly changing world. Taken together with all the other available sources of information on Japanese society it has a unique contribution to make towards an understanding of what makes that society tick and where it might be going. In this part attention will first be directed towards certain socio-psychological hang-ups such as the fear of excessive regimentation and alienation as they appear in modern Japanese science fiction. From this point we shall go on to look at some specifically post-war political and politico-moral attitudes that have caught the attention of Japanese science fiction writers. Next, there will be a separate treatment of war and the bomb. That the trauma of defeat in 1945 has had a profound effect upon the Japanese

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psyche and hence on Japanese political attitudes scarcely needs to be argued. Quite naturally the new attitudes are reflected in literature, both science fiction and mainstream, and for that matter in virtually all forms of sociopolitical discourse. Unerpinned by the post-war Constitution, pacifism has taken a deep root in Japanese thinking, and this new attitude towards war is, not unnaturally, strongly reflected in the nation’s science fiction. The concept of nuclear war has a special poignancy for the Japanese people and it need come as no surprise that this too finds its reflection in science fiction. Finally, when the psychological reactions to social and political problems and to war and the bomb have been taken into account we shall take a look at current political attitudes, including the light in which foreign countries are seen, approaches to international relations, and last of all the consideration of new political directions.

11 Some socio-psychological considerations

FEAR OF EXCESSIVE REGIMENTATION Fear of excessive regimentation is not exactly a new thing in Japanese science fiction. It is expressed forcibly and with great effect in Unno Juza’s celebrated ‘The music bath at 18.00 hours’, described in detail in Chapter 2 and referred to several times elsewhere.1 In many real ways the Japanese people had more to complain about on the subject of regimentation in the late 1930s than they have now. After all, militaristic authoritarianism has given way to a prosperous, commerialized democracy. Fears of regimentation, however, run deep, and modern stories already encountered bear eloquent testimony to the depth to which they can become engrained on the human psyche. ‘A certain neurosis’2 directs these fears on to the power of the computer while ‘Reluctance’3 serves to underscore the allegedly universal unwillingness of human beings to part with their much-prized sense of responsibility for their own actions to any wonder drug. Whether such unwillingness is in fact universal is, of course, a matter that is open to debate. Some people may prefer, along with Jean Francois Revel,4 to believe that human beings are prepared under certain circumstances to adopt a totalitarian alternative rather than face the responsibilities and the hazards of trying to take control of their own lives, and indeed Japan’s own experiences in the 1930s may tend to confirm this view. What appears to be particularly interesting is that in the context of modern Japan the notion of imposed morality is seen as axiomatically repugnant, even if there is a hinted criticism of pomposity in the suggestion that each individual likes to consider himself above the need for it.

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The actual state of regimentation in Japan today is a complex subject, and any detailed discussion of the question is certainly beyond the scope of this book. It is readily obvious that at the level of governmental compulsion Japan is a far less regimented society today than it was fifty years ago, and in the demand that the populace should conform to certain set political norms the country is demonstrably freer than it was. There has been a sea change in political consciousness. At other levels of approach, however, it is arguable that regimentation is no less intense than it was. Schoolboys, for instance, have little option but to conform with demands that they pursue their academic careers with total dedication or face the consequences of failure in Japan’s high-pressured meritocratic society. Executives and their families returning to Japan from abroad must conform to the constricting Japanese norms or face opprobrium, condemnation, or even ostracism. Japan’s post-war tack in educational and industrial policy has given individuals little opportunity but to conform. To this extent they are regimented not by government fiat but by inescapable social pressures. This is, of course, the essence of a Confucian-type society. The values themselves may have shifted somewhat, but their all-pervasive nature still governs human actions through a network of interlocking interrelationships which in the end are the structure of Japanese society itself. Many an individual may wish to escape his or her burdensome obligations, but cannot. He is trapped, and yearns to be free. It may well be that the fear of regimentation has increased as its nature has become less perceptible and overt. This is not to suggest that the gains for freedom have been purely political while social liberation remains a goal that is far off. Social gains have been made too. The relationship between the sexes has changed, albeit not into a blurring of roles even comparable to the blurring that has occurred in the west. Possibly the relationship between the generations has changed more, although overcrowding still imposes a need for the generations to live together under the same roof to an extent to which they do not in the west. For all the influence of traditional Confucianism, young women of today are much freer from the dictates of their mothers-in-law than was the case a generation or two ago. In short, social progress too has been made, but social as distinct from governmental regimentation still persists to a degree that would be thought intolerable in other countries. It is against the

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background of this kind of social climate that modern Japanese stories addressed to the problem of regimentation have to be understood. Even in the context of Japan’s group oriented-society the individual feels the need for his or her individuality to be respected. Certain things are private and must remain private. This is the point of ‘On a dim planet’,5 ‘A certain neurosis’, and ‘Reluctance’. Significantly, the threat today is seen as coming not from the nationalist forces of the past but from the advances in modern science. Computers, robots, and wonder drugs are seen to contain an inherent threat to individual liberty and privacy. Stories dealing with the media, it will be recounted, have reflected upon the capacity of advances in information dissemination to be manipulated by governments, commercial interests, or the internal dynamics of the information industry itself. This fear is, of course, by no means confined to Japan. Yet Japan by virtue of the very fact that it is at the forefront of information technologies and robotics is among the first nations to be called upon to face up to the potentialities of the new science. It is not at all surprising, therefore, that Japanese science fiction should have observations to make on the potential role of such new science and speculations to make on the directions in which it might lead. One story not yet considered that deals with the prospects for regimentation brought on by the advance in robotics is ‘Atarashii Shacho’ (The new company president’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi.6 Mr N is a section chief in a company, and his responsibility is to supervise the sales of bags for space-travellers. He is sitting at his desk one day when the buzzer goes and he is summoned into the presence of the company president to make his progress report. He is filled with a feeling of trepidation, a sensation which is not made any easier by the sight of the worried face of the production chief who has been in just before him. On entering the room he gives a little bow, not quite as deep as the previous time because on that occasion he was scolded for bowing too low. This time he is scolded for not bowing deeply enough and he is required to do it again at the required angle of thirty degrees. This over, he proceeds with his report, reeling off facts and figures, until he is suddenly interrupted and taken to task by the president. He has made a mistake of one percentage point in one of his figures, and he is remorselessly reprimanded for it. The president next takes him up on the question of his expense account, and tells

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him that his entertainment expenditure is unnecessary; he must not waste money like this again. As he turns to leave at the conclusion of this unpleasant interview, the president calls him back and asks him to clear up his ear for him. Since a refusal would only land him in further trouble later he meekly obeys and leans over to look into the president’s ear. ‘Don’t do it like that—take off my headcasing!’ Mr N picks up a screwdriver and carefully removes the soft plastic. He then proceeds to move the accumulated dirt around the receiver mechanism with a miniature vacuum cleaner, one of a number of such service tools kept in the president’s vicinity. As he performs the task Mr N thinks back to the days of his childhood when everybody had talked dreamily about the future. Everybody would be able to use robots, and work would become easy and undemanding. What a happy, bright vision of the future it had been! But now, confronted with reality, he realizes that all those prophecies had been utterly wrong. Instead of enjoying the benefits of an easier life he, like so many others, now has to work all the harder at the behest of a robot. As he is asked to change a transistor in the robot’s head he realizes how exquisitely it is constructed. Hundreds of miniaturized devices are crammed in there, and no matter, however small, will ever be forgotten. There could be no worse boss to work for, Mr N concludes as he yearns nostalgically for the days when a human president had been in charge. However much he had shouted, he had had his imperfections. This new regime is altogether too inhuman. He feels like smashing the robot on the spot, but he knows that this will do him no good. After all, it is the leading shareholders who have installed the new president in their quest for increased efficiency, and in every age expensive equipment is installed from the top down. Another story written in a mood of nostalgia for the simpler, less regimented days of the past is ‘Kikansha, Sogen ni’ (‘Loco-motives in the field’) by Kono Norio.7 Set in the year 2040 the tale gives its readers a nightmarish view of the future of Japan. A nuclear disaster has overtaken the world in the year 1993, and in this way the story touches another raw nerve in the Japanese psyche. Fall-out is not so much the central hazard here as the raising of the sea level and the inundation of coastal areas, triggered by a series of hydrogen bomb explosions at a military base in Greenland which has melted much of the icecap. Most of Tokyo has sunk, and what remains has become the home of criminals and vagabonds. For this reason the

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Japanese government decides to demolish the remains of the former capital by a huge blast and a man by the name of Kimura is dispatched there to pursuade the remaining inhabitants to be evacuated. By normal occupation he is an instructor at a camp at which boys are trained to conform to the National Control System —a system that has been developed with the aid of computers. Computer-aided regimentation, inundation, and nuclear-triggered disaster are thus combined in a story that rolls together several themes familiar in Japanese disaster stories into one composite whole. The nostalgic effect is produced by the introduction of one Tanaka Gojiro, who worked at the Railway Museum in Tokyo prior to the bomb blasts of 1993. As a boy he had loved the steam locomotives that had operated until 1970 and as a result of this passion for locomotives he has continued to live in that part of Tokyo, driving four magnificent engines abandoned by the museum authorities in 1993. He had never liked the electric trains that had replaced them in the 1970s because they had not produced their own energy, receiving it instead from power stations. And what was worse the Shinkansen had been controlled by computers, reducing the driver to nothing more than an accessory. Gojiro now lives with three young vagabonds in Tokyo, and through these Kimura is finally brought to see him. Kimura too, it seems, has a feeling of nostalgia for old steam locomotives and through this a certain rapport is established between the two men. This does not prevent the scheduled blast from taking place, however, and Gojiro prefers to die rather than abandon his city and his dreams. The story is a multifaceted one and here the fear of overregimentation and dehumanization by computer is combined with more primitive, physical fears. As will be recounted in the next chapter, the Japanese fear of nuclear explosions and their possible consequences is deep, while on the inundation theme shades of the same fears can be seen as those presented in Komatsu Sakyo’s best-seller Japan Sinks,8 in which the archipelago is submerged as result of violent seismic activity and surviving Japanese people are left with no alternative but to migrate to new homes beyond the oceans in such places as North America, Mongolia and southern Africa. Another story to combine fears of the latent potentialities of the computer with other deeply rooted human aversions is Abe Kobo’s full-length novel Daiyon Kanpyo-ki (Inter Ice Age 4).9 A computer

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scientist, Dr Katsumi, is dedicated to his work. Through his ability to devise a programme that can foretell the future he is unwittingly drawn into a conspiracy to collect human foetuses for transformation into aquatic human beings. The very future of the human race, he eventually learns, is at stake. In the mean time unborn babies are needed for experiments and Dr Katsumi’s cold scientific outlook makes him a ready dupe for the conspirators. Even his own wife is forced into an abortion, yet he does not become seriously alarmed until he realizes that his own life is threatened. His final insight into the awesome power of the information system he has produced is, however, the ultimate irony of the story. His alienation is complete when he grasps the extent of the ability of the computer MOSCOW II to control his life. It can even predict his own actions before he takes them, and he feels himself to be robbed of any individuality at all. Even his own private thoughts are no longer his own. Because of his concern for the future he is subjected to compulsion against a background of chillingly inhuman experiments, and the computer simply serves to increase the power of others over him. In the hands of conspirators it is the ultimate instrument of totalitarian control. Abe’s treatment of the theme is, as usual, allegorical, and quite typically he probes the depths of the human psyche in his elaboration of his plot. It is not for nothing that the computer is named MOSCOW. The regimentation, compulsion, and totalitarianism that are feared are already to be found alive and flourishing in the Communist state.10 Here, in a science fiction setting, they are taken to the ultimate lengths feared by the subconscious. The nightmarish image of inundation is fed into the story too in the form of experiments designed to transform human beings into gill-breathing sea creatures. Human abhorrence and alienation are complete. Through the complex interweaving of images the mind’s rejection of totalitarian control is absolute; quite significantly the computer is seen as the diabolical instrument with the capacity to rob people of their freedom and even of their sense of identity. ALIENATION There are two kinds of alienation: sociological and psychological. Works relating to both kinds can be found in Japanese science fiction. The first relates to disaffection from a person, group, organization, or system, whereas the second relates to a sense of

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loneliness, personal isolation, apathy, powerlessness, rootlessness, and a loss of a sense of self.11 It is this kind of alienation that eventually afflicts the hapless Dr Katsumi in Inter Ice Age 4. More than any other Japanese author Abe Kobo has turned his attention to the problem of alienation and the theme looms large in both the science fiction works and the non-sciencefiction works of this author. Alienation of the sociological kind is evident in his two robot stories ‘Eikyu Undo’ (‘Perpetual motion’)12 and ‘R62 go no Hatsumei’ (‘Invention R62’).13 In the former case the disaffection is manifested towards automation as represented by the robot of the story. In the second the disaffection is political. In ‘Perpetual motion’ a nervous and morbid inventor introduces his newly invented robot to an audience at a public meeting. The robot is equipped with the brain of his ex-assistant who volunteered to be used in this way in the hope of achieving extremely high intelligence. Three members of the audience are selected by lot to ask questions of the robot. They are a university student who is looking for a job, a beautiful girl, and the personnel manager of a large trading company. The robot gives detailed answers to their questions but then becomes involved in their personal problems. The student wants a job from the personnel manager. The personnel manager wishes to seduce the girl and the girl falls in love with the student. A sum of ¥50,000 will lubricate each deal, and after studying these inputs the robot kills its inventor, takes the money from his pocket, and thus produces the complete solution to all three problems. Robots, as we have seen, can lead to the dehumanization of life with disastrous consequences for the human beings who come into contact with them. We have seen fears of how they can lead to excessive regimentation (e.g. ‘The new company president’) and in the last story how they can bring about the destruction of their creator as a result of their lack of human feeling. Robotization, it would seem, has the capacity to produce a society full of alienated individuals. But it is not always against the alienated man that the robots are arrayed. In ‘Invention R62’ the robot is an ally of the alienated and works to redress the balance with the perceived oppressors. The cause of the alienation, to be sure, is the introduction of new technology but the focus of the problem is on the manner of its introduction. It is a ‘bosses’ versus ‘workers’ theme and as such it reflects the author’s left-wing outlook. A mechanical engineer loses his job owing to his company’s introduction of US

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technology. He is about to drown himself in a canal when a university student in a shabby uniform comes up and offers him a substantial sum of money for the loan of his body before he dies. Agreeing, he is taken to an operating theatre where he is given an artificial brain which can be controlled by instruments from outside. In this respect also the story is the mirror opposite of ‘Perpetual motion’. The new robot—an artificial brain with a human body—is named R62 (for Robot 62). After a week it is introduced to a group of top Japanese leaders who are pleased to find a new kind of robot which can replace unneeded workers and will not go on strike or protest against the introduction of new technology. The robot is sold to the former employer of the engineer who donated the brain. It produces a new machine tool which first cuts off the employer’s fingers and then kills him with its cutting edge. R62 looks on with a smile as the oppressor dies. Another Abe Kobo story expressing alienation from the capitalist system is ‘Jinniku Shokuyo Hantai Shinjodan to Sannin no Shinshitachi’ (‘The anti-cannibalism petitioners and the three gentlemen’).14 Threegentlemen, one blind, one without an arm, and one without a leg receive a skinny individual who represents a movement opposed to the eating of human flesh. A heated discussion on the ethics of the practice leaves the gentlemen quite unable to grasp the basis of the objection. They are moral men in their own way, and the privileged class has eaten human flesh for generations. They have taken care of the other classes and fattened them, and see themselves as their benefactors. They reject the representative’s plea to spare the life of his 13-year-old daughter. As she has been taken to the abattoir her turn has come for slaughter. Shortly afterwards, however, they learn that the abattoir workers have gone on ‘strike’. It is the first time in their lives they have ever heard the word. Abe Kobo’s status as a science fiction writer was recognized by the Hayakawa Shobo Publishing Company by its publication in 1971 of a complete volume (no. 27) of Sekai S.F. Zenshu (Compendium of World SF) dedicated exclusively to his works. Of Japanese authors only Komatsu Sakyo and Hoshi Shin’ichi besides Abe were awarded this distinction, Tsutsui Yasutaka, Mayumura Taku, and Mitsuse Ryu sharing one volume between them. The long story Inter Ice Age 4 and the short stories ‘Perpetual motion’, ‘Invention R62’, and The anti-cannibalism petitioners and

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the three gentlemen’ all appeared in this volume. Another short story to appear with them in the volume was ‘Rannyusha (‘The intruders’).15 The theme here is the psychological disorientation and alienation of an individual who finds all the familiar landmarks by which he understands the meaning of civilized existence progressively swept away. Intruders come to live in his flat and nobody, not even his landlady or the police, will recognize his rights. The story is a forerunner to the play Tomodachi (Friends) written in 1967 which pursues the same theme in more detail and more sophistication.16 The play is not included in the Hayakawa compendium. Not all of Abe Kobo’s works by any means are universally recognized as science fiction. Many, however, have a certain speculative quality about them and psychological alienation is a frequent theme. While not matching the criteria of earlier purists, this certainly fits into the ‘New Wave’ category as outlined by Bainbridge and the speculative fiction that some would like to claim as the true modern meaning of SF. They may fairly be included in the category of psychological science fiction referred to in the Introduction and take their place alongside sociological science fiction and the other branches of the genre which have focused in recent years on the ‘soft’ or behavioural sciences. Moetsukita Chizu (The Ruined Map)17 tells of the mounting who finds he cannot rely on his acquired professional experience confusion of a private investigator in search of a missing person to solve his case. What the psychologist Edward Tolman has described as ‘the cognitive map’ by which the individual comes to make sense of his jumbled perceptions and thus make sense of the world is progressively torn away and the investigator is left completely baffled, disillusioned, and helpless—in a word, alienated. Suna no Onna (The Woman in the Dunes)18 forwhich he won the Yomiuri Prize in 1964 (the later film version won an award at the Cannes Festival) represents the alienating f orce of humdrum life by the story’s central image of ever-encroaching sand. Trapped in a village and forced to live with a woman in a pit and excavate sand, the insect-coliector hero experiences the despair of his surroundings, eventually coming to terms with the limited horizons and endlessly repetitive work of his new environment. He did not have many significant connections in the outside world, however, and he is scarcely missed. Like Dr Katsumi of Inter Ice Age 4, he is

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a scientist who pays the penalty of being too clinically detached from life. The hero of Tanin no Kao (The Face of Another) is yet another scientist who is too detached.19 He too finds that his personality is changed if only because he expects people to react differently to him when he puts on a mask after a serious disfiguring accident. Yet contrary to his expectations his wife and a half-witted girl see through him and the mask. His expectations and fears regarding the loss of his own identity by the change in his appearance are found to be exaggerated. At least those with personal warmth and those who lack sophistication are not deceived. Two later stories to examine the question of alienation still further are Hako Otoko (The Box Man)20 and Mikkai (Secret Rendezvous).21 Several short stories of Abe Kobo’s deal with the theme of metamorphosis. Mention has already been made of ‘Dendro-cacalia’ in which a man is transformed into a plant.22 This, along with ‘Akai Mayu’ (‘The red cocoon’)23 andtheshort radio drama Shijin no Shogai (The Life of a Poet),24 appear in the Hayakawa compendium. While an alienation theme is not particularly visible in ‘Dendrocacalia’ it is clearly present in the other two. In ‘The red cocoon’ a man finds shelter denied him and doors shut as he walks down a street. In the end he begins to pupate and finds his own shelter in his own cocoon tinged red by the setting sun. In The Life of a Poet a 39-year-old woman is worn out and old before her time because she has been spinning wool into knitting thread every day from morning till night for many a weary year. Out of sheer exhaustion one day, she stops spinning, but the wheel continues as before, and while she rests it spins all the wool in the room and absorbs the whole of her body, unravelling her and spinning her into the knitting thread. When her son comes home after working all day at a mimeograph in a trade union office he wonders where she is. The next day a woman of the neighbourhood purchases the thread and knits it into a sweater. As she tries to sell it at the corner of an industrial area passers-by hear the sound of weeping coming from the sweater. It is a good quality garment and the season is cold but nobody can afford to buy it and it is left at a pawnshop for the paltry sum of ¥35. It is unredeemed, however, and is eventually stored in a warehouse. Winter comes early as in yet a further metamorphosis the souls of the poor have been transformed into clouds. There has been no snow for two months. The snowflakes are stiff and sharp as razors puncturing automobile

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tyres. The city is frozen and all creatures die with the exception of a mouse which nibbles the sweater and causes it to bleed. A piece lands on the trade unionist son and resurrects him from the dead. Thereafter he writes innumerable poems about falling snow. These bring out the sun and the people of the city are all brought back to life again. The left-wing ideology and the author’s alienation from the capitalist system are very evident in this little allegory and the death and resurrection theme of western religion is here utilized in support of the author’s political cause. ‘Kabe—S. Karuma Shi no Hanzai’ (‘The wall—The crime of Mr S. Karuma’),25 not included in the Hayakawa compendium, is yet another story combining the elements of alienation and metamorphosis. Too long to be a short story and too short to be a novel, it may perhaps be called a novella. Published in 1951, it won the Akutagawa prize of that year, and may be regarded as the first of Abe Kobo’s great works. Quite simply, Mr Karuma suddenly forgets his own name. The consequences are frightening and his sense of personal security collapses as he feels a loss of personal identity. Blank looks of non-recognition on the faces of others compound his feeling of hopelessness. His world collapses into meaninglessness and absurdity as he realizes the importance that society attaches to names. He is brought to trial before a lawyer, a philosopher, and a mathematician who represent the forces of social order to which he has become a threat. But he manages to escape, and a psychological wall begins to form within him dividing his own personal world from the reality outside and eventually the blank nameless man is transformed into a blank wall. Two further short stories of Abe’s to appear in the compendium are ‘Maho no Choku’ (‘The magic chalk’)26 and ‘Mocho’ (‘The caecum’).27 Theformer tells of a piece of chalk which can bring things to life if it is used to draw them on a wall. The latter involves a kind of transformation but this time the method is explained in terms of ‘hard’, if not exactly realistic, science. An unemployed man known as K is induced to have an operation to remove his appendix and have it replaced with the caecum of a sheep. As a result of the operation he is able to eat straw, and a group of scientists busy themselves taking samples of his faeces and urine and recording his temperature. A writer from a psychological journal tries to interview him but he refuses as he does not wish to reveal his confused feelings. Controversy rages over the experiment, but its

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supporters proclaim it to be a great success and a solution to the Earth’s food problem. K receives a large sum in consideration of his role as the subject of the successful experiment, but his neighbours hold him in contempt and his wife and son are obliged to leave town. Eventually, however, his health begins to deteriorate, and the doctor who gave him the caecum has to perform another operation to remove it. Other works of Abe’s are clearly in the science fiction genre but have little bearing on human beings’ state of mind. The long story ‘Ningen Sokkuri’ (‘Practically human’)28 purporting to be written by a Martian and the short story ‘Totarusukopu’ (‘Totalscope’)29 dealing with a claim for an invention able to substantiate images really belong to an earlier type of science fiction. So too does ‘Namari no Tamago’ (‘The leaden egg’)30 which bears comparison with Yumeno Kyusaku’s ‘The egg’31 and Yokomizo Seishi’s ‘After twenty-six million years’32 in dealing with a future race of oviparous human beings. Metamorphosis and other themes apart it is clear that on balance the major contribution of Abe Kobo to speculative literature has been in the area of the psychological. Some of his works fall clearly into the realm of ‘hard’ science fiction and some into ‘soft’. Others fall into Bainbridge’s ‘New Wave’ and perhaps some are not science fiction at all.33 The dividing line, after all, is blurred, and he frequently writes in the area where the term science fiction may be applied or dropped according to the critic’s own choice of definition. Several critics of science fiction,34 however, have decided to take this kind of writing on board and it is not at all unusual to find it accepted by science fiction buffs as belonging to the genre. As far as the psychology of alienation is concerned Abe’s works are so outstanding that he is regarded by many as the Japanese author who has made this field his own in his own country. An examination of the works of other writers, however, shows that this is not quite the case. Akutagawa Ryunosuke’s ‘Kappa’,35 mentioned briefly at the end of Chapter 1, may reasonably be regarded as an early example of alienated writing. By taking a journey through Kappaland, an imaginary country inhabited by Japanese river imps, Akutagawa’s hero is able to satirize his contemporary Japan by seeing it replicated in the lives of these strange creatures. One friendly young kappa is espied by the hero to be looking at the world with his head placed down between his legs. He remarks that he finds the world much the same, only the

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other way up. We are also introduced to a powerful kappa capitalist, who takes great pride in his publishing company’s output. The bemused hero sees paper, ink, and a grey powdery substance fed into a huge machine at one end and books coming out at the other. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, pointing at the grey powder. ‘Asses’ brains,’ comes the answer. Akutagawa wrote many short stories questioning human beliefs and values. He frequently chose China or the Japanese past for his setting in order create a sense of detachment for the reader. In ‘Yabu no Naka’ (‘In a Grove’)36 and ‘Rashomon’ (‘Rashomon’)37 forinstancehe uses the Japanese past to question respectively the validity of evidence and the human taboo against theft. A more modern writer may well have been more inclined to choose a future setting rather than the past for stories of this kind. Akutagawa himself suffered from frequent depressions and alienation from society and took his own life in 1928. Another brilliant writer to die by his own hand was Dazai Osamu. In ‘Sarugashima’ (‘Monkey island’) included in Hayakawa Shobo’s Compendium of World SF, vol. 35,38 monkeys on an island battle and compete for ownership of trees and living space. A newcomer is surprised to find when the fog lifts that human beings are looking at them through a fence, and all the monkeys on the island are merely exhibits in a zoo. This negative attitude to life is also visible in Dazai’s two famous post-war novels Shayo (The Setting Sun)39 and Ningen Shikkaku (No Longer Human).40 While neither of these is science fiction, both depict the nihilism, the anomie, and the despair of a member of the aristocracy who cannot come to terms with the world. ‘Philosophy? Lies. Principles? Lies. Ideals? Lies. Order? Lies. Sincerity? Truth? Purity? All lies.’41 Exclaims Naoji, the writer of the moonflower diary in The Setting Sun. This tale of post-war conditions matches the alienation of the drug-addicted, suicide-prone pre-war ‘hero’ of ‘No Longer Human. Sentiments of alienation from society can also be seen in the characters of some of Hoshi Shin’ichi’s works, too. Here, however, the message is never shrill, and the condemnation of society is cloaked in Hoshi’s typical humour and irony. As good an example as any of this is ‘Kuroi Bo’ (‘The black stick’)42 which in a simple yet broadly drawn treatment typical of the science fiction short story

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medium encapsulates the problem in a few deft words of denouement at the end. Bogi is the respected headman of a village in some southern land. He is surprised but not overawed when one of the young men brings in a green man whom he has found in the jungle. He has heard of the existence of white men in distant places but he has never heard of green people before. Clearly the stranger must have come from very far away indeed. The witch doctor tells Bogi the stranger is a messenger from the gods, and accordingly Bogi takes it in his stride when the visitor’s voice comes not from his mouth but from a little box suspended from his neck. Declining offers of entertainment the stranger says all he wants is some crystals with which to repair his craft and he will be on his way. These are available in abundance and after he has been given all he wants the stranger offers Bogi any gift he might like in token of his gratitude. Bogi’s answer is straightforward. He wants to rule the world. The stranger misunderstands. Bogi is only referring to the villages and lands surrounding his own: this is the extent of his ‘world’. To make good his promise, however, he presents Bogi with an object resembling a black stick and a light craft resembling a small helicopter which can fly freely through the air. By pressing a button on the black stick Bogi can produce a beam of light capable of vaporizing an entire mountain. He is delighted with his gifts. No sooner has the visitor flown off than Bogi begins to experiment with his new toys. Presently he flies over the ocean, and beating off an attack by fighter planes—his years of experience as a hunter in the jungle have taught him how to dodge and shoot at moving targets —he makes his way to a large city. He has no idea what a city is. To him the densely packed highrise buildings are simply big, square, grey objects. But he can feel in his bones that there is something unnatural, wrong, and evil concentrated in this place. He is an old man with long years of experience behind him in making swift decisions, and it is not for nothing that he is a village headman. His shrewdness and ability have made him what he is. Acting on his first impulse, he aims the black stick at the city and presses the button.

12 Post-war political and politico-moral attitudes

Japanese political and social consciousness, it would appear, have come a long way since the regimented days of the militarist ascendancy that culminated in the crushing defeat of 1945. Preoccupations and concerns are now different, not least in relation to the question of war. Even the focus of concern over regimentation appears to have changed, with some anxiety now being exercised over the potentialities for excess that may arise out of the continuation of the nation’s at present highly successful course of rapid advance into computerization. That attitudes should have changed so much is, of course, the result of the dramatic change in Japan’s political directions following the defeat. That the change was largely imposed by circumstances and by the Allies makes it in no way any the less real. As Ruth Benedict remarks,1 Japan has in the course of history shown itself capable of changing course with remarkable unanimity and resolve when once it has been clearly demonstrated that the old course no longer fits the bill. In August 1945 merely one speech from the Emperor was sufficient to signify the change in direction. Of course, such a change—any major change—is not achieved without trauma, and the literature of Japan’s postwar years is replete with instances both factual and flctitious, realistic and allegorical, of the confusion and shock resulting from the defeat, and the abandonment of previously stridently heralded values. It is out of that state of confusion and shock that the new values have arisen. Japan’s present political and economic course appears to be successful. It has, after all, brought the nation unparalleled prosperity and industrial prominence. It is not, however, without its price in terms of the erosion of old cherished values such as frugality and austerity, and even the single-minded pursuit of the national interest through commercialism and competition may have to be modified in the

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light of Japan’s impact on the rest of the world and on the way she is herself perceived and accepted by it. New forms of regimentation and new forms of personal and social stress have moved into the forefront to take the place of the old. Most of them existed before; it is simply their intensity that has increased. The pressures of the educational treadmill and its associated ‘examination hell’, the formal routine of office life, the long-distance commuting, and the overcrowding are all problems with deep pre-war roots. In a society with greater affluence and higher expectations the pressures created by them simply loom all the larger, and should a change in the economic climate bring about a sudden diminution of prospects for those walking the tightrope to success or a serious reduction in the number of those whose tireless efforts are likely to be rewarded, the result may well be another era of trauma. The lid of the steam-kettle may blow, and political changes at present unthinkable to the current leadership may be on their way. Such notions are freely canvassed by Jon Woronoff in Japan: The Coming Social Crisis2 and Japan: The Coming Economic Crisis.3 Should either such crisis occur we need not be surprised if the Japanese nation once again changes course. In an apt metaphor taken from sailing it may be said that Japan at present is on a highly successful tack. But all tacks run out sooner or later either because of a change of wind or because the optimum mileage in any one particular direction has already been gained and a change must be made if the ship is not to be blown hopelessly off course. Japan has demonstrated the capacity to make such tactical changes with relative smoothness and resolve, and thereafter to pursue the new tack with a remarkable degree of harmonious accord. This is not to say, however, that the moment of change is not a moment of trauma. Tensions arising, and especially tensions mounting, during one particular successful tack may well be indications of the nature of the trauma to come and indeed of the direction that may be followed after. It is in this sense that contemporary literature, and especially a forward-looking, speculative genre of literature such as science fiction may be particularly revealing and helpful in enabling the observer to discern those trends in popular discourse which may indicate the nation’s points of mounting tension and concern. Of course, no claim can be made that science fiction will give us the answers or even prophesy the eventual outcome among the many possible futures that it considers. It is, however, a significant barometer of human fears and concerns, and certainly right in its insistent assumption

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that the present will not stand still. As such it is an important source of ideas to be included in the general appreciation of human discourse by those whose wish it is to ponder the question of future directions. We too may ponder the question of Japan’s future directions. First of all, however, it is appropriate that we should consider briefly some literary indications of the trauma affecting the lives of the Japanese people in the aftermath of defeat before moving on to consider their attitudes towards war and the bomb, foreign relations, and the issue of their own political future. Reflections on the confusion of youth and the violence of the post-war years have already been recorded in Komatsu Sakyo’s ‘The man who hated young girls’.4 Beyondthis a complete chapter of this book has already been devoted to intergenerational relations, many (though by no means all) of the strained relations associated with which are attributable to the changes wrought by the war, the defeat, and their aftermath. Among these ‘The generation revolution’ by Ikushima Jiro5 is perhaps in a special class in the sense that it puts the seeds of generational conflict into a specific historical and political setting and blames the older generation for the war and the disaster that befell Japan. The aftermath of the Second World War provides the setting also for Komatsu Sakyo’s long story Nippon Apatchi-zoku (The Japanese Apaches).6 In this story the first-person narrator is arrested on a charge of vagrancy and is confined to a bombdevastated area in the vicinity of Osaka Castle. The area is cordoned off by barbed wire entanglements with high-tension lines and only criminals, wild dogs, and the Japanese Apache tribe live there. The narrator is befriended by an intelligent criminal who tries to lead an escape attempt, but the attempt is foiled and the friend is killed by the guards. There is no plant life in this devastated area, and the water in the pools is quite filthy. Since it is very dangerous to catch wild dogs the hero grows quite hungry until one day he meets some of the Apaches who invite him home for dinner. Their food, he discovers, consists of scrap metal, but his hunger is so intense that he too agrees to eat it, and in view of the extreme circumstances he even finds it appetizing. He learns that the tribe altogether numbers about 250 people. Their society is very democratic and all adults have equal suffrage. Finally the day comes when the Japanese government decides the time has come for redevelopment, and the Apaches prepare to fight

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to defend their homeland. Troops armed with automatic weapons and tanks are sent in, but they are defeated by the Apaches whose bodies are now made of steel thanks to their long dependence on scrap metal for their food supply. Despite its victory the tribe has lost about twenty members in the fighting and, since it seems likely that in the next round the government will bring in heavy artillery, the decision is made to withdraw from the traditional tribal territory and seek fresh reservations in Kobe, Amagasaki, and the port area of Osaka. To publicize their point they attack and seize a television station, and as a result of their broadcast claims they become famous throughout Japan. The mass media begin to seek them out to gain as much information about them as possible. They begin to appear in the streets, and since they do ordinary people no harm and have the appearance of supermen, they become very popular among the masses. When the government hesitates to give them the land reservations they claim, an enterprising businessman proposes a scheme to allocate them a tract of land reclaimed from the sea. His plan is to use their faeces as high quality scrap for his metal industry. Shortly after this, however, a coup d’état staged by elements of the army fearful of the tribe’s potentialities leads to a further outbreak of war. At first conventional weapons are used but finally the war goes nuclear. In the end the Apaches are the only people left living in Japan. The story is a fantasized allegory, presenting in sustained suspense many aspects of post-war Japan ranging from the hard years of recovery from the rubble of defeat to the age of the focusing of mass attention by the public media in the era of the latest fad. We need not take too seriously the notion that the Japanese government is likely at any stage to sanction the use of atomic weapons. More to the point in terms of Japanese preoccupations and phobias is the circumstance that it happens only after a coup d’état has been staged by an unrepresentative minority, and even more importantly the fact that it results in almost universal destruction. The central theme of the story is, quite significantly, the emergence of a new sturdier race (representing a new, eventually dominant, form of culture) in the Japanese islands in the aftermath of the defeat. Naturally the partisans of the old order will maintain their rearguard action and the new order will be achieved only through struggle with many distractions (represented by media fads and business developments) on the way. But behind it all runs the scientific principle of evolution, incorporating, allegorically, the

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rules of natural selection and the survival of the fittest. What we have here is not ‘Social Darwinism’ of the commonly understood politically conservative type. Rather it is an attempt to take a detached view of the long-term process of change through the guise of fantasy and as such it amply fulfils the speculative requirements of sociological science fiction. The suspense of the story is, of course, a requirement of the long science fiction novel. Whereas the short story is a matter of introducing a new idea, examining it, and then letting it go, often with a bizarre denouement or reversal at the end, the long science fiction work must rely on suspense to see its extended fantasy through. This is the technique employed by Komatsu in his other long stories including Tsugu no wa Dare ka? (Who Will Inherit?)7 and Hateshinaki Nagare no Hate ni (At the End of the Endless Stream),8 both of which like The Japanese Apaches and Japan Sinks9 deal in their various ways with the question of survival. Who Will Inherit? is told by a young man named Tatsuya who is a postgraduate exchange student at the University of Virginia in the USA. One day he and all other classmates receive a note warning that one of their number, Charlie, will be killed the following week. Charlie is conducting research on the possibility of the existence of a higher animal able to store and utilize electricity as a means of communication. Three students doing similar research have already been murdered in Kyoto and Moscow and at the Sorbonne, and despite all efforts of his classmates and the police to protect him, Charlie is eventually murdered too, by electric shock. Investigations reveal that the murderer is a student in their own class named Cuya who has come from Bolivia. Before the police can arrest him he commits suicide, but an autopsy reveals that he belongs to a new species of human being which has the capacity to store and utilize electricity like an electric eel. The Director of the International Scientific Police believes these murders may be connected to recent disruptions in global computer systems and he asks Tatsuya’s research class to cooperate in his investigations. The trail takes them to Bolivia, where they learn that Cuya comes from the Mojo tribe, a group of Indians who live in the Amazonian region. In exchange for medicines, the chieftain of this tribe recounts its history. Originating in the Maya civilization they had once received tribute from their surrounding nations, and later while hunting in the forests they had acquired the physiological capacity to store and utilize electricity. With this they had developed

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a telecommunication system throughout Central and northern South America, but by virtue of their noble principles and isolationist policies they had not attempted to conquer the world. Then, towards the end of the twentieth century when the global computer network was established they had found that they could communicate with the computers in the system as easily as they could with other human beings of their own kind. Soon after this their final remaining Amazonian homelands came to be invaded in a new wave of exploitation, forcing them to abandon their policy of isolation. As a result they had finally decided to use their powers to achieve world dominance and had secretly sent young members of their tribe such as Cuya to the world’s leading computer centres to enable them to achieve this aim. This story is not set in Japan and represents a new era of cooperation between Japan and the rest of the world. No preferences are shown: the same problem is faced by the USA, Japan, the Soviet Union, and France. It is also noteworthy that in this story, as in the last, the name of a small, rejected Amerindian tribe is selected by the author to be the new ‘super race’ of his story. This is the absolute opposite of the master race theories associated with Nazi Germany or the ‘superior culture’ theories entertained by the Japanese militarists of the 1930s and early 1940s. It is not even remotely sympathetic to the civilizing mission theories of the European colonial powers of the same period or of American white supremacists. The race chosen for these allegories is coloured, rejected, and despised. That in one case the race (the Apaches) actually exists while the group bearing its name is actually a group of Japanese outcasts, while in the other case (the Mojos) the tribe does not exist but is an imaginary derivative strain from the decayed Maya civilization, does not matter. The author’s purpose is allegorical anyway. A new society, both Japanese and global, will arise in which the leading groups of the old order will not be dominant. Those best fitted to survive and rise to prominence in the Japan that gradually emerges from the cataclysm of defeat will not be those with the characteristics of previous leaders. The Japanese Apache tribe is characterized by a highly democratic structure and equal (not gerrymandered) adult suffage. The Mojos are characterized by noble principles and a traditional attitude that rejects the idea of world conquest; they are obliged to abandon their isolationism by only the insistent encroachment upon their last area of refuge by the outside world. Here too they turn out to be a

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superior variant of the species and here too, as in the same author’s short story The ‘harmonica’,10 the future belongs to those who are able to master, and be thoroughly at home with, the computer. This time the computer is not seen as a threat to human individuality and a source of inhuman regimentation. It is the future world order that allows persons of humble backgrounds to come to the fore and be themselves in a new era of global enlightenment and co-operation. The dawn of a new era of enlightenment broadens out into an entirely new approach to the subject in At the End of the Endless Stream. Here in a story involving time travel and taking a perspective of a billion years reaching to the very end of the Universe, Komatsu suggests that enlightenment can exist irrespective of time by its dissemination backwards and the patching up of various periods of history. In this way the human race can avoid any impending disaster or setback and can concentrate on developing the capacities and values that really matter. These values are, of course, those that the author considers most appropriate for the new Japan that has emerged from the defeat. A historian named Professor Banshoya shows Professor Oizumi, a specialist in theoretical physics at another university, a sandglass excavated from a burial mound near Osaka. It is peculiar because the level of sand does not vary from top to bottom whichever way it is turned and Nonamura, Professor Oizumi’s able assistant, surmises that this must be because the two parts are linked through a fourth dimension. Shortly afterwards Professor Oizumi disappears from a taxi taking him to an airport and on the same day Professor Banshoya is seriously injured by a blow to the back of his head. A police investigator attempting to investigate these incidents is summoned to the Superscience Research Centre operating from an artificial satellite, where he is informed that they have been caused by interference from the future. Astronomers working in the twenty-first century discover that abnormal activity of the Sun is about to cause serious damage to all living creatures on Earth in about two years’ time, and as a result the world leadership selects about 0.3 billion people out of 9 billion to build shelters for them. In addition about fifty people are selected to board an extraterrestrial timeship which can carry them back into the Stone Age. Nonomura finds himself transported back to the Nara period, where he now understands that happiness is not dependent on era

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or place and the most important thing for a human being to conserve is intellect. With this in mind he sets about reforming the underdeveloped civilization in which he finds himself by introducing ideas from the more advanced civilization of later eras. His transfer to the Stone Age has been a great shock for him but now at least he is able to move himself and the human race into the eternal future. With its disaster theme the story in a sense anticipates the author’s later work Japan Sinks. In both cases the disaster is natural, one resulting from solar activity and the other from severe seismic disturbance. In a sense both reflect the Japanese consciousness of the nation’s vulnerability both to natural disorders (earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunami, and so on) and to man-made troubles (defeat in war and dependence on imported raw materials and energy.) In Japan Sinks the Japanese are dependent on the goodwill of foreigners to take in refugees. In At the End of the Endless Stream the world (representing Japan) is dependent on extraterrestrials (representing foreigners) and future rulers (representing extraneous authority figures, e.g. the USA?) to bring off the needed rescue. Recovery and the future itself lie in the preservation and development of intellect, education, and information. In the last resort these are virtually all that will really count. Hoshi Shin’ichi, who has had much to say on the subject of human weaknesses and the consequences of folly, has had very little to say on the subject of specific events in his science fiction stories. While he does not deal with the Pacific War it is evident from his writings that he has a clear appreciation of the destruction that war can bring. Again, although he does not direct his science fiction towards conditions actually existing at the end of the war he has ideas to express concerning human morality and the structure of social organization that are of considerable relevance in post-war Japanese society. His story ‘The law of leaps’ is a masterpiece showing how he believes a society should pull itself together and strive to catch up with those to which it finds itself inferior.11 Taking a long-term view he posits that eastern society has the capacity once again to take the lead and show the west how things should be done —to the ultimate beneflt of both. He sees human society as moving forward on two feet, one eastern and one western. For the one that falls behind at any one time the consequences can be severe, but in the long run the example of the other will cause it to pick itself up and move forward. Only social discipline and dedication to the task

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will achieve this. It is evident, however, that by social discipline he does not mean artificial regimentation or control by computer or by wonder drug. His works such as ‘A certain neurosis’12 and ‘Reluctance’13 are ample evidence of this. Rather, his answer is an adherence to a Confucian-type selfdiscipline, with the goals of society internalized consciously and voluntarily within each individual. Commercial motivations are suspect, as evidenced by ‘The grand design’.14 Fairdealing is essential and doubly so in the case of those whose position is vulnerable to dependency—witness ‘The flower of prosperity’.15 While compulsion is rejected, the blessings of democracy can perhaps be taken too far, however. Baser human urges need to be kept in check. This need not be done harshly; it is simply sufficient that it be done effectively, as for example in ‘The safety device’.16 Thatthebaser human urges can be base indeed is testified to in ‘The mirror’17 and ‘The dwarf’.18 Of these two stories the first has deep psychological implications both in relation to the nature of the human psyche and the pressures that are generated in a highly competitive environment where social conformity is the order of the day, as in modern Japanese business. The second, only briefly referred to earlier, is more political in its implications, and in it we may see a gentle warning of some of the pitfalls that may attend a doctrine, such as modern western-inspired democracy, that concentrates not so much on the duties of society’s members as on permissiveness and the notion of equal rights for all. A dwarf show appears one day in the corner of a town. It is advertised but not with great fanfare, and at first the clientele is small. Over time, however, the number of spectators grows, until the show becomes quite famous, and it is not hard to see why. Although the dwarf is advertised as Issunposhi (the Japanese equivalent of Tom Thumb, literally meaning that he is 1 inch high), he does, in fact, possess a stature of 20 centimetres. The attraction, however, is not so much his diminutive size as the way in which he is treated. There is nothing artistic about the show; the dwarf is simply tormented by the plump, red-faced man aged about 50 who is both the manager of the show and its only real performer. At times he makes sport of the dwarf by throwing him into the air and then deliberately missing him and letting him drop to the floor. At other times he puts a flame to him, and when smoke begins to rise from his clothes he throws him into a bucket of water. With each torment the dwarf cries with pain, and the look on his face is utterly wretched too. In short, the dwarf looks utterly pitiable and

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the manager totally detestable. The show is interesting—and indeed exciting—simply for its cruelty, and in due course people come from far and wide to watch and experience the strange sensation that they are participating in the cruelty either as the perpetrator or as the victim. In this way the numerous people who feel themselves to be oppressed by those above them are able to dispel their frustrations and pent-up resentments. The show is a safety valve for the release of social tensions. Its fame spreads, but not everybody is pleased to hear about it. Do-gooders denounce it as a disgrace. When they try to reason with the manager he bluntly tells them that the dwarf is his own property and he can treat him however he likes. Furthermore, the dwarf is not human, and the question of inhumanity therefore does not arise. The dwarf speaks up and agrees, telling them that but for the show he would not be able to eat. At this the do-gooders are at a loss for words. Being well-behaved, respectable people they simply cannot knock the manager down and take the dwarf away. But they are surprised to discover that the dwarf can talk, and in the end they decide to put the question of the dwarf’s humanity to judicial decision. The issue is taken to court, and each side adamantly defends its own position. The manager claims bitterly to the end that the dwarf is not human. ‘If external appearance is your concern, then children who eat chocolate soldiers are as guilty as I,’ he says. ‘The dwarf can talk, but so can parrots and mynahs, and robots. Are they human?’ His argument is not very logical, but it becomes the topic of conversation throughout the whole world. Not unnaturally, most people side with the underdog—the dwarf. They see themselves as a Lincoln or some other champion of the oppressed, and it makes them feel good. In this climate of world opinion the result is inevitable. The manager fights the case all the way to the highest court, having received financial backing from somewhere, but eventually he is defeated. The dwarf is declared human, and all his kind with him. From this it follows automatically not only that they cannot be mistreated in any way, but also that they have the right to vote. In answer to unsympathetic questioning after the case is over the manager breaks down and weeps. ‘Now all is lost,’ he moans, ‘… I didn’t want to do it. But they threatened to kill me if I didn’t. They provided the money for the court case. I’m the one that was used…’ The people around him burst out laughing. But they do not laugh

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for long. Dwarfs spring out from everywhere, and before long it is realized that they form the new majority of those that are considered human. They have been waiting their opportunity for years, and now in one stroke and with perfect legality they have put themselves in a position to take over the management of the Earth. This story should immediately make it clear to readers, if it were not clear already, that Hoshi Shin’ichi is not by any means totally averse to the traditional thinking and value systems of Japan. Even his aversion to regimentation is not necessarily out of keeping with traditional thinking: it is noteworthy that it is artificial regimentation—by computer-based means or by drugs, for instance —that has caught the sharp end of his pen, not authority as such. Certainly his stories have no criticism to make of the performance of duty, and idlers are not objects of admiration. He is certainly critical of the corrupting potential of commercialism, but is not opposed to competition as such. To many Japanese today it appears the western preoccupations with rights and freedom are taken too far. Many even see such preoccupations as a symptom of degeneracy and overindulgence, just the kind of weakness envisioned by Hoshi in ‘The law of leaps’. The kind of criticism levelled by Christopher Lasch in The Culture of Narcissism19 are well known to the better-educated and serious-thinking Japanese, who see no reason why their nation should wish to follow in America’s footsteps. Lester C. Thurow’s The Zero-Sum Society20 has been well read in Japan and the difficulties of a nation that allows the demands of its different sections to exceed in aggregate the total of what is available is well understood. Whether this is an accurate description of the American scene is not the point. What is important is that this is not the way the Japanese want to go. They appreciate the value of teamwork. In their view a society that over-indulges itself in individual rights or sectional interests cannot function as well as one that subjects such interests to the overriding good of the whole. The Japanese with their preference for settling things by quiet, frequently unspoken understanding and by an avoidance of confrontation and litigation marvel at the Americans’ penchant for loudly demanding their rights and taking each other to court. It all seems more than just a little ridiculous—a conclusion to which the Japanese had come well before the crisis arose in the USA over huge damages payments and prohibitive insurance premiums. For all this the

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Japanese have their own suspicions of the insurance industry— witness Hoshi’s ‘Mood insurance’.21 Racism is not the intended moral of Hoshi’s The dwarf. The recognition of the humanity of all human beings of all races is not the issue here. The dwarfs of the story are representative rather of all those trends in human society that have been suppressed and which are now in danger of being permitted in the name of individual freedom and human rights. It is not individual freedom and human rights to which Hoshi is opposed so much as excess. Just as he is opposed to excess in the pursuit of wealth (e.g. in ‘The god of fortune’)22 heisopposed also to the granting of licence to those with anti-social tendencies whose practices and aims if given free reign would lead to the overthrow or degeneration of society itself. To this extent—but not beyond—he is an authoritarian. While he has expressed in numerous stories the desire of the individual to be free of excessive regimentation and control, and has also vividly portrayed the psychological consequences of repression of human urges, he is also able to support authority when this appears necessary in the interest of the world at large. Examples of this are to be found in ‘Space checkpoint’23 and ‘ShiroiFuku no Otoko’ (‘The man in white uniform’).24 Since this latter story is concerned with the prevention of war and is a remarkable statement of pacifist sentiment, however, it will be reviewed in detail in the next chapter. One last point is perhaps worth making about Hoshi’s attitude toward authority. While he clearly accepts the need for it where it is necessary he is by no means an upholder of the dignity of prestigious individuals to whom Japanese society traditionally accords respect. University professors in particular are singled out as pompous individuals whose social prestige is largely undeserved. The worthwhile inventions in his stories (and many of the not-so-worthwhile too) are typically made in remote laboratories or private houses by highly individualistic scientists working alone. The academic community by contrast is noteworthy only for its vain posturing. Typical examples of this are to be seen in ‘Hey! Come out of it’25 and ‘Chosa’ (‘The investigators’).26 Inthefirst of these stories, described more fully earlier in the context of pollution and conservation, the scholarly gentleman who comes to look at the hole is described as having a know-it-all expression on his face. In order to fathom the depth of the hole he brings in high-performance amplifying equipment and through loudspeakers makes a booming

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noise that can be heard many kilometres away. When his experiment fails he feels small, and calmly turns off the noise, saying in a matter-of-fact tone, as if in full command of the situation, ‘Fill it in’. With this facile gesture, comments Hoshi, he manages to avoid the issue and cover up his ignorance. We do not hear of him again. In ‘The investigators’ another equally pompous academic comes to direct investigations into a strange object that has landed on the Earth from Outer Space. With impatient remarks he is quick to dismiss the speculations of others and extol the virtues of academic caution against jumping to conclusions. His own step-by-step approach is, however, the very cause of his, and the Earth’s, undoing. The object is nothing less than an investigative probe dispatched by aliens to test the technological level of the Earth’s civilization. While it looks like a spaceship it has no opening, and no form of life inside. It merely contains transmitting devices surrounded by casings of graded complexity, the outer being the easiest to remove and the inner ones becoming progressively harder. At one stage it is found to be covered with a sweet-smelling substance, giving the impression that it is a form of fruit. As increasingly sophisticated methods are used to cut deeper into the object’s interior the professor falls directly into the trap set by the monitoring aliens: he reveals the very latest developments in human technology. The aliens now know not only that animal life exists on Earth as the sweetsmelling jelly has been removed, but also that a potentially dangerous higher form of life exists there as well. They have already made provision for such an eventuality. Penetration of the next layer will release a poison gas that will destroy all forms of life on the planet.

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13 War and the bomb

Destruction of the world by poison gas, or more commonly by nuclear explosion, is a quite frequently encountered ending of Japanese science fiction stories, as it is in many western science fiction stories too. Phosgene gas has all but destroyed the world in the early science fiction story ‘The wedding shrouded in grey’ by Kizu Tora,1 and in ‘The investigators’ by Hoshi Shin’ichi2 a gas from another planet is used to wipe out a human civilization thought dangerous to the well-being of other inhabitants of the Universe. Nuclear explosions are, it seems, the preferred method of destroying the planet and the point of such stories is usually to illustrate with the maximum force possible the potentially disastrous consequences of some particular variety of human folly. Pomposity and pride are pinpointed in ‘The investigators’, whereas public credulity and the slick, greedy immorality of salesmen, representing the evils of commercialism, are the causes of the Earth’s destruction in Hoshi’s ‘Shinyo-aru Seihin’ (‘Reliable products’).3 In other stories such as ‘O-miyage o Motte’ (‘With souvenirs in their hands’) also by Hoshi,4 the reasons for the Earth’s demise are more diffuse and the demon of destruction is nothing more specific than human nature itself. A party of explorers returning from a distant planet is bringing back several products and secrets of that remote advanced civilization, including what is arguably the most precious discovery of all—the secret of immortality. But immortality is a useless gift: the Earth has already destroyed itself before they get back. Nothing but the weakness of human beings is responsible for this—in combination, of course, with their possession of weapons of mass destruction. It is a sombre warning for the world. The dangers inherent in weapons of mass destruction are by no means the concern of the Japanese alone. Movements pressing for their total elimination can be found in most countries of the world

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where such movements are permitted, and the voicing of concern about them is by no means limited to writers of science fiction. It does not take the imagination of a science fiction writer or a science fiction buff to contemplate the horrendous consequences of nuclear warfare. This is perhaps the outstanding example, par excellence, of the meeting of popular consciousness and sentiment with the function that in other and more detailed instances is the province of the practitioners of science fiction. Speculation on the future consequences of scientific discovery is quintessentially what science fiction is about. But these days, in the age of nuclear weaponry and rapidly advancing technology, we all do it, at least up to a point. This is precisely the reason why certain of its advocates have claimed that science fiction has become the characteristic literature of the twentieth century and why it is likely to remain a prominent genre of flction, irrespective of developments in the media, in the centuries to come. We live from now on in the Age of Science. Short of the cataclysm of which the stories we are now considering speak, there can be no turning back. Of course, the end of the world as envisaged in these stories is not inevitable; nor in all probability are any of the myriad speculations that appear in science fiction works. That some of them will come to pass we need not seriously doubt. In this era of rapid change, dangerous energy sources, and destructive weaponry, speculation is not merely natural: it is essential. The products of scientific discovery cannot be introduced to the human race without consideration of the consequences and the directions in which they might lead. In a sense social leaders have to be like chess players thinking out the consequences of their moves in advance. That this is not done with any clear sense of direction and purpose is obvious, hence the scope for dire warnings of the consequences of ill-thought-out actions and human folly. Never before in human history has there been such a spate of literature of this type. Quite naturally it falls within the realm of science fiction. Of course, not all science fiction need be or is pessimistic. Favourable consequences can follow from present actions as well as unfavourable. The positive prospects opened up by the Age of Science are just as exciting and promising as the negative prospects are terrible. But none of these developments can come to pass unless the destructive urges of humans are kept under control, at least to the extent that they do not destroy the planet. Nuclear warfare, of course, has a special poignancy for the Japanese. They, after all, are the only people who have suffered the

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effects of nuclear blast and radiation imposed in the anger of war. Others may write speculatively about the effects of possible nuclear warfare upon their own countries—and plenty of such literature exists—but in every case except the Japanese such a story is imaginary. In so far as such writings are fiction—as distinct from scientific probability studies or political propaganda—they are science fiction. Only in Japan’s case are they not; in Japan it actually happened. In this sense Japanese literature on the subject of the bomb is different from the literature of every other country in the world, and in order to understand the role of Japanese science fiction on this topic and see it in its full perspective it is probably advisable first to gain an insight into the approach of Japanese ‘mainstream’ writings to the subject. Several stories have been written in Japan telling of the bombing of Hiroshima and the suffering encountered by the people in the wake of that terrible event. One such story, written almost immediately afterwards, is ‘Shikabane no Machi’ (‘City of corpses’) by Ota Yoko.5 This eyewitness account was completed in manuscript form by November 1945, but only an expurgated version was allowed to be published by the Occupation authorities in 1948 and the full version of the story did not appear until 1950. Many later stories have been written by this same author, all of them centring on the bombing or the suffering of the people afterwards. ‘Hanningen’ (‘Half human’) is one of these.6 Set in the period of the Korean War it tells of the lingering pain and misery of those affected by radiation and fallout so many years after. Perhaps the most celebrated story of the atomic bombing and its aftermath is ‘Kuroi Ame’ (‘Black rain’) by Ibuse Masuji.7 In this story, told in the form of many touching individual scenes, a diary is kept by an old man named Shigematsu whose niece, Yasuko, has escaped the blast but is caught afterwards in a shower of radioactive rain. He hopes dearly that she has not contracted radiation sickness and at first she appears to be in good health. All of this is contrasted with the accounts of grotesquely burned and wasted bodies he enters in his diary—which in turn are contrasted with scenes of human delicacy and pathos as the survivors assert their will to live and pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. In a telling revelation of one of the effects of the bombing Shigematsu reveals the difficulties of arranging a marriage match for Yasuko. Rumours stand in the way. Her picture is not unattractive, and in all other respects she is not

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a bad match, but always when go-betweens appear to be on the point of arranging a suitable interview for her the other party backs away. Rumours have once again caught up with her; it has come to the ear of the other side’s investigators that she was in the vicinity of Hiroshima on the day of the bombing. This is indeed one of the social consequences of the event. The marriage prospects of those thought to have been anywhere in the neighbourhood have been permanently dimmed. Even yet this effect continues, handed down to the next generation. The consequences of radiation may be genetic, after all. In the case of Yasuko, however, the rumours are not so ill-founded. To Shigematsu’s dismay she is found at length to have the sickness. Long after the event her teeth become loose and her hair begins to fall out. She will eventually die of radiation poisoning. This sort of literature is harrowing and moving. Quite clearly it is in a class of its own. No other nation can quite capture the pathos of the Japanese scenes recounted in these stories, no matter how much her science fiction writers may try to synthesize events. They are written at first hand, and presumably this is an experience that no other nation would wish herself to have. This is not to say, however, that foreign stories written on a future nuclear war theme do not have a vital story to tell. Warning of possible disaster and the imagination of its potential horrors is a valid and important role of science fiction. Some too are particularly vivid, and recent western films dealing with the topic of the nuclear winter that would follow a nuclear war are particularly chilling (no pun intended). Whether they are realistic or not only the actual experience of such an event can tell. Many scientists apparently believe that they are. It is well that we have science fiction to simulate such events for us and dramatize them in our living-rooms. At least we cannot say we are unaware of the potential hazards. Japan, for reasons described above and in any case immediately apparent, has no need to turn to science fiction for a description of the horrors of nuclear war. The nuclear winter theme, however, is a new one even for Japan. One need not assume, however, that the Japanese need to be shocked out of any complacency on such a subject, or even that they can be shocked. The trauma of nuclear war has already left an indelible imprint on the Japanese psyche. It makes Japanese attitudes to war different from those of any other country.

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Of course, one may argue that Japanese attitudes to war were different from those of any other country even prior to the atomic blasts that destroyed Hiroshima and shattered Nagasaki, and no doubt in many ways this is true. Bushido, the Way of the Warrior, glorified death in a way and to an extent hardly found in any other country, and the traditional Japanese ethos of supporting a cause out of sheer loyalty long after it has been seen to be a loser has certainly given the Japanese a doggedness and a formidability not normally encountered in any other nation. Ivan Morris’s The Nobility of Failure well documents this phenomenon.8 Several other Japanese attitudes to war, however, if not absolutely unique are somewhat different from the attitudes held by western nations, and it may well be advantageous to take a brief glance at some of these attitudes as they have been revealed in twentieth-century literature before we move on to take a look specifically at Japanese science fiction literature on the subject. In this way the background will be set to enable us to form a deeper understanding of the significance of what Japanese science fiction writers have to tell us. Broadly speaking Japanese war literature of the twentieth century may be divided into two kinds: pro-war and anti-war. No pro-war literature has been written since 1945, but anti-war literature may again be subdivided into two further sections: pre-1945 and post-1945. Pro-war literature of the pre-1945 era need not long detain us here as it was thoroughly discredited by the defeat. Works which since that date have spoken with admiration of the sacrifice of soldiers, sailors, and especially kamikaze pilots have dwelt on the sacrifice and devotion of those men and not the glory of war. Works written in criticism of war certainly existed in the earlier part of the twentieth century. Some were simply naturalistic in tone depicting war as anything but glamorous. A typical example of this type of writing is Tayama Katai’s ‘Ippeisotsu’ (‘One soldier’), written in 1908.9 In this story we read of a soldier dying of beriberi in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5. As he is sick, his own side does not want him any more: he is ‘damaged goods’. The same phenomenon of rejection of sick soldiers is again encountered in Ooka Shohei’s ‘Nobi’ (‘Fires on the plain’) written in 1951.10 This post-war story, quite striking in its horror, tells of a sick soldier, Private Tamura, who is told by his squad commander simply to get lost when the army hospital refuses to accept him. Conditions now are much worse than in Tayama Katai’s tale, and the Japanese army is being defeated in the Philippines. The soldier finds himself caught

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up in a danse macabre of cannibalism, with Japanese soldiers hunting each other for food in the jungles of Leyte, before he is knocked unconscious by some act of war and wakes up to find himself in a mental hospital. The two stories combine to reveal an aspect of the Japanese attitude towards soldiers that is not so attractive. Yet it is the obverse side of Bushido: soldiers are expected to dedicate themselves entirely to their lord, in the modern period the Emperor, and sacrifice their lives even when their cause is hopeless. They are useless to Japan if they are disabled or sick and are quickly relegated to the status of non-persons, rather than anything that stands in the way of the total devotion of others to the fight. If they can render no further service, they are nothing. An extension of this principle covers prisoners of war. Japanese soldiers are simply not expected to be captured. They are expected to die. Herein lies the explanation of their own lack of respect for foreign prisoners that fall into their hands and their own reaction to capture by the enemy. Their first wish throughout the war was to fight to the death. If this was denied them and they fell into enemy hands the next wish of many was suicide. From those that did not take this course there was to westerners a surprising lack of reluctance to give away classified information. Once captured, they were disgraced beyond redemption and could not contemplate their return to Japan. They were lost forever; they no longer belonged. Only the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the total surrender of Japan, enabled them to return. It will already be obvious from the above comments that Japanese attitudes to war are very different from western concepts. The pacifism of post-war years results from the trauma of defeat, the abandonment of previously entrenched values and, of course, above all, the experience of the nuclear bombing. It should always be remembered that the present attitude represents a new development imposed by a unique experience upon the ashes of an old tradition utterly alien to any concepts ever held in the western democracies. This is not intended in any way to imply that the pacifism of modern Japan is not totally sincere. What it does mean is that it is rooted in beliefs and experiences different from those on which western thinking—and even western pacifism—are based. Apart from works of a naturalistic kind, other anti-war literature was written in the pre-war period, largely by writers of the proletarian school. ‘Sori’ (‘The sleigh’)11 and ‘Uzumakeru Karasu no Mure’ (‘A flock of swirling crows’)12 setinSiberia, and ‘Buso-seru

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Shigai’ (‘The armed street’)13 set in China, all by Kuroshima Denji, are representative examples of this kind of writing. Typically they depict the callousness and inhumanity of Japanese officers towards the indigenous peoples (in the first two cases Russian and in the last case Chinese) as well as towards the Japanese under their command. It is the latter point on which the stories concentrate in the end. By 1933 such literature had virtually come to an end under the repressive policy of the authorities. Thereafter trumpets were blasted in the name of the Japanese Spirit, the superiority of Japanese culture and Asian brotherhood. The resentment of Asian nations towards Japanese encroachments were not taken into account. The Japanese were Asia’s ‘elder brothers’, leading their ‘younger brothers’ to an era of prosperity led by Japan and excluding western influences. The ‘Greater East-Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere’ was but the political encapsulation of these ideas. Of course, propaganda was one thing; reality another. Most Asian nations did not appreciate the Japanese efforts that were claimed to be made on their behalf. Even today, in retrospect, however, to most Japanese their nation’s wartime objectives do not seem so terrible as they do to the western powers, the Chinese, or the Filipinos. The Koreans, annexed by Japan early in the century, have a special resentment reserved for the Japanese. In their own eyes, however, the Japanese people tend to see their war effort as having played an important part in the liberation of Asia from western colonial rule, even if it did not come about in quite the way they had intended. That they made ‘mistakes’ they will readily admit, and a formal, if belated, apology has been offered by a Japanese Prime Minister to China. But the Japanese do not accept that the war guilt was all on their side, and most of them feel that Asia is now better off for what happened. They see it as one of the traumas entailed in the necessary reawakening of Asia. It did not necessarily have to happen like this; but something drastic had to happen. That the results have been beneficial is proved, they like to believe, by the new unparalleled prosperity that has now arisen in Asia and especially in Japan. There is not even any significant resentment against the USA, who dropped the bomb. After all the new era of peace and plenty is based upon the relationship Japan now holds with the USA, and the role adopted by the USA since the end of the war as a ready receptacle for Asian, especially Japanese exports. Long may the relationship continue, most of them feel. Very few have ventured to think of

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what lies beyond. This role has been left to the writers of science fiction. It is increasingly evident that Japan cannot remain for ever on its present tack, but this is a matter to which most Japanese prefer to shut their eyes. To many Japanese today, with their nation’s new, consciously adopted pacifism, it appears that the USA is unwarrantably bellicose. This attitude was particularly deeply felt during the Vietnam War. Opinions were voiced at that time that the Americans were making the same sort of mistakes in South East Asia that they themselves had made a few decades before. The criticism was never shrill or hostile in intent. Rather it was rueful and philosophical in tone: ‘We’ve grown up since then—why can’t they?’ War guilt does not loom large in Japanese stories written after the war. When war crimes are mentioned they usually refer to maltreatment of Japanese soldiers by officers and NCOs; they seldom speak of atrocities committed by Japanese soldiers against native populations or foreign prisoners of war. One notable exception to this is Endo Shusaku’s ‘Umi to Dokuyaku’ (‘The sea and poison’)14 in which medical experiments are carried out on American prisoners of war. Here as usual Endo’s concern is to contrast the Japanese consciousness with the Christian consciousness, pinpointing the lack of belief in ultimate right and wrong and the irresistibility of group pressure in the Japanese case. These weaknesses are again highlighted by Endo in One, Two, Three!,15 in which the members of the Japanese public fail to take a stand against visible evil as long as it does not directly concern them, and the war criminal Sagawa is allowed to escape scot-free. His major crime, however, in Japanese eyes is to have left his immediate subordinate to carry the can for his own misdeeds. The original misdeeds themselves are scarcely mentioned. While acknowledging Philippine resentment against Japan, the story notes the happiness of Malaysians now freed from the British yoke and speculates upon how far Japan may be responsible for this freedom. Sorrow and grief is also expressed for Japanese soldiers lost overseas: their spirits have not been laid to rest. A bullying officer in Malaya is also the theme of Ibuse Masuji’s ‘Yohai Taicho’ (‘Lieutenant Look-east’).16 This story pokes gentle fun at this officer who worships the Emperor from afar and has him go mad, still bowing in the direction of the Emperor and requiring the young men of his village to do the same even after his repatriation to Japan. In his excessive zeal he has made his men’s

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life hell, and this by implication is what is equated with madness. No mention is made of his treatment of foreigners. Bullying and corrupt superiors are also the theme of Shinku Chitai (Vacuum Zone) by Noma Hiroshi.17 In this story a sensitive graduate of Kyoto University is sent into battle to die more for reasons that have to do with a love triangle than service to the Emperor. Some stories like Biruma na Tategoto (Harp of Burma) by Takeyama Michio18 are written with a view to showing the power of humanity to shine through the harshness and horror of war. Just as humour has a softening effect in ‘Lieutenant Look-east’, so music performs this function in Harp of Burma. It calms the brutal mood and forms a link between soldiers of opposite sides as the war comes to an end in the Burmese jungle. The hero of the story remains behind as a Buddhist monk when his comrades are finally repatriated to Japan, and the story serves as yet another representation of the pacifist mood that has overcome Japan since the defeat. Post-war science fiction, too, reflects this mood. Japanese science fiction has not always been paciflst. It has ranged from concern over future wars as witnessed by the futuristic works of the first decade of the century to outright support of militarist values as in ‘After twenty-six million years’ written by Yokomizo Seishi in 1941.19 Anti-espionage stories have been written in the science fiction mode especially in the 1930s and one writer of such stories, Unno Juza, was confident enough and secure enough to satirize excessive regimentation in his famous ‘The music bath at 18.00 hours’.20 It is to science fiction stories of the modern post-war era, however, that we shall now turn in order to gain an impression of the additional perspectives it offers on the post-war Japanese mood. ‘Mainstream’ literature, as we have seen, is capable of giving us a clear and strong indication of Japan’s feelings. Science fiction, too, reflects these feelings, but its function is not so much to record them or assess the past as to speculate on the future, and the dangers and possibilities that it holds. In two stories it even examines a counterfactual present. Both are written by Komatsu Sakyo and posit the proposition that the Pacific War never took place. In his first published story Chi ni wa Heiwa o (Give Peace to the World) 21 he offers an imagined historical alternative for his own generation. In ‘Senso wa Nakatta’ (‘There was no war’)22 his hero suffers concussion in a stairway accident and finds that the war did not take place.

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Kon’ya is on his way to a class reunion when he falls down a flight of stairs and loses consciousness. They are the class that has graduated just after the war, and after they have sung the school song Kon’ya, who has now recovered from his accident on the stairs, attempts to lead them in two patriotic songs that were popular in the last days of the war. To his surprise nobody knows them, nor does anyone remember working in a munitions factory as their contribution to the war effort. In short, nobody has any recollection of the war at all. On his way home he wonders if it is they who are mad or he. At the first opportunity he makes his way into a large book-store and looks for books on the shelves telling of the Pacific War. But although books concerning other wars, such as Tolstoy’s War and Peace, are there, he can find nothing about Japan’s latest war or her defeat. The next day he checks every book in his study for material relating to the Pacific War. He even remembers the pages, but when he looks for them he finds they are simply not there. Totally confused, he cannot believe that without the Pacific War the present democratic constitution could have come into existence. The Emperor would not have denied his divinity, and the Zaibatsu23 would not have been dissolved. The land reform and the demilitarization of the state would not have taken place. From this day on he begins to investigate every bit of material he can find and visit every institution to which he can gain access to satisfy his curiosity. He takes a long leave of absence to concentrate on his investigations but he is unable to find any hint anywhere that the war took place. Eventually both his wife and his superiors at work begin to criticize him for his strange behaviour. He is unable to give up, however, because the disasters of the Pacific War still live vividly in his memory. Driven to desperation, he takes to standing on a street corner in the centre of Tokyo, appealing to passersby for support. After a few days of this he is taken away to a mental hospital. The point of the story, quite obviously, is to draw attention to the enormous benefits Japan has gained from the defeat. Trauma is present too, however, and this element is more to the fore in ‘Kudan no Haha’ (‘The mother of a strange child’),24 anothershort story by Komatsu Sakyo included in the collection to which ‘Senso wa Nakatta’ (‘There was no war’) gives its name. ‘The mother of a strange child’ is concerned with the bombing of Hiroshima. The narrator, who was only 15 at the time, relates how

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he worked in a munitions factory while attending school in Kobe, his mother and the rest of his family having been evacuated to the countryside. Through the good offices of a maid named Saki who has previously worked for his family, he is permitted to live in a large mansion where he is able to receive good food, quite a rarity at this stage of the war. The boy learns that the house has a connection with a religious sect and that this is why Saki has been asked to work here. He discovers that the lady of the house, an elegant woman of about 40, has a daughter who is kept in a separate room. He is asked not to visit this child as she is sick, but one day curiosity gets the better of him and he peeps in to see Saki holding lots of stinking bandages stained with blood and pus. Although he does not get to see the girl he assumes she must be suffering from leprosy or some such disease and he advises Saki to leave the house to avoid possible infection. Saki explains that the child is the reason for her presence, and she has been specially asked to do this work by the leader of the religious sect. One day the boy comes across the lady of the house while she is singing at the piano, and for the first time he manages to have a serious conversation with her. She says that for generations the eldest son of the family has either gone mad or died young as a punishment for the sinfulness of the house which in the past has maltreated its tenants. The same evil influence, however, has protected the house from burning and other disastrous situations. Her daughter is now the protectress of the house, and in addition she has the ability to foretell important events. One day before the bombing of Hiroshima the lady is able to tell him, from her daughter, about the forthcoming bombing and she is also able to tell him of the surrender two days in advance. When the news finally comes he rushes upstairs to take a look at the girl. He finds that she has the head of a heifer. Future disaster stories loom large in Komatsu’s repertoire. Many of these, including his celebrated 1973 best-seller Japan Sinks, focus on natural disasters, but war too has claimed its share. One of his earlier stories Fukkatsu no Hi (The Day of the Resurrection)25 deals with a world catastrophe caused by a secret biological weapon developed in anticipation of the Third World War. The results, quite typically for stories of this kind, are horrendous. So traumatic has been the war and more particularly the subsequent defeat and shattering of myths that Japanese life has never been quite the same again. The depth of the trauma and the profundity of the shock are no doubt at least in part responsible for Komatsu’s experiment with

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counterfactuality and his journey into the occult. Hoshi Shin’ichi also has a story concerned with the blotting out of all memory of war. The mood here, however, is much more positive and determined, and extends to all wars. The hero of ‘The man in white uniform’26 is himself the narrator. At the age of 30 he is the head of Special Police Force 89605 with twenty subordinates under his command. He finds great satisfaction in the white uniform he wears as chief of this task force. It is a symbol of the pure ideal of peace. Set in the future in the disastrous aftermath of a catastrophic Third World War, the story tells of the determination of the survivors to eliminate for ever the possibility of further war. Believing that war is analogous to a contagious disease that is spread through germs and viruses, they conclude that the only way to prevent any further outbreak is to eradicate the very cause of war—that is any infection of the human mind by any mention of the word ‘war’ itself or anything connected with it. The man in white uniform begins his day in an office equipped with high-powered computers connected to eavesdropping devices located at numerous strategic points with the object of tapping private conversations. Occasionally they pick up talk of bribery, murder, and the like, but this is not their concern. They can leave all such matters to the ordinary police. Their function is the much more important one of listening out for any mention of war or any talk connected with it or that could lead to it. After inspecting the eavesdropping room he goes out on a routine tour of his district accompanied by plain-clothes subordinates. If anyone attempts to hide at the sight of his white uniform the plain-clothes men immediately make an arrest. His walk takes him to the square where he finds a few prisoners chained to a metal pole. No one has any sympathy for them. They are the abhorred enemy of the entire human race, and it is customary for them to be severely whipped by passersby. One day on returning to the office he receives a typical report obtained through an informer. After checking with the computer the task force arrests two boys on a charge of possessing an illegal photograph. It is a picture of a soldier firing a gun on a battlefield. At two in the afternoon he visits a closed library where a welltrained, intelligent staff is engaged in the task of rewriting world history. Any word relating to war is to be eliminated, and if any book is not viable once this has been done, it is destroyed. When history has been sanitized, literature and the fine arts will come

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next. The objective is nothing less than to render all forms of human communication, both verbal and non-verbal, free from the contagion of war. This story is at one and the same time a determined rejection of war and an appreciation of what Michel Foucault has proclaimed ‘the tyranny of language’. It also shows a grasp of the important point that communication is not merely language but includes such ‘ikonic’ representations as photographs and fine arts. All play their part in the establishment of a dominant discourse which rules people’s lives, and here Hoshi lifts up merely a corner of the carpet to indicate the depths to which the discourse of war—and hence its acceptability to the human mind—is embedded in human thought. Its elimination, contemplated here, evidently can be no easy task. There is significance, however, in the fact that the story is written by a Japanese author. It is doubtful if any other nation has travelled so far along the road to pacifism.

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14 International relations and future directions

We have by no means exhausted the references to war in Japanese science fiction. War and destruction are frequently invoked as the end product of human folly when it is taken to its logical conclusion. But a story with such a cataclysmic ending is in a different class from a story reflecting the Japanese reaction to their nation’s defeat and the ensuing pacifism. Both kinds of story have been reviewed in the last chapter, along with some of the more outstanding examples of mainstream work on the subject which serve to fill in the picture and give us, along with the science fiction stories, a more comprehensive understanding of the Japanese attitude to war as it has evolved in modern times. Our focus now shifts, as we turn our attention away from the Japanese attitude to war itself, and on to their attitude towards foreign countries. Stories envisaging future wars typically tell of attitudes and fears about the conduct of foreign policy and much can be seen about which foreign country or countries a nation most fears and where it imagines the most sensitive trouble spots to be. After examining war stories of this kind we shall then take a look at works not involving war which have the effect of revealing Japanese attitudes towards foreign countries. First, the war stories. Many stories have been written in Japan imagining the nation to be involved in some future war with a foreign nation, and most of the time the imagined enemy has been Russia. Such stories were quite common in the first decade of the twentieth century, and mention has already been made of them in an earlier chapter. They need not be further recounted here. Between the two world wars much counter-espionage fiction was written, and here again until the late 1930s the Soviet Union was the usual adversary. It is noteworthy that while proletarian literature took to task the behaviour of Japanese officers and the

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action of the Japanese authorities in dispatching Japanese troops to Siberia during the Russian Civil War, other writers wrote adventure tales criticizing and lampooning the behaviour of Soviet commissars. Very late in the 1930s the western powers began to emerge as the hostile forces in such tales, but the very lateness of such developments tends to reflect the timing of the change of perspective in Japanese minds. It appears that until shortly before the Pacific War broke out many Japanese eyes were fixed on the Soviets rather than on the western powers as their next major enemy. Of the stories mentioned in Chapter 2, it is worth remembering that ‘The human record’ was written in 1936,1 and ‘The animal kingdom under the earth’ in 1939.2 ‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’ which carries anti-western (but pro-German) sentiments was written in 1940.3 Naturally, patriotic literature was anti-western during the war. During the Occupation period references to war were heavily censored, and since that time Japanese writers pursued their pacifist themes along the lines described in the last chapter. They have not, of course, gone so far as to adopt the drastic solution suggested by Hoshi in ‘The man in white uniform’.4 Indeed, Hoshi himself sets this story in the aftermath of a future Third World War. Mention of war there has certainly been in the post-war period. But none of it has been propagandistic in the sense of being aimed against a former enemy. Rather the point has been to emphasize the courage, sacriflce, and suffering of Japanese servicemen and others caught up in the war. Where propaganda has played a part it has been of a pacifist character. War stories set in the remote past are different. Historical war stories set in traditional Japan make popular reading, and samurai drama is particularly popular on television. Such entertainment is by no means squeamish although in the more popular television series there is usually some element of anachronism in the moral consciousness of the leading characters. For all this, the point of the story, beyond pure entertainment, is to underline some (updated) principle of Confucian rectitude. Of course, war has been depicted on Japanese television screens, and Japanese viewers too were fed a regular diet of scenes from Vietnam (although not as many as their American counterparts) during the years the war raged there. Attitudes were mixed, but on the whole little outright hostility to American actions there, or support for them either, was expressed. A typical reaction was the regretful one recounted in the last chapter, that the Americans

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appeared to be making the same sort of mistakes in South East Asia that the Japanese themselves had made a few decades earlier. Science fiction stories taking the Vietnam War for their theme, or part of their theme, include ‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’5 and 4.8 Billion Illusions,6 both by TsutsuiYasutaka. In the first we are told that the war in Vietnam has been going on for several hundred years. The American troops fighting there are largely black and the allegation is made in the course of the story that the reason for the long continuation of the war is under-employment among America’s black population. The war has also become a tourist attraction that sightseers can view from behind the thick protective glass of a tourist bus, and the media have taken over in places to shoot scenes on their own leased-out locations. The media have also taken over in 4.8 Billion Illusions. In this story they actually start a war for its television impact. They also take delight in showing an American soldier maltreating his victim; again the interest is on the television impact. It is said that the American public was profoundly disturbed by seeing the horrors of the Vietnam War projected into its living-rooms by television and that the killing of students at Kent State University by national guardsmen had a profound effect on American attitudes. The Japanese saw the war on television too. But they were non-participants and their reactions were not the same. While most of them held no brief for Communism, they could not support the American side either. They simply reflected upon the horror of war and upon what they saw as the misguided nature and ultimate futility of the policies that led to it. They simply regretted that the American public had not yet come round to their sadder but wiser way of thinking. A Japanese desire for international co-operation can be seen in ‘Yoshi Daisakusen’ (‘The grand strategy for adoption as sons’) by Komatsu Sakyo.7 The king of an imaginary South Sea island nation which gained its independence and became a republic in 1945 writes a letter to the President of the United States inviting him to become his adopted son. It is apparently a traditional way of expressing favour and friendship in this South Sea nation and the king has no political power. President Hopkins after considering the issue decides to accept the offer as a token of goodwill. In due course he arrives in the Republic of Panya as an unofficial guest, taking the opportunity to combine the ceremony with a few days of relaxation. Once there, he is surprised to find that the presidents or prime ministers of several other nations such as the Soviet Union, France,

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and Britain are also invited. In this way an unofficial summit meeting takes place and the American and Soviet leaders, now members of the same family, have a friendly talk. The story ends on a rather more realistic note, however, as the continuation of talks reveals that they are just as far apart on the substantive issues as ever. The real problems besetting the world are thus in no sense glossed over but this quite simple story does reflect a genuine Japanese desire for international co-operation and understanding. At a deeper level it is worth noting that although the island state is a republic and the king has no power, he is nevertheless referred to as ‘the symbol of the State and of the unity of the people’. The parallelism with the Japanese Emperor is obvious in this wording, which is taken straight from the Constitution of Japan. The very name of the island which may be seen as a reversal of ‘Japan’ and the choice of 1945 as the year of change in the style of government provides further reinforcement. Through the referential world, therefore, the suggestion is made that Japan herself may be able to do something to bring the great powers together, although the disagreement at the end of the story is a reminder that the task will be anything but easy. Colonialism, an experience that has brought much trauma to Asia and even yet colours much Asian thinking with regard to the western world, is not for the Japanese quite such a problem. Anti-western-colonialism sentiment can be found in several Japanese stories both ‘mainstream’ and science fiction. An example of the latter is provided by Tsutsui Yasutaka’s ‘The African bomb’,8 whichin addition to satirizing the phallic symbolism of rockets and the gaucherie and patronizing attitude of American tourists towards tribal peoples of the Third World also contains come serious criticism of the attitude of the former European colonial powers. Very little criticism by comparison is to be found of Japanese colonial policies except in the anti-war proletarian literature of authors such as Kuroshima Denji written between the two world wars and before the rise of militarism. ‘The armed street’ previously referred to in the last chapter is directly critical of Japanese policy in China.9 In the post-war period Japanese authors have, on the whole, preferred to remain silent about the Japanese record, and quite typically, in One, Two, Three! Endo Shusaku, well known for his criticism of Japanese morals and behaviour from a westernized —or at least a Christianized—standpoint, reserves his criticism of the effects of colonialism in Malaya for the British and does not

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mention Japanese excesses in the same locale. On the contrary he permits his characters to speculate on how far the Japanese war effort has been responsible for the new-found freedom of the former colonial peoples. He does not, however, permit his characters to come to any conclusion on this point, or even on whether Japan really helped at all. A more modern approach to the question of colonialism can be found in the science fiction story ‘Subarashii Hoshi’ (‘The wonderful planet’) by Hoshi Shin’ichi.10 In this story voyagers from Earth discover that Space is not something simply to be exploited at will. Riches found waiting to be picked up are to be paid for. The land of plenty discovered by the intrepid adventurers is nothing less than a gigantic supermarket; it is not a colony to be exploited or pillaged, and the Earthmen are not permitted to depart until payment is guaranteed. Japanese consciousness in these matters, apparently, has come a long way since the days of the nation’s own imperialism and the Greater East Asian Co-prosperity Sphere. While western nations and other trading partners may well be inclined to wonder about Japan’s commitment to fair trading practices in view of the (to them) devastating combination of export-oriented industries and the apparent cultural impenetrability of its domestic market by manufactured goods, Japanese science fiction writers at least are showing indications that propriety in trade is a matter of concern to them. There is nothing new in this attitude. Fujiwara Seika’s ‘Ship’s Oath’ of the sixteenth century set the tone for Japanese trading ethics, and while the nation underwent a long period of seclusion and restriction of foreign trade shortly afterwards, the merchant class centred on Osaka developed a strong commitment to propriety in its dealings. Throughout the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) the whole ethic was Confucian in tone and underpinned by Buddhist faith. No doubt the isolation itself and the complex network of reciprocal obligations, placing a premium on dealing with long-trusted partners, helps to explain the cultural configuration which makes the Japanese market so difficult to penetrate. In most Japanese eyes their trading practices are no doubt virtuous and meritorious, and their successes are due to their virtuous and meritorious behaviour. Concern over trade friction is growing, and in recent times it has never been far from the nation’s headlines. It is not unnatural in these circumstances that science fiction writers should anticipate possible future dilemmas and difficulties and be ahead of their fellow countrymen in expressing

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their concern over where the nation’s current practices may be leading. The international aspects of Japan’s commercialism have already been discussed in the chapter on Economics and Commerce (Chapter 5) and Hoshi’s ‘The flower of prosperity’11 is a good example of how a science fiction author can tackle the pitfalls and follies that can befall a community that is too insensitive or shortsighted in its treatment of foreign trade. Of course Hoshi does not say ‘This is Japan’. He does not have to. The inference is obvious: in any case the principles involved are universal. A story which specifically mentions names is Komatsu Sakyo’s ‘Amerika no Kabe’ (‘The American wall’).12 Here the target of concern is specified. It relates to one of the worst-case scenarios that could befall Japan economically: the barring of access to the USA. In this case, as in Japan Sinks, Komatsu touches a raw nerve of fear in the Japanese collective psyche.13 In the one case the fear is of physical disaster. In the other it is economic but none the less real. The hero of ‘The American wall’ is a free-lance journalist named Toyota Kazu. He is staying at a hotel in New York during a three-day public holiday period culminating in Independence Day. For the last six months the media have been emphasizing internal news, and a mood of unusual exaggeration marks the ceremonies and festivities that are planned to celebrate independence this year. On the first day of the three-day holiday he tries to telephone his wife in Tokyo but finds that the system is out of order. When he goes down into the hotel lounge he learns from a female acquaintance, also Japanese, that her plane for Tokyo has been cancelled, and shortly afterwards he discovers that Kennedy Airport has been closed for the whole day. An American friend of part-Chinese descent invites him to stay at his home for three days. There he learns that his friend has sent his Chinese wife home to Hong Kong where her wealthy family still lives. He has done this because he had a feeling that something strange was about to happen, and now he has been proved right. No planes are leaving the USA and none from overseas is coming in. All international telephone services are disconnected and even short-wave radio contact is lost. In short, the USA is completely cut off from the rest of the world. The result is utter confusion for all foreign tourists and businessmen, but the situation produces no great consternation for the average American citizen. For one thing it has happened during a three-day holiday period when almost all offices and businesses are closed. For another the US government has arranged

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for a news blackout on its plans. Eventually, when the news is released, the President makes a nationally televised address informing the people that although the isolation will cause considerable inconvenience the nation will be able to endure it and survive because of her selfsufficiency in food and natural resources. It is now revealed that research conducted over the past few years has perfected an invisible wall which is able to protect the USA from the outside world. US leaders have come to the conclusion that the external world has caused their country much pain and discomfort, especially since the Vietnam War, and as a result they have taken the decision to isolate the USA completely. The story, written in 1977, in some ways anticipates President Reagan’s Strategic Defence Initiative, but the emphasis here is not military: it is economic and psychological. Japan’s post-war policy of export-led growth could be severely impaired if the USA were to shut her doors to Japanese exports and rumblings in Congress and other manifestations of trade friction serve as reminders to the Japanese people that their future as exporters of high-technology goods to the west is far from guaranteed. As the friction mounts the signs increase that Japan may be forced to abandon or severely modify the successful tack she has pursued for so long, and this can be done only with painful readjustments and trauma. The well-oiled, smoothly running Japanese machine will have to be regeared, and political and social objectives will have to be redefined. There will inevitably be many losers in such a process, and many of them will be people previously led to believe in their own importance or at the very least in the importance of what they are doing. Expectations will be dashed; the repercussions will inevitably be social as well as economic. Of course, in such a situation there are winners too, and this is a subject that can be looked at in another kind of future-gazing story. Those that speculate on a change of government are likely to be of this type. Before we come on to such stories, however, a few more reflections on Japan’s attitude to the outside world might usefully be noted. ‘The American wall reflects Japan’s economic dependence on the USA at least for the maintenance of her present industrial and commercial configurations. Its reflection on the Vietnam War is also significant. Written in its early aftermath, the story implies a concern that the USA, disappointed and disillusioned with the outside world with her experience in Vietnam, may return to isolationism. Japan did not sympathize with the American

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objectives in Vietnam; nor was Japan hostile to them either. She simply saw the USA, in an excess of zeal for her own values, attempting to impose her own hegemony in an area where Japan herself had similarly tried and failed. Japan today sees herself as having more respect for other people’s cultures, even if she does not understand them very well—and Japan would no doubt welcome a development in the same direction on the part of the USA. This is not to say, however, that Japan would want a chastened USA to withdraw from the world scene. Japan enjoys the Pax Americana and has profited by it. Long may she continue to do so—and eventually come to share the leadership and the financial wealth that it brings—is what many highly successful Japanese no doubt hope. But behind this hope there is always the nagging fear that it may not happen. It depends heavily on the USA’s willingness to let it happen by absorbing more and more of Japan’s exports into her own economy, thus in part transposing herself into a raw material-producing ‘colonized’-type economy for Japan’s benefit, while the Japanese come to share with the Americans the financial dominance of the world order they have set up. Such a future is a problematic one. When it is stated baldly, it is by no means a prospect that Americans—or any other non-Japanese for that matter —may find appealing. Yet it is precisely on the maintenance of these trends that the continued success of Japan’s present tack and hence the continuation of her post-war industrial and social policies and configurations depend. Japan Sinks, Komatsu’s long story outlining another possible disaster—the physical one of seismic upheaval—has also touched a raw nerve. The fear of physical disaster is never far from the inhabitants of the quaternary-folded Japanese archipelago with its constant earthquakes and volcanic eruptions and frequent typhoons and tsunamis. Yet an international implication is also present in this story. The eventual survival of the Japanese refugees from natural disaster depends on the willingness of other nations around the globe to receive them. The Japanese apparently do feel able to count upon the ultimate goodwill of North Americans and some others towards them. The ambivalence of the Japanese people towards refugee questions may itself be regarded as striking. They have not shown a willingness to receive more than a handful of refugees from Vietnam, for instance. But their islands are overcrowded, and in any case they were not involved this time. Their ambivalence towards the western nations, especially the USA, is also striking.

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That the Americans could beat them so soundly in war and yet be so generous afterwards has left them with a tendency to behave in accordance with the Japanese tradition of amae towards the USA— that is like a spoiled child expecting the most extreme indulgence. Yet Japan has her own ambitions, too, and believes in the superiority of her own culture, for all the fact that she is now prepared to live and let live. Amae appears to be the only traditional Japanese custom that is appropriate in these circumstances. The old ‘way of the warrior’ is dead, killed by the defeat of 1945. Similar values of dedication and sacrifice are now dedicated to business, however, and exports have become the outlet for Japan’s ambitions and energies, with all other outlets apparently barred. The dedication to peace following the trauma of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and in any case an appraisal of the present world strategic scene, make it unlikely that Japan will return to warlike ways. It is simply not in the nation’s interest to do so. Yet if the USA were to close the door to exports (or stop ‘playing Patsy’ to the Japanese, as leader of the House of Representatives Tip O’Neill has put it) or if Japan is disastrously priced out of markets by a rising yen, it is not likely that the present Japanese attitude towards the USA will remain unaffected. Such a development would signify the end of the present tack, and a new tack would be in order. Not only that, it would be a necessity: Japan’s present tack can continue only as long as the USA—and to a lesser extent Europe—continue to take her exports. Many foreigners might welcome such a new tack. A Japan that spent more on improving her own people’s housing and welfare facilities and less on flooding the world with her hightechnology exports might well make the world a more comfortable place to live for Japan’s trading partners and competitors. It might be nai’ve to assume, however, that Japan would under such circumstances be willing to make a greater contribution to the defence of the west. It is highly doubtful if Japan really has much desire to do so even now. Noises may well be made by Japanese leaders signifying interest in such a course, but these may amount to little more than the voicing of soothing statements (in the traditional Japanese manner) made in the hope of retaining the present highly favourable access to the American market. After all, Japan’s strategic interests are not the same as the USA’s. Indeed, the feeling is widespread in Japan that the nation has no real enemies. Of course, old resentments against Japan still exist in

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China, Korea, and South-East Asia, dating back to the Pacific War and, in some cases, longer. Feelings are particularly deep in Korea. But these feelings scarcely amount to any significant threat to Japan’s security, and it is in this sense that Japan is seen as having no enemies. While Japan has a security treaty with the USA, she is not officially in alliance with that country and under the American-imposed Constitution the nation is unable to enter into alliances or engage in war as an element of foreign policy. The Supreme Court has interpreted this to mean that self-defence is not ruled out and in consequence of this decision Japan maintains land, maritime, and air self-defence forces. The terms army, navy, and air force are eschewed. Although technically no peace treaty has been signed with the Soviet Union since the end of the Second World War, public opinion in Japan does not see the Soviet Union as a power with hostile intent. The Soviets, after all, got everything they wanted from Japan at the time of Japan’s defeat, including the Kurile Islands, Southern Sakhalin, and the elimination of Japanese influence from the mainland. The Sea of Okhotsk has been transformed into a Soviet territorial enclosure where Soviet submarines can operate without fear of American intrusion. This is quite important for the world’s strategic balance and is a significant plus from the Soviet point of view. It is one of the factors underpinning Soviet intraransigence on the Northern Islands question which has proved to be the stumbling block in the way of an official peace treaty. It is thus at Japan’s insistence that the peace treaty has not been signed, and it is the Soviet Union that is the satisfied power with regard to the Northern Islands. Japan, while dissatisfied with the failure of the Soviet Union to return the four southernmost Kurile islands still claimed by Japan, is not in the least likely to push this issue to the brink of war. In this sense no threat to Japan’s security is posed from this quarter. While the Soviet Union possesses enormous war-making potential, the defeat and disarmament of Japan followed by a constitutionally underpinned self-defensive stance thereafter has tended to assuage any Soviet wrath. There is one respect, however, in which Japan could provoke the Soviet Union. This would be by allying itself against the Soviet Union with any other power. Provocation of the Soviet Union would be stretched to breaking-point if in pursuance of an alliance with a foreign power Japan were to take the fateful action of closing the straits of Soya, Tsugaru, and Tsushima, thus bottling up the

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Soviet Pacific fleet. In such an eventuality it is difficult to see how the Soviet Union would have any option other than to fight. These fears are outlined by Maeda Hisao in ‘A perilous plan for Japan’s security’, published in the Japan Quarterly 1984.14 In this article the dangers of abandoning Japan’s present stance and moving into closer strategic collaboration with the USA in plans envisaging the possible closure of the straits are clearly expressed. The same fears are expressed in science fiction. A dangerous provocation of the Soviet Union by the closure of the straits forms an important feature of Kenryoku no Asa (The Day They Took Power) by Waku Shunzo.15 Set in the 1990s, the story also envisions the electoral defeat of Japan’s governing party by the opposition and an ensuing political-and-constitutional crisis. The foreign power on whose behalf the straits are closed in this novel happens to be China, but the point is essentially the same as the one made in Maeda’s article: the Soviet Union will not be hostile unless provoked, and nothing Japan could do would be so sure-fire a provocation as the blocking of the straits. The USA in this story is much reduced from the role she played in the world in the 1970s. Her currency and her influence have both declined, but the influence she brings to bear is a responsible one and she does her best to assist a smooth transfer of government from the defeated incumbent party to the opposition—a move which also helps to end the crisis. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court is murdered in a hot springs resort under mysterious circumstances. Apparently he has been lured out of his hotel and his body is found in a strip theatre not far away. Shortly afterwards a member of the local branch of the Labour Party is arrested on suspicion of the crime and in the meantime a new Chief Justice of conservative persuasion is appointed, along with a new member who can also be expected to uphold the interests of conservative forces in Japan. This is of crucial importance because a general election has been held in which a left-wing coalition headed by the Japan Labour Party has won a majority of seats in the lower house and hence has the right to designate the next prime minister as soon as Parliament meets. The change in the personnel of the Supreme Court will be sufficient to put the conservative forces in control, and the new government will be hamstrung by the ability of the Supreme Court to strike down much of its legislation as unconstitutional: as a violation, for instance, of the right to private property.

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The electoral victory of the left has come about owing to the changed economic circumstances of the world in the 1990s, and it is a phenomenon by no means restricted to Japan. A shift in the balance of economic power created by variation in oil prices and the development of new production centres in several new parts of the world has led to a severe economic downturn and much social discontent in many of the world’s previously more advanced countries, and this in many cases has been responsible for a fundamental change in the economic climate. Of course the Japan Labour Party as such does not exist but, like its partner the Social Progress Party and the previously goveraing coalition parties, it is readily recognizable as standing for the broad forces of the left and of the right. The leaders of the party, Miyagawa and Fuji, bear names that have one character changed from the names of prominent figures of the left in the late 1970s. The Hishii Bank mentioned in the story is made up of one character each from the names Mitsubishi and Mitsui. This is a common ploy in Japanese stories of this kind. It is not meant to imply that either of these real banks would necessarily behave in the manner of this ‘combined bank’ and still less that the banks are likely to be combined by the 1990s. The politicians in the story, too, are not identifiable as politicians of the 1970s. They—and their parties—are fictitious. But the referential world is drawn in, and in a generalized but non-specific sense the reader will understand the broad social forces that are at work in the novel. Much centres upon the role of the Supreme Court and the Japanese Constitution, and the novel posits quite straightforwardly that the Constitution will be tested as never before at the moment of—and in the aftermath of—a change of government in Japan. Apart from a brief period during the Occupation, the left has never previously been in power in Japan, and at that time, owing to the existence of the Occupation itself, its ‘power’ was severely circumscribed, real power belonging to the Occupation forces. The phenomenon of a change of government may seem commonplace enough in the case of many flourishing and successful western-style democracies, but in Japan, owing to the long ascendancy of the conservative Liberal Democratic Party and its close association with Japan’s long-standing policy tack and socio-economic configuration, such a change would be in all likelihood quite traumatic to those long accustomed to power and the present ways of doing business. That under a democratic

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constitution it would happen only because a majority of the electorate so willed it is obvious, yet the shock to the conservative forces would be none the less real. References to the Constitution appear to be natural enough too. The balance between conservative and reformist forces can easily be determined by the life of one judge. The abortion versus right-to-life debate in the USA is a good example of this, and the personal composition of the Australian Supreme Court, for instance, appears to be central to the outcome of centralist versus states’ rights issues. This seems to be inevitable in a country in which the Supreme Court is made the sole guardian and interpreter of the Constitution. The political dynamics of the country make it likely that problems of interpretation of the Constitution are likely to be at their most acute at the moment of a change of government or in the period following when the new government attempts to set the nation on a radically different course from that which it has pursued before, A good example of constitutional disputation surrounding a change is provided by the Australian experience of 1975. Disputes over interpretation following a change of government are commonplace enough in the western world. Dirty politics too can be associated with questions of the Supreme Court’s composition. Charges of misconduct against a judge and defence against such charges may well be politically motivated. It is not inconceivable that a judge’s life may be at stake if the fate of entire classes and interest groups and a nation’s future direction hangs on his personal interpretation of a fine point of Consitutional Law. Another important point of Constitutional Law highlighted in this novel concerns the actual transfer of power itself. Indeed, it is so central to the theme of the novel that the plot hinges on it. It is described by the author himself as the shikaku, a dead angle or blind spot of the Constitution. Article 70 of the Constitution stipulates that ‘upon the first convocation of the Diet after a general election of members of the House of Representatives, the Cabinet shall resign en masse’. Article 71 states that even when a Cabinet has resigned it ‘shall continue its functions until the time when a new prime minister is appointed’. Taken together, these articles mean that even when an election has been held, the Diet convened, and a new prime minister designated it is still necessary for the outgoing Cabinet to resign before the new Cabinet is appointed. By tradition the outgoing prime minister, having collected all the resignations of his

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colleagues, presents his resignation and that of his entire Cabinet to the Emperor in the Pine Room of the Imperial Palace which serves as the State Chamber. This, according to Waku Shunzo, has to happen before the Emperor is able to address the Diet’s new designate and say ‘I appoint you prime minister’. Until this happens the outgoing Cabinet remains in power. If the outgoing prime minister is indisposed or unavailable his deputy can perform his function. Even if both are dead a way can be found round the impasse. But what if both are missing? It is around this point that Waku crafts his story. By previous arrangement an attack is staged on the prime minister’s official residence, and both the prime minister and the deputy prime minister are whisked away out of Tokyo by helicopter to an unknown destination. The murder of the Chief Justice is also part of the plot, along with the false accusation of a local Labour Party member. As the crucial moment approaches for the historic transfer of power a state of emergency is proclaimed, having been approved by the prime minister shortly before his apparent kidnapping. All access to the Imperial Palace is blocked, and checking of vehicles by police reduces the nation’s transport system to paralysis. The new prime ministerdesignate has no means of entering the Imperial Palace and the nation is kept immobilized as the old Cabinet, minus its leader and deputy leader, clings desperately to office. At this same time an international crisis arises as what at first appears to be a border skirmish between the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China develops into a serious Soviet invasion of its Asian neighbour. Japan, by this time allied to China, orders its maritime and air self-defence forces to block the crucial straits, thus provoking a confrontation with the Soviet Union. The newly designated prime minister, Miyagawa, is totally opposed to this policy and if only he can be appointed in time the otherwise inevitable armed clash with the Soviet Union can be avoided. He goes ahead and forms his Cabinet anyway at Labour Party headquarters, thus in effect giving Japan two governments; but power still resides with the old incumbents and the police and self-defence forces mobilized under their orders prevent the new government from exercising any power. At this point the USA steps in to give its moral support to the new government and help to calm relations between the Soviet Union and China. The USA is seen as an entirely benevolent force throughout this entire episode but its power by now is a pale shadow of what it had been two decades

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earlier. Economic strength has moved to the east and to new oilrich emergent nations. This is hardly the central theme of the story: it is simply a piece of background information which is not treated as anything unexpected or particularly remarkable. The constitutional crisis is finally resolved by the tireless and undaunted efforts of a group of newspaper reporters and a firm of lawyers. The lawyers expose the true circumstances behind the murder of the Chief Justice and the newspaper reporters discover first the true identity of the men who raided the prime minister’s official residence and then the whereabouts of the hiding prime minister and his deputy. A brilliant cross-examination in court and a new private technique for operating a press camera play crucial roles in unravelling the crisis and in the techniques used by the lawyers and journalists the past experiences of the author himself, who has both legal and journalistic training, are brought to bear to the full. When the absconded prime minister and deputy prime minister are finally discovered at a debauched party in a country mansion and shamefacedly exposed to the full glare of the nation’s television cameras, the power of the press to act as the guardian of democracy is asserted in all its majesty and pride. The two men now have no alternative but to do their duty and submit their resignations to the Emperor in the proper, prescribed manner. The constitutional crisis thus ends and the military crisis ends with it. Japan is now set on its new tack but the task will not be easy. The outgoing Cabinet has, after all, succeeded in stacking the Supreme Court and the new government will have an uphill fight in its struggle to make its reformist legislation stick. The story, set in the 1990s and hence in the not-too-far-distant future, appears to have a degree of political commitment not encountered in the other stories we have reviewed, yet the author is renowned more for his commitment to the ideals of investigative journalism and his fascination with the skills of fearless legal cross-examination than for his commitment to any particular political belief. If he is harsh in his criticism of those in power it is because he associates corruption with the holding of power and the temptations that it brings. The Day They Took Power is a work of speculative fiction which attributes the change of government in the 1990s to changed world economic circumstances. It is these circumstances that bring about a change in the mood of the Japanese people that induces them to vote against the forces that

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have ruled Japan since the late 1940s and in favour of a new reformist coalition. He is not suggesting in the story that the Japanese people would be likely to do this as long as the policy tack responsible for Japan’s post-war prosperity and growth to technological pre-eminence remains successful. He is, on the contrary, suggesting that the policy will not necessarily remain successful forever, and he is speculating that when it finally fails to maintain its relevance the Japanese people, then ready to embark upon a new policy and try a new tack, may well come to the conclusion that the configuration of political and financial forces that have led Japan successfully—although at social cost—for so long may not be the appropriate combination to lead Japan in search of its next set of national goals. If the next set of goals have more to do with the pursuit of public welfare and the improvement of the lot of those who have been denied the more lucrative benefits enjoyed by their more fortunate fellow-countrymen hitherto, then it is certainly legitimate to speculate on a political shift to the left. Corruption is regarded by many Japanese as an unfortunate fact of modern life, and much modern popular fiction and television drama accepts that it exists as a matter of course. Even if it does oil the machinery of politics and business it is not in any way popular with writers or the readerships and audiences they serve. The point of much of the literature and drama dealing with the subject is to show the plight of the little man—or woman—who is crushed in the machine. It is hardly to argue that it is harmful to Japan’s pursuit of its current economic goals. If corruption is to be cleaned up, this, like a new social climate designed to bring relief for the underdog, will have to wait for Japan’s change of tack. But nobody expects that this will happen while the present tack remains successful. There seems to be a tacit understanding among the Japanese that one day the moment for change will come, and some no doubt wish for it sooner than others. But the metaphor of tacking is taken from sailing, and as every good yachtsman knows there is no point in breaking a successful tack unless a sea or weather change takes place or unless one runs the risk of being blown too far from one’s intended course. Dangers may indeed have been courted by relying heavily on exports and hence on the continued willingness of other advanced societies, especially the USA, to continue absorbing huge trading deficits and incurring mounting debt, not to mention the perceived unemployment. A sudden failure to maintain access to these lucrative markets, whatever the cause, be it protectionism or

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a disastrously rising yen, could bring the necessity for much painful adjustment home to the Japanese people. Under these circumstances it is by no means impossible that a majority of the electorate may decide that the present leadership and its constituency of core supporters are not the most suitable configuration of forces to lead Japan in the search for its new goals. Corruption being what it is, and especially as it is represented in popular literature and television drama, it is not particularly surprising that a speculative work dealing with the prospect of a change of government after decades of effective one-party rule should envisage dirty work behind the scenes and underhand attempts by the outgoing forces to retain their power. Murder is far from unknown in such stories, but this is not to say it is seriously suggested that a future Japanese prime minister would sanction a plot involving the murder of the Chief Justice, let alone involve the nation in a serious risk of war. Speculative fiction is not prophecy. Yet it does examine the possible outcome of current trends and the hopes and fears of the people. It examines a possible or an itnaginable future. In doing so it reflects upon current society and popular attitudes towards it. The hopes and aspirations of the people reflected in it may well be real enough, and in this sense, while in no way a precise guide to what is going to happen, it is at least an important and helpful tool for those who wish to consider the future directions that a nation may take and the attitudes that its people may have towards these possible future directions. Concerns, fears, hopes, aspirations, and attitudes to possible directions are the stuff of speculative, ‘soft’, or sociological science fiction. They may also appear in ‘hard’ science fiction too, although here the emphasis will be directed more strongly towards hardware, new discovery, or developments in Space. Some of the specific concerns and speculations raised in The Day They Took Power may be found in somewhat altered form in the works of Komatsu Sakyo. In the long story Mishiranu Ashita (The Unknown Tomorrow),16 theChinese-Soviet border area once again features as the site of fighting. This time, however, the cause is an alien invasion of the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region. In this way Japanese apprehensions of an outbreak of war along the Sino-Soviet border are once again aired, but this time they are couched in terms of ‘harder’ science fiction. Political difficulties between the powers are real and tensions are high. But in the face of the alien invasion, the Soviet Union and China, and then the USA too, co-operate and overcome their differences in an attempt to

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repel the common danger. Once again, therefore, faith is expressed in the commonality of interest and ultimate goodwill of all the human race, and the internationalism so common in Japanese science fiction works since the end of the Second World War is once more asserted. This international co-operation, however, does not prevent the alien invasion from spreading and threatening Japan too, and in this way Komatsu once again brings a disaster story right to the doorstep of the Japanese people. Another change of government story is provided by Komatsu Sakyo in his short work ‘Shigatsu Juyokkakan’ (‘Fourteen days in April’).17 Atsomestage in the not-too-far-distant future a centrist coalition including the Clean Government Party takes power in Japan, but it does not last long. Anti-American riots sparked by popular resentment at Japan’s defence co-operation agreements mar its short period in office and matters come to a head when a private Japanese airplane bombs Pearl Harbor and destroys several crates of pineapples. Behind the resentment of the defence arrangements and the potential dangers they pose to Japan’s security there also apparently lurks a deeper Japanese resentment of the USA stemming from the defeat in the Second World War and the fact that Japan has had to play second fiddle ever since. While relations have been good and have acted to Japan’s advantage the relationship has provoked in the Japanese a dual attitude: on the one hand Japan has behaved as a favoured dependent towards a benevolent protector while at the same time harbouring the belief that this is somehow unsatisfactory and the nation should pull out from under and move ahead. The raid on Pearl Harbor is merely an empty tokenism based on this deep underlying dissatisfaction, and the government is in no way responsible for it. Nevertheless war is declared, Japan surrenders, the government falls, and people in senior responsible positions in government and industry are removed. A greater change thus results from this second defeat than from the change to a centrist government. The story has no remarkable ‘hardware’ in it and must be regarded as ‘soft’ science fiction. Yet the degree of romance in it brings it close to what Bainbridge calls The Fantasy Cluster’.18 Nonetheless, with its speculative element on the Japanese national psyche it fits more comfortably into the ‘New Wave’. While it does not tell us very much about the actual conditions under which a change of government may take place in Japan, it does at least speak of the possibility and couch it in terms of a move to a centrist government

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—a development which many political observers would consider to be much less remote than an outright shift to the forces of the left. More importantly, it gives the reader a valuable angle on the Japanese psyche. The idea of pulling out from under and not being behind any other society is a concept that has been fundamental to the Japanese collective consciousness and motivation for a very long time. History shows instances of it in the distant past. Even the myths of the divine creation of the islands and the attribution of the founding of the state to the Emperor Jinmu in 660 BC may be seen as testimony to this. It is reinforced by the ascription of Confucian virtue to ancient emperors long before the actual introduction of Confucianism into Japan, and in historical times to a letter sent from ‘the Emperor in the land where the sun rises to the Emperor in the land where the sun sets’. At certain times in history eastern civilization has been ahead of the west, and at certain times it has been behind. As the Japanese see it their own nation is at the forefront of the Asian revival and is currently poised at the historical stage of taking Asia once again into the lead. For them western ethnocentric notions about the inherent superiority of western culture, social structure, values, or religion have no appeal nor do they foresee a future in which any western nation, for instance the USA, is necessarily destined to lead the world into its new eras of technological and other achievements. They have their own ethnocentric notions about how the world is going to get there. And yet, for all the ethnocentricity inherent in the thinking of this long-isolated, highly homogeneous people, and for all the uniqueness and idiosyncracies of its ways, Japan is a nation that by virtue of her experiences of the part of the world in which she lives is today immune from the self-satisfied notion that her own race is the only one capable of offering real leadership or dominant social discourse to the world. Like all Asian nations she has felt the impact of the west and is aware of the west’s achievements, learning, literature, and philosophy. By comparison the west is appallingly ignorant of the east—an ignorance that feeds on a smug belief in the superiority of one’s own culture and tends disastrously to reinforce it. Those who are aware of the existence of other cultures and the intellectual riches they have to offer may be regarded as gifted with a bifocal vision of world affairs which helps them to understand the tide of history and the process of human advance

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with a perspective denied those who dwell serenely and contentedly within the one-eyed ethnocentric certainties of their own culture. Hoshi Shin’ichi’s ‘The law of leaps’ captures precisely the Japanese perspective of the role of eastern and western civilization in the development of human beings.19 The story tells of the relationship between two planets but referentially it tells of the relationship between east and west. At one stage one is ahead and inflicts insults on the other; but these very insults spur the other to pick itself up with a view to catching up. By the time it has done so the other has fallen behind, softened by its own success. The captain at the end of the story tells his crewmembers to berate the members of the decadent civilization they find on the other planet, not only for its inhabitants’ own good, but also for the benefit of his and his countrymen’s own descendants too. They too will be likely to be backward and selfindulgent again a few centuries hence. It is a long-term perspective, but this is the stuff of science fiction. The value to western readers in looking at Japanese literature is precisely this, that it gives them a view of the human condition that stands oufside the narrow ethnocentric confines of their own preconceptions. Not only does it tell them something important about Japanese culture itself, but also it gives them a new view on the nature of human society and thereby a deeper view of their own. The study of a society radically different from one’s own—the more different the better—affords a bifocality of vision that cannot fail to enhance, by both broadening and deepening, the perspective in which human affairs are viewed. Furthermore, it is submitted that a reading of Japanese science fiction will provide even a more specific service than this. Since Japan is still the only non-western nation with a fully advanced economy and sees herself as moving into the lead in human technological affairs rather than simply emerging and striving to catch up like the other nations of Asia, she offers a unique view of human progress and speculation on where human society may be going next. It is the only technologyconscious, forward-looking, and future-oriented literature that stands outside the western framework of ideas and westerndominated discourse.

Notes and references

INTRODUCTION 1. 2. 3.

Asimov, I. (1983) Asimov on Science Fiction, London, Granada, p. 110. Bainbridge, W.S. (1986) Dimensions of Science Fiction, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, p. 4. Allen, L.D. (1973) Science Fiction: An Introduction, Lincoln, Nebr., Cliffs Notes.

1 THE BEGINNINGS 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

Verne, J. (1873) Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours (Around the World in Eighty Days), Paris, Neuville-Bonitt. Verne, J. (1865) De la terre a la lune (From the Earth to the Moon in 97 Hours and 20 Minutes), Paris, Montant. Verne, J. (1879) Vingt mille lieues sous les mers (Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea), Paris, Rion & Neuville. Yano Ryukei (1970) Ukeshiro Monogatari (Tales of Ukeshiro), Meiji Bungaku Zenshu 15, 77–178, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Sudo Nansui (nd) Asahi Shoki (The Emblem of the Rising Sun). Ushiyama Ryosuke (1884) Nihon no Mirai (The Future of Japan). Suehiro Tetcho (1886) Nijusannen Mirai Ki (A Future Record of the Year 1890). Suehiro Tetcho (1886) Seijishosetsu: Setchubai (A Political Novel: Plwn Blossoms in the Snow). Suehiro Tetcho (1888–9) Seijishosetsu: Kakan’o (A Political Novel: A Nightingale Among the Flowers). Tsubouchi Shoyo (1956) Shosetsu Shinzui (The Essence of the Novel), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 1, 79–131, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Tsubouchi Shoyo (1969) Ichidoku Santan: Tosei Shosei Katagi (Read and Deplore: The Character of Modern Students), Meiji Bungaku Zenshu 16, 59–163, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo.

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12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

Quoted by Ishikawa Takashi in (1971) ‘SF Izen’ (‘Before SF’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu (Compendium of World SF) 34, 709–22, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yamada Hiromitsu, ibid. Futabatei Shimei (1956) Ukigumo (The Drifting Clouds), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 1, 151–220, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Oshikawa Shunro (1900) Kaitei Gunkan (Warships on the Bottom of the Sea). Harada Masaemon (nd) Ikon Junen Nichiro Miraisen (The Bitter Future Ten-Year War between Japan and Russid). Kitahara Tetsuzo (nd) Tsugi no Issen (The Next War). Wells, H.G. (1898) The War of the Worlds, London, Heinemann. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Kappa’ (‘Kappa’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 25, 347–84, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo.

2 THE PERIOD OF DEVELOPMENT 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

Kizu Tora (1971) ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’ (The wedding shrouded in grey’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 71–83, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Shima Akinosuke (1928) ‘Norowareta Shinzo’ (‘The accursed heart’), Kagaku Gaho. Kitai Shinji (1928) ‘Osoroshiki Sogo’ (‘A frightening discrepancy’), Kagaku Gaho. Unno Juza (1928) ‘Nazo no Tanpa Musenkyoku’ (‘The mysterious shortwave broadcasting station’), Kagaku Gaho. Kozakai Fuboku (1971) ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’ (‘The love curve’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 43–56, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Edogawa Ranpo (1971) ‘Kagami Jigoku’ (‘Hell of mirrors’), Sekai S. F. Zenshu 34, 29–42, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Shiro Masayuki (1971) ‘Jamaika-Shi no Jikken’ (‘The experiment of Mr Jamaica’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 413–24, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke (1971) ‘Jinzo Ningen’ (‘The artifical human being’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 57–70, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Edogawa Ranpo (1971) ‘Oshie to Ryosuru Otoko’ (‘The man who travelled with the pasted rag picture’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 11–28, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Tamago’ (‘The egg’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 182–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Watanabe Atsushi (1971) ‘Heitai no Shi’ (‘A soldier’s death’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 96–7, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

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12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25.

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

Hoshida Sanpei (1971) ‘Sentoraru Chikyu Shi Kensetsu Kiroku’ (‘The construction of the Earth’s central city’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 226–61, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Shindoma’ (‘The demon of vibration’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 98–115, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Naoki Sanjugo (1971) ‘Robotto to Beddo no Juryo’ (‘The robot and the weight of the bed’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 84–95, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kigi Kotaro (1971) ‘Momakumyaku Shisho’ (‘Angioskiaphobia’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 346–63, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juchachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Nomura Kodo (1971) ‘Onpa no Satsujin’ (‘Murder by sound-wave’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 187–206, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Kamikirimushi’ (‘The scarabaeus’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 164–9, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Ningen Rekodo’ (‘The human record’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 170–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Maki Itsuma (1971) ‘Shichi-ji Rei Sanpun’ (‘7.03 hours’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 262–300, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kuze Juran (1971) ‘Chitei Jukoku’ (‘The animal kingdom under the earth’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 301–45, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Edoga/wa-ran/Po: Edgar Allan Poe. Harris, J.B. (trans.) (1956) Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edogawa Ranpo, Tokyo and Rutland Vt., Tuttle, p. 122. Ibid. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Tokkyo Tawan Ningen Hoshiki’(‘The patented formula for a multi-armed man’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 149–63, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Okuri Chutaro (1941) ‘Taiheiyo Rosuiko: Hyoryuki’ (‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 187–206, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Verne, J. (1864) Voyage au centre de la terre (Journey to the Centre of the Earth), Paris, Hetzel. Burroughs, E.R. (1922) At the Earth’s Core, Chicago, McClurg. (1923) Pellucidar, Chicago, McClurg. Swift, J. (1726) Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World in Four Parts by Lemuel Gulliver, London, Motte. Ran Ikujiro (1971) ‘Noha Sojushi’ (‘The brainwave controller’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 395–412, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kawabata Yasunari (1964) ‘Izu no Odoriko’(‘The Izu dancer’) Gendai Bungaku Taikei 33, 311–27, Tokyo, Shikuma Shobo.

242 NOTES AND REFERENCES

32.

33. 34. 35.

36.

Yokomizo Seishi (1971) ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’(‘After twenty-six million years’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 383–94, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Kappa’ (‘Kappa’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 25, 347–84, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Oshita Udaru (1971) ‘Nippon Iseki’ (‘The relics of Japan’), excerpt Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 364–82, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kayama Shigeru (1971) ‘Oran Pendeku no Fukushu’ (‘The revenge of orang pendek’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 450–68, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kayama Shigeru (1971) ‘Oran Pendeku no Gojitsudan’ (‘The reminiscences of orang pendek’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 469–92, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

PART II THE CONCERNS OF A CHANGING SOCIETY 1. 2.

3.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (10 January 1985) ‘The world of Japanese science fiction’, Look Japan 6–7. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), Tokyo, Kobunsha (1976) trans. M. Gallagher, Japan Sinks, New York, Harper. Komatsu Sakyo (1986) Shuto Shoshitsu (Tokyo Blackout), Tokyo, Tokuma Shobo.

3 THE JADED JAPANESE 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Uchu no Eiyu’ (‘Space hero’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 258–65, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Hiyaku e no Hosoku’ (‘The law of leaps’), Dareka-san no Akumu 242–51, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Mokei no Jidai’ (‘The age of models’), Adamu no Sue 7–36, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Adamu no Sue’ (‘Adam’s descendants’), Adamu no Sue 178–210, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Kanzen Hanzai’ (‘Perfect crimes’), Senso wa Nakatta 117–21, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Ki-Shizukanaran to Hossuredo’ (‘Oh, for quiet in the woods!’), Senso wa Nakatta 123–71, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 243

8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Unmei Gekijo’ (‘The theatre of fate)’, Senso wa Nakatta 189–98, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1969) ‘Betonamu Kanpo Kosha’ (‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 174–93, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1971) ‘Afurika no Bakudan’ (‘The African bomb’), Afurika no Bakudan 224–69, Tokyo, Kadokawa. Tsukushi Michio (1969) ‘Imeji Reitogyo’ (‘The image-freezing business’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 238–50, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kita Morio (1969) ‘Akichi’ (‘A vacant piece of ground’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 251–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

4 ADVERTISING AND THE MEDIA 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Mishima Yukio, Hojo no Umi (The Sea of Fertility): a tetralogy comprising (1968) Haru no Yuki (Spring Snow), Tokyo, Shinchosha. (1969) Honba (Runaway Horses), Tokyo, Shinchosha. (1970) Akatsuki no Tera (The Temple of Dawn), Tokyo, Shinchosha. (1971) Tennin Gosui (The Decay of the Angel), Tokyo, Shinchosha. Mishima Yukio (1968) Taiyo to Tetsu (Sun and Steel), Tokyo, Shinchosha. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1965) 48 Oku no Moso (4.8 Billion Illusions), Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Mayumura Taku (1957) Gen’ei no Kosei (A Structure of Illusions), Tokyo, Kadokawa. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Senden no Jidai’ (‘The age of propa-ganda’), Dareka-san no Akumu 71–5, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Terebi no Kami’ (‘The god of television’), Dareka-san no Akumu 173–80, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Boroya no Junin’ (‘The shack dweller’), Tozokugaisha 24–9, Tokyo, Kodansha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Shumatsu no Hi’ (‘The last day’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 292–7, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Chikai’ (‘The oath’), Dareka-san no Akumu 150–4, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1979) ‘Taiintachi’ (‘The crew’), O-sekkai-na Kamigami 89–96, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Rieko no Kakuho’ (‘Profits guaranteed’), Dareka-san no Akumu 121–4, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

244 NOTES AND REFERENCES

5 ECONOMICS AND COMMERCE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Mane Eiji’ (‘The age of money’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 59–63, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Chiisa-na Shakai’ (‘The small society’), Dareka-san no Akumu 181–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1979) ‘Waraigao no Kami’ (‘The god with the laughing face’), O-sekkai-na Kamigami 9–13, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Fuku no Kami’ (‘The god of fortune’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 22–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Soshite Daremo Shinakunatta’ (‘And everybody stopped work’), Adamu no Sue 247–69, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Mayumura Taku (1968) Ekisupo ‘87 (Expo ‘87), Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Han’ei no Hana’ (‘The flower of prosperity’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 240–4, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Yudai-na Keikaku’ (‘The deep-laid plan’), Tozokugaisha 9–13, Tokyo, Kodansha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Endai-na Keikaku’ (‘The grand design’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 168–70, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Ballard, J.G. (1978) ‘The subliminal man’, The Best Short Stories of J.G. Ballard 171–88, New York, Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Go-kigen Hoken’ (‘Mood insurance’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 196–203, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Doi Takeo (1971) Amae no Kozo (The Anatomy of Dependence), Tokyo, Kobundo. Doi Takeo (1977) trans. J. Bester, The Anatomy of Dependence, Tokyo, Kodansha International.

6 HUMAN CONCERNS AND VALUES 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Piita Pan no Shima’ (‘Peter Pan’s inland?), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 115–22, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Mayumura Taku (1963) Moeru Keisha (The Burning Slope), Tokyo, Toto Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Jinnii Saiban’ (‘Judgement on man’), Adamu no Sue 104–36, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Aozora’ (‘A blue sky’), Adamu no Sue 97– 101, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Seishuku no Tsuro’ (‘A quiet corridor’), Adamu no Sue 37–95, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 245

6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Ooi, Dete Kooi’ (‘Hey! Come out of it’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 17–19, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Uchu no Sekisho’ (‘Space checkpoint’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 257–63, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Tomo o Ushinatta Yoru’ (‘The night we lost a friend’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 144–7, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Shimazaki Toson (1953) Hakai (The Broken Commandment), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 8, 36–158, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Literally filthy or unclean. Regarded as non-persons in Tokugawa Japan. All legal disabilities were removed from them in the early Meiji era. Also known as ‘burakumin’. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Fuman’ (‘The malcontent’), Yo-koso Chikyu-san 77–82, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

7 CONSCIOUSNESS OF GENERATIONAL CHANGE 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Minarai no Daiichinichi’ (‘The first day of an apprenticeship’), Dareka-san no Akumu 95–8, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Tayama Katai (1955) ‘Sei’ (‘Life’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 9, 67–132, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Shiga Naoya (1968) ‘Seibei to Hyotan’ (‘Seibei and the gourds’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 34, 215–17, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Endo Shusaku (1974) Kuchibue o Fuku Toki (When I Whistle), Tokyo (1979) trans. V.C. Gessel, When I Whistle, London, Owen. Endo Shusaku (1973) Ichi, Ni, San! (One, Two, Three!), Tokyo, Chuokoronsha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Shintoshi Kensetsu’ (‘The construction of a new capital’), Adamu no Sue 271–6, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Yami no Naka no Kodomo’ (‘The child in the dark’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 205–64, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Semarikuru Ashioto’ (‘The sound of chasing feet’), Adamu no Sue 217–45, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Golding, W. (1954) Lord of the Flies, London, Faber. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘O-meshi’ (‘The calling’), Adamu no Sue 143– 78, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Sheckley, R. (1968) ‘Fishing season’, The People Trap 156–71, London, Gollancz. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Hamonika’ (‘The harmonica’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 293–303, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Ikushima Jiro (1969) ‘Sedai Kakumei’ (‘The generation revolution’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 195–212, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

246 NOTES AND REFERENCES

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Ooka Shohei (1969) ‘Nobi’ (‘Fires on the plain’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 85, 3–68, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Takeda Taijun (1971) ‘Hikarigoke’ (‘Luminous moss’), Takeda Taijun Zenshu 5, 171–206, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Ibuse Masuji (1965) ‘Yohai Taicho’ (‘Lieutenant Look-east’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 65, 196–209, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Noma Hiroshi (1963) Shinku Chitai (Vacuum Zone) Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 60, 151–525, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Doi Takeo (1971) Amae no Kozo (The Anatomy of Dependence), Tokyo, Kobundo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Kowai Ojisan’ (‘The nasty man’), Dareka-san no Akumu 104–7, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘An-An’ (‘The wail’), Kimagure Robotto 161– 6, Tokyo, Kadokawa.

8 SEX 1. 2.

3.

4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

Kozakai Fuboku (1971) ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’ (‘The love curve’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 43–56, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kizu Tora (1971) ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’ (‘The wedding shrouded in grey’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 71–83, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke (1971) ‘Jinzo Ningen’ (‘The artificial human being’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 57–70, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Naoki Sanjugo (1971) ‘Robotto to Beddo no Juryo’ (‘The robot and the weight of the bed’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 84–95, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Shindoma’ (‘The demon of vibration’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 98–115, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakayoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Tamago’ (‘The egg’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 182–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yokomizo Seishi (1971) ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’ (‘After twenty-six million years’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 383–94, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Ran Ikujiro (1971) ‘Noha Sojushi’ (‘The brainwave controller’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 395–412, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Mokei no Jidai’ (‘The age of models’), Adamu no Sue 7–36, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 247

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23.

Tsukushi Michio (1969) ‘Imeji Reitogyo’ (‘The image-freezing business’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 238–50, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Bokko-chan’ (‘Bokko-chan’) Bokko-chan 13–17, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Mayumura Taku (1974) Waga Sekusoido (My Sexoid), Tokyo, Kadokawa. Kurahashi Yumiko (1969) ‘Gosei Bijo’ (‘An artificial beauty’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 288–306, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) ‘Adamu no Sue’ (‘Adam’s descendants’), Adamu no Sue 178–210, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1982) ‘Hainekku no Onna’ (‘The woman in high necked clothes’), Amerika no Kabe 277–317, Tokyo, Bungei Shunju. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Aohige to Oni’ (‘Bluebeard and the demon’), Senso wa Nakatta 48–72, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Shaka no Te’ (‘The hands of Buddha’), Senso wa Nakatta 73–84, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Shojo o Nikumu’ (‘The man who hated young girls’) Yami no Naka no Kodomo 151–81, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1971) ‘Roshutsu-sho Bunmei’ (‘The exhibitionist civilization’), Afurika no Bakudan 58–74, Tokyo, Kadokowa. Condon, J. (1985) A Half Step Behind, New York, Dodd, Mead. Arai Motoko (1981) Hoshi e iku Fune (A Ship to the Stars), Tokyo, Shueisha; (1984) trans. N. Anderson, A Ship to the Stars, Tokyo, Kodansha International. Arai Motoko (1983) Guriin Rekuiemu (Green Requiem), Tokyo Shueisha; (1984) trans. N. Anderson, Green Requiem, Tokyo, Kodansha International.

PART III MATTERS OF THE MIND AND SPIRIT 1. 2.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Hiyaku e no Hosoku’ (‘The law of leaps’) Dareka-san no Akumu 242–51, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Endo Shusaku (1973) Ichi, Ni, San! (One, Two, Three!), Tokyo, Chuokoronsha.

9 MORAL VALUES, ETHICS, AND RELIGIOUS BELIEFS 1. 2.

Clarke, A.C. (1953) Childhood’s End, New York, Ballantine. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Terebi no Kami’ (‘The god of television’), Dareka-san no Akumu 173–80, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

248 NOTES AND REFERENCES

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Fuku no Kami’ (‘The god of fortune’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 22–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Goka-na Seikatsu’ (‘Luxurious living’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 64–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1979) ‘Waraigo no Kami’ (‘The god with the laughing face’), O-sekkai-na Kamigami 9–13, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Boroya no Junin’ (‘The shack dweller’), Tozokugaisha 24–9, Tokyo, Kodansha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1979) O-sekkai-na Kamigami (Meddlesome Gods), Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘O-sekkai’ (‘The meddlers’), Dareka-san no Akumu 134–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Matchi’ (‘The matches’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 81–8, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1979) ‘Masukotto’ (‘The charm’), O-sekkai-na Kamigami 77–83, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Koigataki’ (‘The rivals in love’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 113–17, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Koun e no Sakusen’ (‘A strategy for good fortune’) Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 237–43, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Takahashi Yasukuni (1969) ‘Uchujin’ (‘Cosmic dust’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 25–35, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Uchu no Otokotachi’ (‘Men in space’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 51–8, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Tabako to Akuma’ (‘Tobacco and the devil’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 25, 34–40, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Torihiki’ (‘The negotiations’), Kimagure Robotto 149–52, Tokyo, Kadokawa. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Kyujin-nan’ (‘A shortage of staff’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 264–71, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kagami’ (‘The mirror’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 35–40, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. A coin-in-the-slot roller-ball game. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Aku o Noroo’ (‘Let us decry evil’), Yokoso Chikyu-san 225–8, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Dante Alighieri (14th cent.) La Divina Commedia (The Divine Comedy). Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Dendorokakariya’ (‘Dendrocacalia’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 385–403, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Shibutoi Yatsu’ (The stubborn fellow’), Yo-koso Chikyu-san 282–4, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Nehan Hoso’ (‘The Nirvana broadcast’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 7–38, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 249

10 THE PSYCHE, PERCEPTION, AND EMOTION 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Aru Noiroze’ (‘A certain neurosis’), Tozokugasha 96–100, Tokyo, Kodansha. Benedict, R. (1946) The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, Boston, Mass., Houghton Mifflin. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Usugurai Hoshi de’ (‘On a dim planet’) Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 167–70, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kume Masao (1956) ‘Jukensei no Shuki’ (‘Notes of a student examinee’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 25, 345–73, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Katz, H.A., Warwick, P., and Greenberg, M.H. (1974) Introductory Psychology through Science Fiction, Chicago, 111., Rand McNally. Yokomitsu Riichi (1966) ‘Haru wa Basha ni Notte’ (‘Spring in a carriage’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 32, 381–91, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Yokomitsu Riichi (1966) ‘Kikai’ (‘The machine’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 32, 405–22, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Yokomitsu Riichi (1956) ‘Shin’en’ (‘The garden of slumbers’, aka The tombs of the emperors’), Yokomitsu Riichi Zenshu 3, 5–120, Tokyo, Kawade Shobo. Yokomitsu Riichi (1966) ‘Shizukanaru Raretsu’ (‘Silent ranks’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 32, 366–72, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Bainbridge, W.S. (1986) Dimensions of Science Fiction, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Shojo’ (‘The symptoms’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 20–1, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Kanja’ (‘The patien’), Yo-koso Chikyu-san 53–6, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kata no Ue no Hisho’ (‘The secretary on the shoulder’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 193–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Ai no Kagi’ (‘The love key’), Yo-koso Chikyu-san 198–201, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Kozakai Fuboku (1971) ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’ (‘The love curve’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 24, 43–56, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Kikkake’ (‘The prod’), Dareka-san no Akumu 125–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Mayumura Taku (1974) Waga Sekusoido (My Sexoid), Tokyo, Kadokawa. Yano Tetsu (1969) ‘Miminariyama no Yurai’ (‘The origins of Mt Miminari’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 67–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kagami’ (‘The mirror’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 35–40, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

250 NOTES AND REFERENCES

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Nemuru Mae no Hitotoki’ (‘Just before going to bed’), Dareka-san no Akumu 49–54, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kobito’ (‘The dwarf’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 255–7, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Keien’ (‘Reluctance’), Dareka-san no Akumu, 86–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Anzen Sochi’ (‘The safety device’), Dareka-san no Akumu 63–70, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Anon. (Chinese) (ancient) Daxue (The Great Learning). Anon. (Chinese) (ancient) Liji (The Record of Ritual).

PART IV THE CONSEQUENCES OF CHANGE 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

Futabatei Shimei (1956) ‘Ukigumo’ (‘The drifting clouds’) Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 1, 151–220, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Natsume Soseki (1958) Kojin (The Wayfarer), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 65, 235–369, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Natsume Soseki (1969) trans. Beongcheon Yu, The Wayfarer, Rutland Vt. and Tokyo, Tuttle, p. 285. Kizu Tora (1971) ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’ (‘The wedding shrouded in grey’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 71–83, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Ningen Rekodo’ (‘The human record’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 170–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kuze Juran (1971) ‘Chitei Jukoku’ (‘The animal kingdom under the earth’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 301–45, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yokomizo Seishi (1971) ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’ (‘After twenty-six million years’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 383–94, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) Tokkyo Tawan Ningen Hoshiki’ (‘The patented formula for a multi-armed man’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 149–63, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

11

NOTES AND REFERENCES 251

SOME SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18.

Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Aru Noiroze’ (‘A certain neurosis’), Tozokugaisha 96–100, Tokyo, Kodansha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Keien’ (‘Reluctance’), Dareka-san no Akumu 86–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Revel, J.F. (1976) La Tentation Totalitaire, Paris, Editions Robert Laffont. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Usugurai Hoshi de’ (‘On a dim planet’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 167–70, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) ‘Atarashii Shacho’ (‘The new company president’), Tozokugaisha 14–18, Tokyo, Kodansha. Kono Norio (1969) ‘Kikansha, Sogen ni’ (‘Locomotives in the field’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 218–37, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), Tokyo Kobunsha. Abe Kobo (1971) Daiyon Kanpyo-ki (Inter Ice Age 4), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 3–173, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo, himself a one-time Communist, was expelled from the Japan Communist Party in 1962. McNeil, E.B. (1974) The Psychology of Being Human, New York, Harper & Row, p. 552. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Eikyu Undo’ (‘Perpetual motion’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 349–69, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘R62 go no Hatsumei’ (‘Invention R62’), Sekai S. F. Zenshu 27, 279–304, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Jinniku Shokuyo Hantai Shinjodan to Sannin no Shinshitachi’ (The anti-cannibalism petitioners and the three gentle-men’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 339–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Rannyusha’ (‘The intruders’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 311–37, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1967) Tomodachi (Friends); (1969) trans. D. Keene, Friends, New York, Green Press. Abe Kobo (1967) Moetsukita Chizu (The Ruined Map), Tokyo, Shinchosha; trans. E.D. Saunders, The Ruined Map, New York, Knopf. Abe Kobo (1962) Suna no Onna (The Woman in the Dunes), Tokyo, Shinchosha; (1984) trans. E.D. Saunders, The Woman in the Dunes, New York, Knopf.

252 NOTES AND REFERENCES

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

35.

36. 37.

Abe Kobo (1964) Tanin no Kao (The Face of Another); (1966) trans. E.D. Saunders, The Face of Another, New York, Knopf. Abe Kobo (1973) Hako Otoko (The Box Man); (1974) trans. E.D. Saunders, The Box Man, New York, Knopf. Abe Kobo (1977) Mikkai (Secret Rendezvous), Tokyo, Shinchosha; (1979) trans. J.W. Carpenter, Secret Rendezvous, New York, Knopf. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Dendorokakariya’ (‘Dendrocacalia’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 385–403, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Akai Mayu’ (‘The red cocoon’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 305–9, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) Shijin no Shogai (The Life of a Poet); Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 405–22, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1972) ‘Kabe—S. Karuma Shi no Hanzai’ (‘The wall—The crime of Mr S. Karuma’), Abe Kobo Zensakuhin 2, 7–84, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Maho no Choku’ (‘The magic chalk’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 371–83, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Mocho’ (‘The caecum’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 441–55, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) ‘Ningen Sokkuri’ (‘Practically human’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 175–277, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo (1971) Totarusukopu’ (‘Totalscope’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 27, 423–39, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Abe Kobo, (1971) ‘Namari no Tamago’ (‘The leaden egg’), Sekai S. F. Zenshu 27, 457–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Tamago’ (‘The egg’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 182–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Yokomizo Seishi (1971) ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’ (‘After twenty-six million years’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 383–94, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Bainbridge, W.S. (1986) Dimensions of Science Fiction, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. These include W.S. Bainbridge, who wrote Dimensions of Science Fiction, Brian Aldiss, who wrote Billion Year Spree, and the editors of Hayakawa Shobo who included many of Abe’s stories in the Compendium of World SF. Aldiss, B. (1973) Billion Year Spree: The History of Science Fiction, London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Kappa’ (‘Kappa’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 347–8, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo; (1971) trans. G. Bownas, Kappa, Rutland Vt. and Tokyo, Tuttle. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Yabu no Naka’ (‘In a grove’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 25, 215–23, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Akutagawa Ryunosuke (1963) ‘Rashomon’ (‘Rashomon’), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 5–10, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 253

38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

Dazai Osamu (1971) ‘Sarugashima’ (‘Monkey island’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 622–68, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Dazai Osamu (1965) Shayo (The Setting Sun), Gendai Bungaku Taikei 54, 304–99, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Dazai Osamu (1965) Ningen Shikkaku (No Longer Human) trans. D. Keene, No Longer Human, Norfolk, Conn., Laughlin. Dazai Osamu (1958) trans. D. Keene, The Setting Sun, London, Owen, p. 66. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kuroi Bo’ (‘The black stick’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 251–4, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

12 POST-WAR POLITICAL AND POLITICO-MORAL ATTITUDES 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Benedict, R. (1946) The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, Boston, Mass., Houghton Mifflin. Woronoff, J. (1980) Japan: The Coming Social Crisis, Tokyo, Lotus Press. Woronoff, J. (1979) Japan: The Coming Economic Crisis, Tokyo, Lotus Press. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Shojo o Nikumu’ (‘The man who hated young girls’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 151–81, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Ikushima Jiro (1969) ‘Sedai Kakumei’ (‘The generation revolu-tion’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 194–212, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1971) Nippon Apatchi-zoku (The Japanese Apaches), Tokyo, Kadokawa. Komatsu Sakyo (1969) Tsugu no wa Dare Ka? (Who Will Inherit?), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 29, 3–224, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1969) Hateshinaki Nagare no Hate ni (At the End of the Endless Stream), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 29, 225–482, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), Tokyo, Kobunsha. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Hamonika’ (‘The harmonica’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 293–303, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Hiyaku e no Hisoku’ (‘The law of leaps’), Dareka-san no Akumu 242–51, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1973) Aru Noiroze’ (‘A certain neurosis’), Tozokugaisha 96–100, Tokyo, Kodansha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Keien’ (‘Reluctance’), Dareka-san no Akumu 86–9, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

254 NOTES AND REFERENCES

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Endai-na Keikaku’ (‘The grand desig’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 168–70, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Han’ei no Hana’ (‘The flower of prosperity’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 240–4, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Anzen Sochi’ (‘The safety device’), Dareka-san no Akumu 63–70, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kagami’ (‘The mirror’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 35–40, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Kobito’ (‘The dwarf’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 255–7, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Lasch, C. (1978) The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations, New York, Norton. Thurow, L.C. (1980) The Zero-Sum Society: Distribution and the Possibilities of Economic Change, New York, Basic Books. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Go-kigen Hoken’ (‘Mood insurance’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha 196–203, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Fuku no Kami’ (‘The god of fortune’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 22–6, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Uchu no Sekisho’ (‘Space checkpoint’), Yosei Haikyu Kalsha 257–63, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1969) ‘Shiroi Fuku no Otoko’ (‘The man in white uniform’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 141–53, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Ooi, Dete Kooi’ (‘Hey! Come out of it’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 16–19, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Chosa’ (‘The investigators’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 174–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

13 WAR AND THE BOMB 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Kizu Tora (1971) ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’ (‘The wedding shrouded in grey’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 71–83, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Chosa’ (‘The investigators’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 174–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1972) ‘Shinyo-aru Seihin’ (‘Reliable products’), Yo-koso Chikyu-san 317–21, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘O-miyage o Motte’ (‘With souvenirs in their hands’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 151–4, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Ota Yoko (1982) ‘Shikabane no Machi’ (‘City of corpses’), Ota Yoko Shu 1, 5–156, Tokyo, San’ichi Shobo. Ota Yoko (1982) ‘Hanningen’ (‘Half human’), Ota Yoko Shu 1, 261– 334, Tokyo, San’ichi Shobo.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 255

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Ibuse Masuji (1965) ‘Kuroi Ame’ (‘Black rain’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 65, 51–175, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Morris, I. (1975) The Nobility of Failure: Tragic Heroes in the History of Japan, London, Secker & Warburg. Tayama Katai (1955) ‘Ippeisotsu’ (‘One soldier’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 9, 59–66, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Ooka Shohei (1969) ‘Nobi’ (‘Fires on the plain’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 85, 3–68, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Kuroshima Denji (1971) ‘Sori’ (‘The sleigh’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 56, 214–23, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Kuroshima Denji (1971) ‘Uzumakeru Karasu no Mure’ (‘A flock of swirling crows’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 56, 223–36, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Kuroshima Denji (1971) ‘Buso-seru Shigai’ (‘The armed street’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 56, 131–211, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Endo Shusaku (1975) ‘Umi to Dokuyaku’ (‘The sea and poison’), Endo Shusaku Bungaku Zenshu 2, 5–148, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Endo Shusaku (1973) Ichi, Ni, San! (One, Two, Three!), Tokyo, Chuokoronsha. Ibuse Masuji (1965) ‘Yohai Taicho’ (‘Lieutenant Look-east’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 65, 196–209, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Noma Hiroshi (1963) Shinku Chitai (Vacuum Zone), Nihon Bungaku Zenshu 60, 151–525, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Takeyama Michio (1946) Biruma no Tategoto (Harp of Burma), Tokyo; (1966) trans. H. Hibbett, Harp of Burma, Rutland Vt. and Tokyo, Tuttle. Yokomizo Seishi (1971) ‘Nisenroppyakumannengo’ (‘After twenty-six million years’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 383–94, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Unno Juza (1971) ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ (‘The music bath at 1800 hours’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 116–48, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1963) Chi ni wa Heiwa o (Give Peace to the World), Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Senso wa Nakatta’ (‘There was no war’), Senso wa Nakatta 199–222, Tokyo, Shinchosha. The clique of wealthy business houses virtually in control of the Japanese economy. Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Kudan no Haha’ (‘The mother of a strange child’), Senso wa Nakatta 223–55, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Komatsu Sakyo (1964) Fukkatsu no Hi (The Day of the Resurrec-tion), Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

256 NOTES AND REFERENCES

26.

Hoshi Shin’ichi (1969) ‘Shiroi Fuku no Otoko’ (‘The man in white uniform’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 141–53, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo.

14 INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS AND FUTURE DIRECTIONS 1. 2. 3.

4. 5.

6. 7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Yumeno Kyusaku (1971) ‘Ningen Rekodo’ (‘The human record’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 170–81, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Kuze Juran (1971) ‘Chitei Jukoku’ (‘The animal kingdom under the earth’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 301–45, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Okuri Chutaro (1971) ‘Taiheiyo Rosuiko: Hyoryuki’ (‘The adventure in the Pacific plughole’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 34, 187–206, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1969) ‘Shiroi Fuku no Otoko’ (‘The man in white uniform’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 141–53, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1969) ‘Betonamu Kanpo Kosha’ (‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 35, 174–93, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1965) 48 Oku no Moso (4.8 Billion Illusions), Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1975) ‘Yoshi Daisakusen’ (‘The grand strategy for adoption as sons’), Yami no Naka no Kodomo 69–116, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Tsutsui Yasutaka (1971) ‘Afurika no Bakudan’ (‘The African bomb’), Afrika no Bakudan 224–69, Tokyo, Kadokawa. Kuroshima Denji (1971) ‘Buso-seru Shigai’ (‘The armed street’), Gendai Nihon Bungaku Taikei 56, 131–211, Tokyo, Chikuma Shobo. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1976) ‘Subarashii Hoshi’ (‘The wonderful planet’), Yosei Haikyu Kaisha, 181–5, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1971) ‘Han’ei no Hana’ (‘The flower of prosperity’), Sekai S.F. Zenshu 28, 240–4, Tokyo, Hayakawa Shobo. Komatsu Sakyo (1982) ‘Amerika no Kabe’ (‘The American wall’), Amerika no Kabe 7–66, Tokyo, Bungei Shunju. Komatsu Sakyo (1973) Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), Tokyo, Kobunsha. Maeda Hisao (1984) ‘A perilous plan for Japan’s security’, Japan Quarterly 31,4, 395–9. Waku Shunzo (1980) Kenryoku no Asa (The Day They Took Power), Tokyo, Kadokawa. Komatsu Sakyo (1969) Mishiranu Ashita (The Unknown Tomorrow), Tokyo, Bungei Shunju.

NOTES AND REFERENCES 257

17. 18. 19.

Komatsu Sakyo (1974) ‘Shigatsu Juyokkakan’ (‘Fourteen days in April’), Senso wa Nakatta 257–308, Tokyo, Shinchosha. Bainbridge, W.S. (1986) Dimensions of Science Fiction, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. Hoshi Shin’ichi (1981) ‘Hiyaku e no Hosoku’ (‘The law of leaps’), Dareka-san no Akumu 242–51, Tokyo, Shinchosha.

258

Index

Japanese Science Fiction and speculative works are listed under the relevant author. Abe Kobo, 41, 182, 183, 184, 186, 187 ‘Akai Mayu’ (‘The red cocoon’), 185 Daiyon Kanpyo-ki (Inter Ice Age), 180–80, 182, 184, 185 ‘Dendorokakariya’ (‘Dendrocacalia’), 146, 185 ‘Eikyu Undo’ (‘Perpetual Motion’), 182, 183, 184 Hako Otoko (The Box Man) 185 ‘Jinniku, Shokuyo Hantai Shinjodan to Sannin no Shinshitachi’ (‘The anti-cannibalism petitioners and the three gentlemen’), 183 ‘Kabe—S. Karuma Shi no Hanzai’ (‘The wall—The crime of Mr S. Karuma’), 186 ‘Maho no Choku’ (‘The magic chalk’), 186 Mikkai (Secret Rendezvous), 185 ‘Mocho’ (‘The caecum’), 186–6 Moetsukita Chizu (The Ruined Map), 184 ‘Namari no Tamago’ (‘The leaden egg’), 187

‘Ningen Sokkuri’ (‘Practically human’), 187 ‘R62 go no Hatsumei’ (‘Invention R62’), 182–2, 184 ‘Rannyusha’ (‘The intruders’), 184 Shijin no Shogai (The Life of a Poet), 185–5 Suna no Onna (The Woman in the Dunes), 184–4 Tanin no Kao (The Face of Another), 185 Tomodachi (Friends), 184 Totarusukopu’ (‘Totalscope’), 187 Akutagawa Ryunosuke, 12, 31, 188 ‘Kappa’ (‘Kappa’), 11, 35, 187– 7 ‘Rashomon’ (‘Rashomon’), 188 ‘Tabako to Akuma’ (‘Tobacco and the Devil’), 141 ‘Yabu no Naka’ (‘In a Grove’), 188 Allen, L.D., 2 Arai Motoko, 41, 121 Guriin Rekuiemu (Green Requiem), 122–1 Hoshi e iku Fune (A Ship to the Stars), 121–20

259

260 INDEX

Ballard, J.G., 80 Bainbridge, W.S., 2, 156, 184, 187, 236 Benedict, R., 151, 190 Bester, J., 82 Brown, F., 106 Bulwer-Lytton, E.G., 7 Burroughs, E.R., 33 Clarke, A.C., 31, 131 Condon, J., 120 Dante Alighieri, 146 Darwin, C., 35, 95 Dazai, Osamu, 188–8 ‘Sarugashima’ (‘Monkey island’), 188 Disraeli, B., 7 Doi Takeo, 82, 108 Doyle, A.C., 20 Dumas, A., 7 Edogawa Ranpo ‘Kagami Jigoku’ (‘Hell of mirrors’), 13, 16–18 ‘Oshie to Ryosuro Otoko’ (‘The man who travelled with the pasted rag picture’), 13, 18 Endo Shusaku, 101, 107, 127–7, 211–11, 222 Erasmus, 35 Festinger, L., 132 Foucault, M., 216 Freud, S., 152, 153 Fujiwara Seika, 222 Futabetei Shimei, 10, 173 Gernsback, H., 12 Golding, W., 104 Greenberg, M., 153 Harada Masaemon

Ikon Junen Nichiro Miraisen (The Bitter Future Ten-Year War between Japan and Russia), 10, 11 Harris, J.B., 26 Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke ‘Jinzo Ningen’ (‘The artificial human being’), 13, 16, 111 Hoshi Shin’ichi, 39, 41, 42, 66, 67, 85, 107, 131, 132, 133, 135, 183, 189, 197, 200, 201, 216 ‘Ai no Kagi’ (‘The love key’), 161–60 ‘Aku o Noroo’ (‘Let us decry evil’), 145–4 ‘An-An’ (‘The wail’), 108 ‘Anzen Sochi’ (‘The safety device’), 165–5, 198 ‘Aru Noiroze’ (‘A certain neurosis’), 149–9, 152, 156, 176, 178, 198 ‘Atarashii Shacho’ (‘The new company president’), 178–8 ‘Bokko-chan’ (‘Bokko-chan’), 112–11 ‘Boroya no Junin’ (‘The shack dweller’), 62–3, 132, 136 ‘Chiisa-na Shakai’ (‘The small society’), 70–71 ‘Chikai’ (‘The oath’), 64 ‘Chosa’ (‘The investigators’), 202, 203 ‘Endai-na Keik-ku’ (‘The grand design’), 79, 80–81, 198 ‘Fuku no Kami’ (‘The god of fortune’), 73–3, 135–4, 201 ‘Fuman’ (‘The malcontent’), 95– 6 ‘Go-kigen Hoken’ (‘Mood insurance’), 81, 82–2, 201 ‘Goka-na Seikatsu’ (‘Luxurious living’), 132, 137 ‘Han’ei no Hana’ (‘The flower of prosperity’), 76–7, 198, 223

INDEX 261

‘Hiyaku e no Hosoku’ (‘The law of leaps’), 45–7, 55, 127, 197– 8, 200, 237 ‘Kagami’ (‘The mirror’), 143–3, 163, 164, 198 ‘Kanja’ (‘The patient’), 157 ‘Kata no Ue no Hisho’ (‘The secretary on the shoulder’), 157– 8 ‘Keien’ (‘Reluctance’), 165, 167–7, 176, 178, 198 ‘Kikkake’ (The prod’), 161 ‘Kobito’ (‘The dwarf’Z), 164–3, 198–200, 201 ‘Koigataki’ (‘The rivals in love’), 138 ‘Koun e no Sakusen’ (‘A strategy for good fortune’), 138 ‘Kowai Ojisan’ (The nasty man’), 108 ‘Kuroi Bo’ (‘The black stick’), 189–9 ‘Kyujin-nan’ (‘A shortage of staff’), 142–1 ‘Mane Eiji’ (‘The age of money’), 69–9 ‘Masukotto’ (‘The charm’), 137–6 ‘Matchi’ (‘The matches’), 134– 3, 136 ‘Minarai no Daiichinichi’ (‘The first day of an apprenticeship’), 99–9 ‘Nemuru Mae no Hitotoki’ (‘Just before going to bed’), 163–2 ‘O-miyage o Motte’ (‘With souvenirs in their hands’), 203 ‘O-sekkai’ (‘The Meddlers’), 133–2 O-sekkai-na Kamigami (Meddlesome Gods), 133 ‘Ooi, Dete Kooi’ (‘Hey, Come out of it’), 91–1, 202

‘Piita Pan no Shima’ (‘Peter Pan’s island’), 85–5 ‘Rieki no Kakuho’ (‘Profits guaranteed’), 65–6 ‘Senden no Jidai’ (‘The age of propaganda’), 60, 66 ‘Shibutoi Yatsu’ (‘The stubborn fellow’), 146 ‘Shinyo-aru Seihin’ (‘Reliable products’), 203 ‘Shiroi Fuku no Otoko’ (‘The man in white uniform’), 201, 215–15, 219 ‘Shojo’ (‘The symptoms’), 156– 5 ‘Shumatsu no Hi’ (‘ZThe last day’), 63–4 ‘Subarashii Hoshi’ (‘The wonderful planet’), 222 ‘Taiintachi’ (‘The crew’), 64–5 ‘Terebi no Kami’ (‘ZThe god of televisio’), 60–2, 131, 133 ‘Tomo o Ushinatta Yoru’ (‘The night we lost a friend’), 94, 95 ‘Torihiki’ (‘The negotiations’), 141 ‘Uchu no Otokotachi’ (‘Men in space’), 140 ‘Uchu no Sekisho’ (‘Space checkpoint’), 92–3, 201 ‘Uchu no Eiyu’ (‘Space hero’), 43–5 ‘Usugurai Hoshi de’ (‘On a dim planet’), 151–50, 156, 178 ‘Waraigao no Kami’ (‘The god with the laughing face’), 72–2, 132, 136 ‘Yudai-na Keikaku’ (‘The deep-laid plan’), 79–9 Hoshida Sanpei ‘Sentoraru Chikyu Shi Kensetsu Kiroku’ (‘The construction of the Earth’s central city’), 13, 27– 9

262 INDEX

Hoyle, F., 23 Hugo, V., 7 Ibuse Masuji, 107, 206–6, 212 Ikushima Jiro ‘Sedai Kakumei’ (‘The generation revolution’), 106–6, 192 Inoue Tsutomu, 5 Ishikawa Takashi, 13, 14, 27, 36 Kanagaki Robun, 8 Katz, H.A., 153 Kawabata Yasunari, 34, 154 Kawashima Chunosuke, 5 Kayama Shigeru ‘Oran Pendeku no Fukushu’ (‘The revenge of orang pendek’), 36–8 ‘Oran Pendeku no Gojitsudan’ (‘The reminiscences of orang pendek’), 36–8 Kenyusha, The, 10 Kigi Kotaro ‘Momakumyaku Shisho’ (‘Angioskiaphobia’), 14, 29–1 Kita Morio, 43 ‘Akichi’ (‘A vacant piece of ground’), 54–5 Kitahara Tetsuzo Tsugi no Issen (The Next War), 10, 11 Kitai Shinji ‘Osorashiki Sogo’ (‘A fright-ening discrepancy’), 12 Kizu Tora ‘Haiiro ni Bokasareta Kekkon’ (‘The wedding shrouded in grey’), 12, 13, 18–19, 111, 173, 203 Koga Saburo, 12, 20 Komatsu Sakyo, 41, 43, 107, 183 ‘Adamu no Sue’ (‘Adam’s descendants’), 47, 48, 115

‘Amerika no Kabe’ (‘The American wall’), 223–3 ‘Aohige to Oni’ (‘Bluebeard and the demon’), 115 ‘Aozora’ (‘A blue sky’), 89–9 Chi ni wa Heiwa o (Give Peace to the World), 213 Fukkatsu no Hi (The Day of the Resurrection), 215 ‘Hainekku no Onna’ (‘The woman in highnecked clothe’), 115 ‘Hamonika’ (‘The harmonica’), 105, 105–5, 196 Hateshinaki Nagare no Hate in (At the end of the Endless stream), 194, 196–7 ‘Jinrui Saiban’ (‘Judgement on man’), 88–8, 92, 94 ‘Kanzen Hanzai’ (‘Perfect crimes’), 49 ‘Ki-Shizukanaran to Hossuredo’ (‘Oh, for quiet in the woods!’), 49–50 ‘Kudan no Haha’ (‘The mother of a strange child’), 214 Mishiranu Ashita (The Unknown Tomorrow), 235 ‘Mokei no Jidai’ (‘The age of models’), 47–8, 53, 112 ‘Nehan Hoso’ (‘The Nirvana broadcast’), 147 Nippon Chinbotsu (Japan Sinks), 28, 41, 42, 180, 194, 197, 215, 223, 225–4 Nippon Apatchi-zoku (The Japanese Apaches), 192–4 ‘O-meshi’ (‘The calling’Z), 104, 105 ‘Seishuku no Tsuro’ (‘A quiet corridor’), 90–91 ‘Semarikuru Ashioto’ (‘The sound of chasing feet’), 102, 103–3

INDEX 263

‘Senso wa Nakatta’ (‘There was no war’), 213–13 ‘Shaka no Te’ (‘The hands of Buddha’), 115 ‘Shigatsu Juyokkakan’ (‘Fourteen day in April’), 235–4 ‘Shintoshi Kensetsu’ (‘The construction of a new capital’), 101–102 ‘Shojo o Nikumu’ (‘The man who hated young girls’), 115– 14, 192 Shuto Shoshitsu (Tokyo Blackout), 41 ‘Soshite Daremo Shinakunatta’ (‘And everybody stopped work’), 74–4 Tsugu no wa Dare Ka? (Who Will Inherit?), 194–6 ‘Unmei Gekijo’ (‘The theatre of fate’), 50–1 ‘Yami no Naka no Kodomo’ (The child in the dark’), 102– 103 ‘Yoshi Daisakusen’ (‘The grand strategy for adoption as sons’), 220–19 Kono Norio ‘Kikansha, Sogen ni’ (‘Locomotives in the field’), 179–9 Kozakai Fuboku ‘Ren’ai Kyokusen’ (‘The love curve’), 13, 15–16, 111, 161 Kume Masao, 153 Kurahashi Yumiko ‘Gosei Bijo’ (‘An artificial beauty’), 114 Kuroshima Denji, 210, 221–20 Kuze Juran ‘Chitei Jukoku’ (‘The animal kingdom under the earth’), 14, 32–4, 173, 219

Lasch, C., 200 Lewis, C.S., 131 Maeda Hisao, 228 Maki Itsuma ‘Shichi-ji Rei Sanpun’ (‘7.03 hours’), 14, 31–3 Mayumura Taku, 41, 66, 184 Ekisupo’87 (Expo’87), 75–5 Gen’ei no Kosei (A Structure of Illusions), 58–9 Moeru Keisha (The Burning Slope), 85, 86–6 Waga Sekusoido (My Sexoid), 113, 162 Mishima Yukio, 56–7, 117 Mitsuse Ryu, 41, 184 Mori, Orgai, 5 Morris, I., 208 Naoki Sanjugo ‘Robotto to Beddo no Juryo’ (The robot and the weight of the bed’), 14, 19–1, 111 Natsume Soseki, 173–2 Noma Hiroshi, 107,211 Nomura Kodo ‘Onpa no Satsujin’ (‘Murder by soundwave’), 14, 30–2 Offenbach, J., 142 Okuri, Chutaro ‘Taiheiyo Rosuiko: Hyoryuki’ (‘The adventure in the pacific plughole’), 32, 33–5, 219 O’Neill, T., 226 Ooka Shohei, 107, 209 Oshikawa Shunro Kaitei Gunkan (Warships on the Bottom of the Sea), 10, 11, 28 Oshita Udaru Nippon Iseki (The Relics of Japan), 36

264 INDEX

Ota Yoko, 206 Poe, E.A., 7 Ran Ikujiro ‘Noha Sojushi’ (‘The brainwave controller’), 34, 111, 112 Revel, J.F., 176 Ryan, M.G., 173 Scott, W., 7 Sheckley, R., 43, 104 Shiga Naoya, 31, 101 Shima Akinosuke ‘Norowareta Shinzo’ (‘The accursed heart’), 12 Shimazaki Toson, 95 Shiro Masayuki ‘Jamaika-Shi no Jikken’ (‘The experiment of Mr Jamaica’), 13, 27 Stapledon, O.T., 35 Sudo Nansui Asahi Shoki (The Emblem of the Rising Sun), 7 Suehiro Tetcho Nijusannen Miraiki (A Future Record of the Year 1890), 7 Seijishosetsu: Kakan’ o (A Political Novel: A Nightingale Among the Flowers), 7 Seijishosetsu: Setchubai (A Political Novel: Plum Blossoms in the Snow), 7 Swift, J., 33 Takahashi Yasukuni ‘Uchujin’ (‘Cosmic dust’), 140 Takeda Taijun, 107 Takeyama Michio, 212 Tayama Katai, 101, 208 Thurow, L. C, 200 Tolman, E., 184 Tolstoy, L.N., 213

Tsubouchi Shoyo, 14, 7–9, 10 Tsukushi Michio, 43 ‘Imeji Reitogyo’ (‘The image-freezing business’), 53–4, 112 Tsutsui Yasutaka, 41, 43, 66, 183 48 Oku no Moso (4.8 Billion Illusions), 57–8, 220 ‘Afurika no Bakudan’ (‘The African bomb’), 51, 52–3, 221 ‘Betonamu Kanpo Kosha’ (‘The Vietnam Tourist Agency’), 51– 2, 220 ‘Roshutsu-sho Bunmei’ (‘The exhibitionist civiliza-tion’), 117–17 Uchida Fuchian, 9 Unno Juza ‘Juhachi-ji no Ongakuyoku’ ‘Nazo no Tanpa Musenkyoku’ (‘The mysterious short-wave broadcasting station’), 12–13 ‘Shindoma’ (‘The demon of vibration’), 14, 21–3, 30, 111 Tokkyo Tawan Ningen Hoshiki’ (‘The patented formula for a multiarmed man’), 24–6 Ushiyama Ryosuke Nihon no Mirai (The Future of Japan), 7 Verne, J., 5, 7, 10, 28 Waku Shunzo Kenryoku no Asa (The Day They Took Power), 228–32, 235 Warwick, P., 153 Watanabe Atsushi ‘Heitai no Shi’ (‘A soldier’s death’), 13, 20–2 Wells, H.G. 10

INDEX 265

Woronoff, J. 191 Yamada Hiromitsu, 10 Yano Ryukei Ukeshiro Monogatari (Tales of Ukeshiro), 5, 9 Yano Tetsu ‘Miminariyama no Yurai’ (‘The origins of Mt Miminari’), 162–1 Yokomitsu Riichi, 154–4 ‘Kikai’ (‘The machine’), 154–3 ‘Shizukanaru Raretsu’ (‘Silent ranks’), 155–4 Yokomizo Seishi ‘ Nisenroppy akumannengo’ (‘After 26 million years’), 34–7, 111, 173, 187, 212 Yu, Beongcheon, 173 Yumemakura Baku 41 Yumeno Kyusaku ‘Kamikirimushi’ (‘The scarabaeus’), 14, 25–7 ‘Ningen Rekodo’ (‘The human record’), 14, ‘Tamago’ (‘The egg’), 13, 31, 35, 111, 187 Zhuxi, 167