Japanese Writers and the West

Japanese Writers and the West Sumie Okada

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Japanese Writers and the West

10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

Also by Sumie Okada

WESTERN WRITERS IN JAPAN

10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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EDMUND BLUNDEN AND JAPAN: The History of a Relationship

Sumie Okada

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Japanese Writers and the West

© Sumie Okada 2003

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2003 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 0–333–74310–5 This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Okada, Sumie, 1940– Japanese writers and the west / Sumie Okada. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–333–74310–5 1. Japanese literature – 20th century – History and criticism. 2. Japanese literature – Western influences. 3. Authors, Japanese – 20th century. 4. Individualism in literature. I. Title. PL726.55 .O5187 895.6¢090044 – dc21 2002044812 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction

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1 ‘Failed Individualism’ Observed in Japan: the Novels of Soseki Natsume (1867–1916) Soseki’s possible experience of racial prejudice during his visit to London, as a backdrop to the novel I Am a Cat Soseki and his interpretation of Western individualism Soseki’s application of his theory of individualism in his work Kokoro (Mind) English influences on Soseki’s writing in Kokoro ‘Individualism-plus’ – Henry James’s The Beast in the Jungle 2 The Visit by Hiroshi Yosano (1873–1935) and Akiko Yosano (1878–1942) to France and England in 1912 Hiroshi Yosano’s observations of Western individualism, and his adoration of it, despite his identification with the group: From Paris Akiko Yosano’s opinions on the status of French women in society, and on the French women’s movement; her feminism, and the importance of ‘home’ Akiko Yosano’s indentification with feminine individualism, and its assimilation and acceptance by the Japanese public; its role in some of her tanka poetry 3 Yukio Mishima (1925–70): His Love of Idiosyncracy and of ‘Failed Groupism’, in Parallel with His Romantic Escape into the Freedom of the Sea, Observed in His Work The Temple of the Golden Pavilion Mishima’s individualism John Haylock’s assessments of Mishima v 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Contents

Contents

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Traces of a Different Sort of ‘Groupism’ in Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami (b. 1949)

5 Shusaku Endo (1923–96): His Japanese Context and Its Importance in the Analysis of his Relationship with Françoise Pastre (1930–71) Endo’s love affair with Françoise Endo’s silence to Françoise about his marriage The significance of Françoise as a reminder of Endo’s Western experiences Junko Ogura’s reminiscence of Françoise Pastre Endo’s strong tendency to be extremely Japanese Endo’s advocacy of ‘sad’ aspects of Japanese Catholicism Endo’s evangelical activities depicted in his work Correspondence between Françoise Pastre and Shusaku Endo Geneviève Pastre Keiichi Tate, and the first meeting between Françoise Pastre and Endo Physical and cultural differences Endo’s misunderstanding of St. Peter’s denial of Christ, as an underlying theme in Rodrigues’ acknowledgment of Christ’s permission to him to step on his icon (fumie) in The Silence; and the problem of Japanese lack of consciousness of the passage of time as its possible cause Endo seen through Japanese eyes Peter Owen on Endo

6 Geneviève Pastre’s Article about Her Sister, Françoise Introduction and commentary Françoise Pastre’s early life – her meeting with and parting from Endo – the devastating consequence of Endo’s marriage – individualism versus groupism Western individualism versus Japanese ‘groupism’

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Françoise’s discovery of Japan and its beauty – glimpses of happiness found in Japan – her work translating Endo’s The Silence, through which conflicts and a crisis between them arose – her views on teaching Japanese students, and her views on Japanese life and mentality Françoise’s conviction that ‘He did love me’ – her ignorance of her terminal condition – her fervent desire to return to Japan shortly before her death – her posthumous recognition from Dokkyo University and her Japanese colleagues and friends – Geneviève Pastre’s final thoughts

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Appendix 1: Geneviève Pastre’s article about Her sister Françoise: Original French Text

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Appendix 2: Geneviève Pastre’s article about Her sister Françoise: English Translation

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Epilogue

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Notes

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Glossary of Japanese Terms

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Bibliography

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Index

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Contents

I am deeply grateful to my friends who helped and supported me during this project, particularly the following people: Professor John Bayley; Sr Toshiko Arai; Nick Gill for help with translating from the French and with the editing; Sally Morris for her many kindnesses in Cambridge; Audrey and Peter Pullin for their kind hospitality; Jacqueline Sheldon for her initial translation of Geneviève Pastre’s article; Dr Johanna Mathiasek for accompanying me to the interviews in Paris, Kumamoto and Sotome; Eriko Sunamura and Kumiko Grisdale for their constant encouragement and interest in my research. I am also grateful to Tim Farmiloe for intially suggesting this topic to me, and for arranging the commission in 1997 before his retirement as publishing director at Macmillan Press. My thanks are due to those people who kindly spared me their time for interviews, offering their valuable insights and suggestions concerning the relevant topics: Dr Carmen Blacker; Sir Hugh Cortazzi and Dr Mark Morris for the general background; Anthony Thwaite regarding Soseki, Endo and Mishima; Euan Cameron, the late George Bull, Mrs Junko Endo, Peter Owen, Toyohiko Otake, Geneviève Pastre, Professor Junko Ogura, Professor Julia Serisawa and Dr Jacqueline Pigeot, Professor Moritake Mishima, Mr and Mrs Tate regarding Endo, and Jiro Fukushima regarding Mishima. I am especially grateful to Geneviève Pastre for her authorisation of my inclusion of the full text of her article on her sister Françoise. I am grateful to the Great Britain Sasakawa Foundation for their grant and continued support. The author is most grateful to Mrs Kyoko Gomi for her kind permission to quote or translate Akiko Yosano’s poetry. SUMIE OKADA

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Acknowledgments

On 11 September 2001, American individualism suffered an unprecedented blow as a result of an attack by terrorists, generally believed to have been of Arab origin and perhaps to have been motivated by so-called ‘Islamic fundamentalism’. The attackers seem in any case to have shared a group-dominated, essentially totalitarian mentality, which I shall call ‘groupism’. In that sense, the horrendous tragedy can be seen as a manifestation of the conflict between Western ‘individualism’ and Eastern ‘groupism’. This conflict has been manifested elsewhere in recent times, including within Russia. Earlier, in the bygone Soviet era, the conflict was present in the reactions to the nuclear accident at Chernobyl in 1986, where some of the authorities at first attempted to ‘close ranks’ and conceal the truth concerning the occurrence and extent of tragic casualties among individuals in the affected population. Radiation-burned bodies were buried in heavily sealed concrete coffins, which their families and friends were never allowed to see; they were informed that the state would keep their bodies as heroic victims. There is no respect for truth in such a system, where individuals were sacrificed in the strategic interest of the ‘group’ of the state and nation. In the different Far Eastern context, Japan is famous for its grouporientated mindset, based on close-knit family networks. These networks have been known world-wide since Professor Chie Nakane, a social anthropologist at Tokyo University, propounded her theory of Japanese group-orientated society in her book Japanese Society published in 1970. When I was commissioned to write this book, my first concern 1 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Introduction

Japanese Writers and the West

was whether there would be enough material directly relevant to the various activities of Japanese writers in the West, in contrast to the relative wealth of material relevant to writers from the West who had lectured or stayed in Japan. This latter group was the main theme of my earlier book, Western Writers in Japan, published in 1999. In pursuit of material for the current book, especially in Cambridge and London, I did indeed begin to find the amount available to be disappointing, despite the fact that most of the Japanese writers included in my study had spent a considerable time in Europe. Shusaku Endo spent almost three years in France; Soseki Natsume two years in London; and Tekkan Yosano nine months in France, for most of that time parted from his wife, Akiko, who had returned to Japan after only four months to look after their children. Mishima’s stay in the West seems not to have lasted more than three months, during which he lived mainly in America and Greece. Haruki Murakami ‘escaped’ to Princeton University for a year, taking refuge from the tumult of publicity that descended on him when his book Norwegian Wood achieved a million sales, suddenly making him a focus of curiosity and adoration. I have coined the term ‘groupism’ in this book, as it seems there is no word in the dictionary to indicate a group-orientated psyche that is based on and accompanied by the ‘dependency syndrome’ called amae in Japanese society. This is the last of a trilogy of books, the first two being Edmund Blunden and Japan and Western Writers in Japan. To the majority of Japanese minds, Western culture has long represented modern civilisation, Christianity, western languages (particularly English), and the concept of individual thought and action, as well as respect for women. Hence I was interested in introducing a particular method of research involving an assessment of the depth of a person’s ‘Japaneseness’ by the measure of their ‘groupism’ – in other words, trying to determine how much the Japanese writers were influenced by, and committed to, the groupdominated mentality in their works and their personal lives, and the extent to which these were affected by their reception of the Western individualist influence. This method of investigation produced an intriguing result, particularly in the case of six writers whom I researched and assessed in this way with regard to various Western influences in their representative works. As a result, it emerges that

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Shusaku Endo’s life and works were apparently immersed much more in the Japanese ‘groupist’ psyche than is generally assumed (and more than I expected), though at first glance he appears to epitomise the effects of Western influence. These are represented by his studies of French literature at Keio University, his academic sojourn in Lyon, his Catholic faith and its materialisation in such novels as The Silence and The Deep River. Furthermore, his discovery in his youth of France, and in particular of Françoise Pastre, who was apparently at some point his fiancée, definitely increases the image of him as a ‘Westerner’. It was most fortunate – and indeed surprising – for me to be able to read an article by Françoise’s sister Geneviève Pastre in Mitabungaku, which concerned the former’s relationship with Endo. The revelation of such a liaison is a kind of mirror of Edmund Blunden’s relationship with his clandestine mistress-secretary, Aki Hayashi, which I recounted in my first book in this ‘trilogy’, Edmund Blunden and Japan, published in 1988. I interviewed Geneviève Pastre in Paris, in consequence of which her original article, in French and in English translation, appears here in the Appendixes. Thus I was able to shed new light on the ‘Endo–Pastre affair’, confirming that Pastre’s love for Endo remained intense and strong despite her criticisms, and indeed complaints, about his work and his attitude towards her. Although I did not succeed in tracing any particularly amusing anecdotes concerning Japanese writers in the West, in contrast to those noted in Western Writers in Japan, Endo’s brief friendship with Françoise, particularly during her stay in Japan in the 1960s, clearly paints a vivid picture of the differences between the Japanese ‘groupist’ mindset of Endo, and her individualist and independent thinking in the French humanist tradition. Through my studies of the works of Endo and Murakami, I came to make a new proposition concerning the great and long-lasting problem presented by Endo and his Catholic friends. The question is why the mission to spread Christianity failed, especially in its work in Japan, which Endo goes so far as to describe as a swampy field too muddy to nurture any healthy growth of the Christian faith. Endo’s own compromise was to readjust the Western ‘clothing’, which was, as it were, the wrong size and shape to fit the Japanese body in any way except loosely. In other words, he suggested injecting much

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Introduction

Japanese Writers and the West

more mental and cultural Japaneseness into this religion of Western origin. My answer to the problematic question is that the failure of Christianity in Japan is essentially to be attributed to the profound Japanese sense of giri and ninjo in the context of the specific social tradition of mutual on, debts of gratitude, in which giri (indebtedness and obligation) is generated even in cases where the debt of gratitude is quite small or trivial. This deep-seated custom, into which Japanese minds are heavily programmed from childhood, brings about a distinct kind of worry or social fear – that is, as to the sufficiency of one’s reciprocation – and this anxiety is so common that it prevents people reacting simply and spontaneously in gratitude or love. There is therefore a particular difficulty in such a context in grasping the Christian concept of God’s love and grace, which is without fear, guilt or suspicion. The solution would seem to require the Japanese to become in a sense more naive, aspire to the childlike simplicity advocated in the Bible, and abandon the way of giri and the duties of on. There are other strange, yet amusing, customs in Japan that are of Western origin but adapted into Japanese culture. One of these is known as giri-choco, when ‘office ladies’ (young, female office workers) give presents to their bosses and other senior male coworkers on Valentine’s Day, because they feel under an obligation to them – which is a far cry from the Western meaning of the day as one that celebrates the spontaneity of ‘passion’ or ‘romance’. This kind of adaptation reveals the degree and the deep-rooted prevalence of the idea of giri in the Japanese psyche. Regarding individualism, this in itself is not without problems, in either Japan or the West. Soseki’s strong belief in Western individualism derives from his direct personal experience of living in England at the beginning of the twentieth century. Though he confesses in his book on the subject, My Individualism, that he rather disliked Britain, he admired its predominantly individualistic society, whose strength derived from its combination of a sense of duty and obligation with a sense of personal freedom. However, it is sad to note that the protagonist of his major novel, Kokoro, who is referred to by his social designation as Sensei (a term of respect which includes the meaning ‘teacher’), fails in the end to live his life as an independent individualist. This comes about mainly because of the unexpected suicide of his best friend ‘K’, both of them having been in love with

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the same woman. The Sensei decides to terminate his own life, though without indicating any apparent reason. In the final stage of his life he takes advantage of the ‘groupist’ notions prevailing in society to time his suicide to coincide with the death of Emperor Meiji, in order to conceal his true motivation. In the Western context, the American novelist Henry James, who had lived in and written much about Europe, portrays the ‘egoistic’ love-life of an individualist in his psychological novella, The Beast in the Jungle, where the ‘beast’ symbolises the egoism. The protagonist, John Marcher, blocked by his egoistic self-love and self-centredness, fails to discern the true depth of love for him of his long-standing lady friend. Only after her death does he realise how greatly shaken he has been by her loss. His self-awareness about the degree of his own egoism was triggered by a chance encounter in the graveyard with a stranger, whose vivid and violent expression of grief for his loved-one struck John Marcher forcefully, propelling him at last to acknowledge his real self and, too late, his failed love. Thus one learns that even the staunchest individualist has need of someone in a group, even a stranger, with whom to share sympathy and grief – and one begins to see the safety and security that groupism is expected to provide in Japanese society, and why it continues to be sought after. Murakami’s individualism, as embodied in his fictional characters, is not strictly the same as that of Soseki, which emphasises individual freedom accompanied by the concept of duty and obligation, modelled from British examples. Murakami depicts young characters whose sense of their own individuality consists just in being different from other people, rather than being genuinely individualistic in the context of responsibility to other people and to society. Mishima’s relish of groupism was widely known; he even founded his own, the ‘Group of Shields’ – Tate no kai. Furthermore, as his friend Jiro Fukushima witnessed, Mishima tried to place himself under the all-embracing protection of the power and authority of the Emperor, which was his only path to the sense of safety and security. He pretended to be Westernised, by living in a Western-style mansion, being open in certain contexts about his homosexuality, and having many friends in the West. But his group-orientated mentality shows in the way that he labels characters in his works by their group identities (‘the lame’ and ‘the stutterer’, for example), and

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Introduction

Japanese Writers and the West

this creates blockages in his novels, along with his extreme interest in the physical aspect of the human being at the expense of the spiritual. As his body decayed in the course of his advancing middle age, Mishima’s death wish grew ever stronger, diminishing the power of his initially unnurtured spiritual strength as well as the potentiality for creative growth in his work. One can well imagine that Mishima died feeling a mixture of despair and hopelessness. In strong contrast, Tekkan and Akiko Yosano seem to be true liberal individualists, and adapted happily to the West when they travelled in Europe, as well as being well received and respected. Akiko committed herself equally to feminism and motherhood, forming a large and loving family centred on her relationship with Tekkan, to whose tanka poetry she paid great tribute. Akiko Yosano succeeded as a woman in becoming known and revered as a feminist poet. She also contributed to the liberation of the Japanese mind from the bonds of limitation and restriction with regard to sensuality, instituting a greater flexibility, openness and honesty in particular in her book, Midaregami (Tangled Hair). The problems posed by the pursuit of individuality in Western society are nothing new; the image of ‘failed individualism’ can be found, for example, in the main Shakespearian tragedies. The four male protagonists Othello, Hamlet, Macbeth and King Lear pursue the exercise of their individual will to the point of unleashing great tragedy in their families and social circles, destroying the fragile semblance of peace and equilibrium. In the end, however, their actions can also be seen as brave and positive – for example, Hamlet’s actions have the good result of expelling all the evil from his court. In the first of these cases, Othello, the national soldier-hero, decides, on the basis of being in love, to abandon his group or nation of the Moors, and as an independent individual to marry the Venetian aristocrat’s daughter Desdemona, thus becoming almost a national hero. However, the foundation of his individualism was not sufficiently firmly rooted in his mind and heart to prevent Iago from ruining the lives of Iago himself, Desdemona, and Cassio; the great tragedy of this story could not otherwise have occurred, however strongly Iago had been gripped by hatred and jealousy of Othello for winning not

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only victory and honour for the nation but also the hand of a beautiful upper-class white aristocrat in marriage. However, poisonously intoxicated and vexed by Iago’s evil planning, Othello’s individualistic faith in himself and Desdemona revealed its frailty, and was destroyed, as he returned to his original group-orientated mentality, and to looking at the world through his Moorish eyes – in other words, through the viewpoints of his race and culture – with a sense of suspicion and inferiority, particularly in his observation of Desdemona’s innocent playfulness with Cassio. In great contrast to Othello’s oscillations between individualism and the mindset of the group, Desdemona stays firm enough to live out her individualistic belief in herself and her uncommon love for Othello. She had to suffer leaving the comfort of her own background, particularly her parents, who were shocked and outraged by their beloved daughter’s marriage to a stranger, indeed an alien, despite his prowess as a hero. In that respect, Desdemona was much more individualistic, admirable and courageous than the unstable Othello, never returning to her dependency on the family and group of her birth. Iago might have been shrewd enough to sense Othello’s inner conflicts and self-doubts, and the oscillations in his love for Desdemona. After all, they were bound together as a couple in a kind of ‘international marriage’, which can be thought of as normally likely to be beset with difficulties. Other Shakespearian tragedies show that the individuality of their protagonist’s decisions disturbs the harmony of the whole group, and from this the great tragedy unfolds. It is also characteristic that all the protagonists are possessed by special aims, ambitions or objectives that would be enough in themselves to break the peace and balance of the Shakespearian world order. For example, the individualistic love of Romeo and Juliet antagonises family groups and rekindles mutual feuding, ending in the deaths of the lovers. In Macbeth, Macbeth’s personal decision, inspired by the three witches, sets him off on his dangerous and highly risky venture to challenge the throne of King Duncan by murdering him while Duncan was a guest at his castle, at a time when Duncan needed the support of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. Regarding King Lear, the old king jeopardised his life and that of

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Introduction

Japanese Writers and the West

his loyal and honest Gloucester by his idiosyncratic and individualist decisions about the distribution of his royal estate. He was surprisingly and easily beguiled by his seemingly obedient elder daughters, but failed to perceive correctly the true intentions of his beloved younger daughter, Cordelia, and her responses to his conceited query about how much she loved him. Hamlet also broke the peace of his own mind, and his own royal family, where his beloved mother had married his evil-minded uncle, who had murdered Hamlet’s father, the former king. He also ruined his innocent love, Ophelia, and her father and brother. Though in doubt and agonising greatly about his decision regarding what to do about his murdered father’s desire for revenge on the incumbent king, he finally fulfils his doomed mission. Alerted and motivated by the appearance of his late father’s ghost, he presses on to achieve his individualistic objective and the sole purpose of his existence, and in so doing destroys his whole family, a group of loyal subjects and close friends – and himself, trapped and killed by a poisoned sword. Through my worthwhile yet at times rather difficult research in preparing this book, I came to recognise the necessity of types of both groupism and individualism in the West as well as in Japan, and that seeking accommodation between them should be seen as more than a cliché. However, the encounter between them has hitherto been rather fraught with difficulties, as well as rewards, as I hope to show in the course of the following chapters.

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‘Failed Individualism’ Observed in Japan: the Novels of Soseki Natsume (1867–1916)

Soseki’s possible experience of racial prejudice during his visit to London, as a backdrop to the novel I Am a Cat Soseki’s upbringing in Tokyo was followed by a period as a highschool teacher in rural Kumamoto in the southern island of Kyushu. From there, he travelled to London in October 1900, during the last few months of the reign of Queen Victoria, to study English literature. He lived mostly in the Clapham Common area, south of the Thames, a rather bleak region of London. It is well known that Soseki did not fit in at all well in London or in England, feeling foreign, excluded, alone and miserable during the whole of his stay, which lasted two years, even suffering as a result from chronic neurosis. In the Japanese literary research industry, Soseki’s study visit to London has been hugely popular, but there has been no discussion of (nor light shed upon) racial prejudice against Asian visitors, particularly the Japanese, which Soseki might well have experienced at that time, and might be representing in his work. Historical documentary films on the BBC have shown many African or Asian students looking for lodgings being turned down by lodging house owners at the door, in fact for the hidden reason of race or skin colour, disguised by the blunt reply ‘The rooms are full’. When Soseki himself was trying hard to find lodgings in the Clapham Common area, he must have received a number of unpleasant refusals before finding the flat in which he settled. It was just after the time of the Russo-Japanese War, in which defeat of the Russians by the ‘diminutive’ Japanese had surprised and shocked Westerners 9 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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greatly, causing them to open their eyes to this inscrutable race and island country in the Far East. Soseki was introverted, insular, unsociable, awkward, of a nervous disposition, unworldly and not well-practised in spoken English – and thus had all the ‘handicaps’ imaginable so far as receiving favourable or friendly attention from his British hosts was concerned. No wonder he remained lonely, miserable, friendless and neurotic for the duration of his stay in Britain. However, readers of his novels, such as I Am a Cat, must be grateful for his misery, because without having felt like a cat – not a human being but just a stray animal wandering through the streets of London – Soseki’s genius could hardly have created such a unique masterpiece, in which the tale is told entirely from the cat’s point of view.

Soseki and his interpretation of Western individualism Behind the scenes and inside Soseki’s subconscious there was a dramatic shift in importance in his value judgments in relation to authority and power. In his youth during the Meiji era, the whole of Japan was geared to regarding Chinese studies and literature (Kanbun) as the principal authority for Japanese intellectuals, including Soseki himself, to revere, and to value culturally and literally as the highest possible model. However, the arrival of the Taisho era in 1912 completed the process of the previous comple of decades, in which Chinese studies gave way to Western studies (Yogaku). A particularly popular subject was English literature and the study of the English language, as a symbol of an advanced culture and its merit and influence throughout the world. Thus Soseki specialised in English literature at Teidai (Tokyo University), where he was later to return as a teacher. Simultaneously, with regard to another form of authority, Soseki was rather unfortunate. He missed out almost entirely on the experience of parental or paternal authority, and lacked security in his childhood at a crucial age, affecting his appreciation of the significance of family life. He was adopted by his uncle, and moved around frequently within the small households of his relations. Such continual shiftings and transfers of authority in the confines of his family affairs was mirrored in the broader transformations occurring

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in Japanese culture, a combination of circumstances that must have affected Soseki greatly. Soseki wrote a short essay entitled ‘My Individualism’ (Watashino kojinshugi) as a script for a lecture, publishing it in 1918 through Kodansha with other essays in a book that took the same title. The title refers to his comments and opinions about individualism, rather than to any claim that a form of individualism ‘belonged’ to him – the case is not possessive. He mentions initially his firm belief that it is most important to give others the same freedom to develop talents and individuality in the cause of happiness that one allows oneself.1 He continues: We should not obstruct others from developing freely their individuality in their pursuit of happiness, without considerable reason. The reason for my using the word ‘obstruct’ here is due to my understanding that most of you [the elite audience of Soseki’s lecture] will rightly and without doubt occupy such high positions or offices in which you would be able to wield the power to hinder the efforts of others in the future. There are many among you who will wield much power, including that of the influence of money.2 Second, Soseki argues from his own direct experience in England that freedom without a sense of duty is not true freedom. Interestingly, he praises English individuality, despite the fact that he did not like the country itself: As you may know, Britain is a country in which freedom is very highly valued and revered. However, despite such a great appreciation and application of freedom, no other country exceeds Britain in its preservation of the traditional order of things. To speak frankly, I do not like the country. Though I dislike it, I will tell you this truth, because it is a fact: there will be no other nation in the world where so much freedom is allowed and enjoyed in a context where so much order is fully kept. There is absolutely no comparison with Japan. However, they are not merely free. They receive social education from their childhood as to how to respect the freedom of others as much as they themselves love their own

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freedom. Therefore, behind their freedom there always exists and follows the concept of duty. Such famous words as those of Nelson ‘England expects every man to do his duty’ are not meant only for that historical episode. It must have been a deep-rooted philosophy which had developed over a long period in parallel with their freedom.3 In comparison with groupism, Soseki also notes that, with individualism, it is inevitable that one may feel lonely and isolated, because one is not intended to form a faction or group for the accumulation of power or money, but to live according to the ‘search for clear reasons and truth’. This reflects the circumstance that the value system of groupism lies in the relativity of the continuous measurement of comparisons, where the centre does not stand clear and firm but is shifting continuously – a vague and centreless culture is thus born from such an ideology. Soseki then writes about his own experiences during the time he worked in the literary section of the Asahi Shinbun (newspaper), when he was attacked by the right-wing nationalistic group called ‘Japan for the Japanese’, led by Setsurei Miyake, who was offended by some negative literary criticism of his works that Soseki had allowed to be printed. Soseki was much surprised by their unreasonable aggression, which he felt was a residue of the ethos of groups from the feudal era. He comments on them as seeming bizarre and strange, because ‘I acted by way of individualism while they moved as a group.’ On the other hand, he feels lonely and isolated from following his own reason and conscience rather than the dictates of the group psyche and collective human judgment. He concludes philosophically: ‘Even ordinary bushes would feel safer when bound together.’4 Soseki also warns the nationalists, and tries to make it explicit to them that the true character of individualism does not collide with or contradict nationalism. Some nationalists might have had the idea that being individualistic implies being so egotistical and self-centred that one would never consider the wellbeing of the whole nation. But Soseki argues that this is not the case – one can be an individualist as well as a nationalist, or even a cosmopolitan. Naturally, he assumes in addition that when the power of a nation grows, the freedom of individuals will also expand – and vice versa:

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Some people consider and also spread the message that contemporary Japan cannot manage well without pursuing nationalism. Furthermore, not a few people advocate that without suppressing so-called individualism the nation will perish. This is, however, an absolute nonsense. In fact, we can be simultaneously nationalist, cosmopolitan and individualist.5 These comments, and indeed all of the material I have mentioned in these opening sections concerning I Am a Cat and My Individualism, stem from and refer to Soseki’s direct reaction to his time in London. But to assess what lasting influence there may have been from his encounter with ‘the West’, we need to look at some of his later literary output. In my previous book, Western Writers in Japan, I commented on the Western influences on his work And then; here I shall consider his novel Kokoro. There is some slight difficulty in translating the word ‘kokoro’ into a single word in English. It refers to ‘heart-and-mind’ as a unitary concept, the emphasis being on the underlying emotional unity.

Soseki’s application of his theory of individualism in his work Kokoro (Mind) Apart from individualism, the main themes of Soseki’s novel, Kokoro, are freedom, love and happiness, death and suicide, the difficulty of loving others, emotional debt (on), the centreless culture versus the centre as God, and the inevitable natural return to groupism embodied in all Japanese contexts and environments. The psychologically dramatic yet curiously static story evolves around the main characters ‘I’ (watashi) as narrator, the Sensei (teacher), ‘K’ as his friend in youth, the female owner Okusan of the Sensei’s rented room, and her beautiful daughter. The story begins with a chance meeting between the narrator and a senior man of letters, an intellectual whom the narrator starts to call sensei, a common polite and honorific form of address to someone in a higher and more senior position. (It was originally reserved for professors, medical doctors, or any kind of teacher – even teachers of flower arrangement or the tea ceremony. It is somewhat amusing that whenever it might be embarrassing to address someone as an equal (san or sama for Mr or Ms), one can escape embarrass-

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ment by using sensei. Thus all members of Parliament in Japan call each other sensei.) The narrator caught sight of the Sensei at a beach in Kamakura, a refined seaside resort near Tokyo, famous for its Daibutsu (Buddha) statue. The Sensei, like a symbol of individualism, was accompanied by a foreigner, for no stated reason. Then the narrator began conversing with the Sensei, when they were swimming together in the sea. There is no reason to suppose that their increasingly close relationship was homosexual; it is traditional in Japan, especially among male intellectuals, for a specific teacher–pupil bond to be formed. Young hopefuls often knock at the door of a renowned sensei from whom they wish to learn or to receive special training, for example in swordsmanship, and if accepted would enter the sensei’s school (deshiiri suru, meaning to enter into discipleship). The narrator began to visit the Sensei at home, exchanging philosophical thoughts and ideas. The young narrator, being an elite university student, came naturally to regard his teacher as his mentor for his graduation thesis, the subject of which Soseki does not specify. The narrator also met the Sensei’s wife, who was pretty and agreeable; when the Sensei was away, he often found opportunities to converse with her about her husband and his mysterious past. Gradually the narrator came to realise that there was some uneasy clandestine history in this married couple’s life; this unrevealed secret creates the whole suspense of the novel, and Soseki sustains this situation right until the final revelation. The narrator also recognised with some admiration and envy the extent of the individualistic freedom his Sensei enjoyed, whereas his own life was coloured by isolation and loneliness, representing the ‘downside’ of individualism. According to Soseki, on the basis of his own experience, individualism fosters loneliness – which is exactly the situation of the Sensei’s wife in relation to her husband, whose self-centred and egotistical individualism, including silence in their daily communications, made her miserable, and kept her in the dark about her husband’s past secrets. She particularly wondered why her husband went every month to a graveyard to pay his respects to a former deceased friend, whose name is abbreviated merely to ‘K’ in the novel. The Sensei used to tell the young narrator that ‘love is an evil and a sin’, which greatly puzzled the narrator, because to him the Sensei’s

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marriage, on the surface, represented a form of gratification and happiness. The narrator was also greatly envious of the Sensei’s financial independence, and all the freedom he had by virtue of living on his own private means rather than working for a company or university with the group-belonging that such a life would entail. Whether consciously following the Sensei’s example or not, the narrator made no effort to find employment after his graduation, despite the evident anxieties and worries expressed by his parents and elder brother. Meanwhile, the narrator’s father was taken ill, and the narrator had to leave Tokyo and return to his parents’ home in the country; his parents and brother strongly urged him to seek the Sensei’s help in finding employment. His brother was rather puzzled and taken aback by the narrator’s description of the Sensei as a free man unburdened by the working life of a professorship or post in the civil service. The family were not used to encountering such a so-called ‘grand person’ (erai hito) without a position or group loyalties. The Sensei’s personal history was, however, also tainted by much loneliness, betrayal, death and disappointment, as he confessed to the narrator. He was born into a wealthy family in the country but lost his parents when he was small. The property and fortune left by his parents were then looked after by his father’s brother, who was at first very kind. His happiness did not last long, however, because the uncle soon began to insist that his daughter and the Sensei must get engaged, as a cunning scheme to get control of the wealth. This pressure was applied whenever the Sensei returned home from his university studies in Tokyo. Naturally, the young Sensei was extremely annoyed and offended by these insistent and insensitive proposals; he decided to sell all his possessions in the country, and move to Tokyo permanently. Thus, thanks to the small fortune left to him by his parents, he was able to set himself up to live from private means without requiring any permanent employment, and was therefore able to live as individualistically as he wished. No reply to the narrator’s enquiry about possible employment arrived from the Sensei, not to the narrator’s surprise but rather against his family’s expectations. Instead, a bulky package was delivered to the narrator by recorded mail from the Sensei, which he opened with great anxiety, remembering the conversation he had had with the Sensei and his wife when he last visited them at their

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home. The Sensei was arguing about whether he or his wife would die first, and predicted it would be himself. As the narrator uneasily expected, the Sensei’s voluminous letter contained an ominous confession about his life history, particularly concerning a tragic relationship with his friend ‘K’ when they were young, and whose grave in Zoshigaya he used to visit each month. Not knowing the reason for these visits caused his wife much anxiety, though she had met ‘K’ at her widowed mother’s home when ‘K’ was a co-lodger with the Sensei. The Sensei’s letter occupies almost half the length of the novel, and contains sadly but rather sadistically the shocking message from the Sensei that by the time the narrator was reading the letter, the Sensei himself would have departed this world by committing suicide. The letter was a belated reply to the narrator’s enquiries about the Sensei’s past, which the latter was never willing to disclose during his lifetime, especially when acting as the narrator’s mentor. The Sensei had only ever commented in general terms about his experiences, describing them as ‘highly valuable’ – possibly reflecting Soseki’s respect for the empirical outlook he had encountered during his stay in England studying British culture and literature. The main part of the Sensei’s revelations concerns his close relationship with ‘K’, who had suddenly committed suicide, an event for which the Sensei felt responsible, and indeed exceedingly guilty. This reflects one of the very Japanese types of human relationship, on, or emotional indebtedness; it enters this story in what becomes the description of a ménage à trois involving the Sensei, ‘K’, and their landlady’s beautiful daughter. In the story, she is referred to as ‘Ojosan’, this being not a name but the general word for ‘daughter’, implying that she is to be regarded as the ‘object’ of the story rather than as an individual human woman. The Sensei had taken the penniless student ‘K’ under his wing as a protégé, inviting him to lodge for free in his rented two-room apartment. In this way on was imposed upon ‘K’, who in turn feels giri (the special bond of obligation) to the Sensei; this network of bonds between individuals is the usual fertile basis for the creation of ‘groupism’. ‘K’ was rather outgoing, decisive and manly, whereas the Sensei was much more introverted, feminine and reflective. ‘K’ fell in love with Ojosan, the daughter of the landlady, with predictably unfortunate consequences, as the Sensei was also in love with her

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(and indeed married her after ‘K’ ’s suicide). Even before ‘K’ was confident in his love for Ojosan, the Sensei had suspected the closeness of their friendship, having on several occasions when returning home unexpectedly early, witnessed them chatting pleasantly together and amusing each other. And ‘K’ and Ojosan used to behave with an uneasy kind of caution towards the Sensei, whereby Ojosan would leave K’s room whenever she became aware of the Sensei’s return. The novel reaches its climax when the Sensei hears ‘K’ ’s painful confession of his first love for a woman, unexpected in that he had hitherto spoken of women with contempt and disdain, looking down on them in the prevailing manner as inferior creatures. Trouble began in particular when the Sensei was unable to confide in ‘K’ about his own love for Ojosan; furthermore, she had never been asked which of the two men she loved more or might marry; and ‘K’ never asked the Sensei whether he too was in love with the landlady’s daughter. The story moves on rapidly when the Sensei, without telling K and without directly asking Ojosan about her feelings and intentions, asked her mother literally to give him her daughter to be his wife – Ojosan being treated like a thing to be bartered for, the term kudasai being the expression used for requests for objects. The landlady’s reply to the young Sensei was, ‘Yes, I will give you my daughter to be your wife.’ A little perplexed and taken aback by her quick and positive response, the Sensei tried to confirm, with some trepidation, that the daughter would agree to her mother’s decision. The middleaged widow then remarked: ‘I wouldn’t say so to you unless I knew my daughter’s intentions in her mind, as a mother’. Her assumption of her daughter’s willingness to marry the Sensei, without seeking any direct confirmation from her, parallels and reflects Japanese groupist psychology, vagueness and ambiguity. Indeed, Ojosan apparently expressed no objections to the Sensei’s proposal, accepting it as a ‘good match’ that would bring good fortune. The Sensei had failed in his attempts to tell ‘K’ about his engagement. Okusan, not knowing of ‘K’ ’s love for Ojosan, innocently but thus cruelly let him know that Ojosan was soon to marry the Sensei. ‘K’ neither turned on the Sensei aggressively, nor expressed his anger and frustration to anyone else. Instead he committed suicide by slashing his carotid artery in his small room, which was next to the Sensei’s own larger room. He left a note for the Sensei apologising

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for the incovenience. Thereafter the Sensei suffered for the rest of his life from remorse and a deep sense of guilt, which eventually led him in turn to commit suicide. In bringing about such a tragic ending, Soseki, in my view, epitomises the significance of the natural consequences of what one may call ‘failed individualism’. The Sensei himself mentions in his letter to the narrator that it is only in death that one can find the complete freedom of the individualistic way of life. The Sensei also knows full well where the true salvation of such a life lies, which is in loving and helping others: I made up my mind to live as if I had resolved already to have died. Sometimes my mind was stirred by external stimuli. However, whenever I thought of taking action in a certain direction, some terrible power or force appeared from somewhere to take hold of my mind violently, prohibiting all my movements. That same force told me, as if persuading or threatening me, that I was uselessly unqualified to achieve anything. Then I became withered and dejected under that sentence . . . But the mysterious and horrible power which has gripped my mind so hard as to prevent action in every direction still leaves the path to death open for me.6 The Sensei speaks as follows about the significance and merit of philanthropic love and consideration for others: Meanwhile, my mother-in-law was taken ill, and I consulted a doctor about her condition, who told me there was no hope of recovery. I looked after her with all my might, with much care and consideration. This was not only for the sake of the patient herself and for my beloved wife, but in the wider context an action for all humanity. Until then, when I strongly desired to do something I could do nothing, and did nothing but to put my hands in my bosom. This was the first time that I, having been isolated from society and the world, felt the urge and self-consciousness to do something good, even in a small amount, acting on my own initiative. I was governed by the feeling that may be called an atonement for my sins.7

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As Roland Barthes notes in his book The Empire of Signs, there is often no centre to take hold of in Japanese culture, a fact that may be relevant to the consequence of failed individualism as manifested in death and suicide. This is also remarkably well epitomised in an opposite sense in the suicide of Yukio Mishima, whose rigid faith and loyalty to the Emperor and to right-wing extremism led him into the consequences of what one may by contrast call ‘failed groupism’ – he had long advocated groupism and actively promoted it in his life, founding the group called Tate no kai (‘Group of Shields’), and acting as its supreme leader. In the end his ideal was terminated fruitless. In Western civilisation, in which traditionally a God-centred culture prevails, each individual relies on and also rallies to the relationship between the individual self and the ‘higher power represented by the personal God, whereas in Japan each person depends on the network of human ties and bonds that exist at all levels of society. Thus, in the West, even a failed individualism might find comfort and recovery in the redeeming salvation of the love of God, while in Japan there was no consolation anywhere except in suicide. Why did individualism fail in the Sensei’s case? The obvious reasons are, as Soseki sets out in his essay on individualism, that neither the Sensei nor ‘K’ was able to respect the freedom of others. The Sensei could not accept ‘K’ ’s love for Ojosan and permit some space between himself and his best friend; ‘K’ in turn was unable to accept the Sensei’s engagement to Ojosan as their free right. It might be the hardest decision to accept that there is a rival love for someone one loves dearly, but that is the way a genuine individualism should work and succeed. A further reason for the unsuccessful outcome of the Sensei’s individualism is the low status of women in Japanese society at that time: in this novel, Ojosan’s opinion and influence are nil. If she had been able to exercise her own will and choose her own preferences, she might have made her own choice between the Sensei and ‘K’, or even chosen neither of them, thus almost certainly saving both of them. Both the Sensei and ‘K’ show the typical low esteem in which women were held at that time. (Female suffrage was only obtained in Japan after the Second World War in 1948, thirty years later than in Britain.) For example, when puzzled by the landlady’s response to him regarding his love for her daughter, unable to

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decide whether she was going to encourage him or not, the Sensei accounted for this ambivalence on the ground that she was a woman, adding that ‘after all, women deserve to be looked down on’.8 As for ‘K’, having heard of Ojosan’s forthcoming graduation from school, he commented in a banal and naive male chauvinist fashion to the Sensei that ‘women graduate without learning anything’, concerning which the Sensei corrected him, saying that women learn not from the subjects at school but through sewing, flower arranging and so on – that is, from practical instruction. Simultaneously, the Sensei openly admits in his testamental letter to the narrator that he always felt the most sacred love for Ojosan, not lust, but something close to the highest feelings of religious faith, whenever he saw her. It is so difficult to live by individualism in Japan, that even the Sensei, who lived seemingly as a committed individualist, had to return to groupism in the end, particularly after failing in his individualism by inducing the suicide of his friend ‘K’. But in what way does he return to groupism? He does so by trying to identify himself both with the honourable death of the Meiji Emperor as well as with the obligatory suicides of General Nogi and his wife. The general blamed himself, and never escaped the sense of guilt he felt for over thirty-five years, for the fault of his group in failing the Emperor by allowing the flag of his faction to be seized by the enemy. Recalling the so-called great defeat of the Meiji Emperor, which signified the end of the Meiji era, the Sensei quickly made up his mind to end his life: Then the Meiji Emperor succumbed during the hot period of the summer. At that time I felt as if the spirit of Meiji began with the emperor and ended with him. It struck my mind and heart forcefully that we who had been influenced by the Meiji era most strongly should not survive the end of the era, because to do so would be to go against the current of time itself. I told my wife openly about this, but she took no notice at first, laughing at it, but suddenly changing to make the suggestion that I should commit self-immolation. I was unable to fathom what thoughts could have crossed her mind.9 For Soseki, both the Meiji Emperor and General Nogi were his most revered ‘mentors’, in the way that the Sensei played that role for the

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narrator, in their unconscious attempts to conform to the group and groupism. At home in the country, the narrator was surrounded and naturally bound by loyalty to the group of his family. He was hardly interested in obtaining a secure job, except out of consideration for his father, who was hovering on the brink of death; for his mother, who was praying about easing his father’s mind by freeing him from anxiety for the narrator; and for his brother, who remarked that one could hardly qualify as a proper human being unless one had a job. ‘And for others such as the sister’s husband, or the uncles and aunts, I had to trouble my nerves over what I was least interested and concerned with.’10 The narrator’s father also commits himself to loyalty to the Meiji Emperor, out of consideration to whom he decides to postpone celebrations for his son’s graduation from university, which was a customary event within the family circle. He also identified himself with the Emperor’s grave illness: My father, having changed his mind again on that evening, asked me when I thought it would be convenient to invite the guests . . . I decided the date in consultation with my father. Before the appointed day arrived, a significant event occurred, which was the report of the Meiji Emperor’s illness. This news, which was spread quickly all over Japan by the newspapers, blew away like dust my graduation celebration, which was eventually to be finalised after some variations in one of the country households. ‘Well, we had better put it off,’ said my father, who was looking at the newspaper. He seemed quietly to be thinking of his own illness while recollecting the Emperor’s honourable visit to the University not long ago as usual to attend the graduation ceremony.11 In Japan, a mentor must be someone who is either a university professor or a distinguished scholar. As the Sensei had neither position nor fame, neither the narrator’s brother nor his father could understand why the narrator could have such respect for him, and wondered whether he had the right to be called mentor: ‘A person without fame or who does nothing – where can his merit lie? My brother’s mind is exactly in accord with my father’s on this point.’12 The narrator’s brother even criticised the Sensei as an egoist: ‘It is no good to be an egoist. It is lazy and idle to think of trying to live

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without doing anything. One should make all possible use of one’s talents.’13 The narrator was tempted to counter such criticism from his brother by asking whether he really knew the meaning of ‘egoist’. However, the narrator cynically noted that both his father and his brother would be gratified and no longer troubled by the Sensei’s ‘uselessness’ if he succeeded in finding the narrator a job. Thus, clearly, the narrator’s attempt to live as an individualist within the family met with many obstacles and challenges. Furthermore, in such group-orientated human relationships, there is often very little concern or consideration for the mentor’s personality or character. What matters for the protégé is simply the mentor’s usefulness to his employment, promotion, or advantageous marriage. In return, the protégé reciprocates through his loyalty and conformity to the group.

English influences on Soseki’s writing in Kokoro Some of the expressions Soseki used in Kokoro reflect his considerable assimilation of Western (British) ways of thinking, and influences from his study of literature and his period of residence in England. For example, he used the expression ‘one should have been happy’ in describing the ambivalent state of the Sensei’s marriage. This particular mode of the past subjunctive conveys a much more accurate and clear message, and implies much more directly what is being described; it is used less frequently in Japanese, and indeed sounds like a translated sentence. Another example occurs when Soseki uses distinguishing terms such as ‘brain and heart’, ‘heart and mind’. In Japanese, the mind and heart are signified in conjunction by a single word like kokoro or kimochi linking mind/feeling and emotion. Soseki has deserted the Japanese unified general term, employing the much more clearly demarcated Western words and the concepts lying behind them. In the novel, the narrator analyses his feelings for the Sensei’s wife: ‘At first I was dealing with Okusan as a sensible lady. While I was talking with her in that manner and with that kimochi, her attitude changed. Instead of appealing to my brain, Okusan started to move my heart.’14

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Soseki Natsume 23

I tried to compare my father with the Sensei in my mind. Both were such inconspicuous men from the outside world’s point of view; one can hardly tell whether they are alive or dead. They both score zero on the scale of receiving recognition from others. However, my father, who wanted to play Japanese chess with me, was an unsatisfactory human being to me. The Sensei, however, with whom I never sought to associate for pleasure, influenced my head much more as a result of the closeness and friendliness which came from pleasure-based activities. But talking here of the head is too cool, what I really mean is my breast, chest, bosom or heart.15 Placing a high value on the effects and influence of ‘atmosphere’ on the human mind may be another characteristic of the Western literary tradition that Soseki acquired in England. There is a strange parallel here with the ambiguous psychological ambience of the Japanese group. Some examples occur in the novel. One scene concerns the Sensei’s wife’s concern over her husband’s strange detachment from her and others in the aftermath of his best friend’s death, the reason for which she, of course, did not know. This was not because of his individualism but, as she might have guessed, because of the loss of ‘K’. She could not comprehend (and might have become defensive about) the tremendous changes occurring in her husband, and asked for the narrator’s help in coming to understand the situation: Okusan’s fears and anxieties issued from the doubts and suspicions which floated there like a thin cloud. Concerning the truth of the matter, not much was known to Okusan herself. She was furthermore unable to speak to me even about what she did know. Consequently both I who tried to console her and Okusan who received my consolation were at sea floating up and down on the waves. While thus swaying, Okusan stretched her hands out to me, trying to rely on my judgment, which in turn was unstable too.16

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On another occasion, comparing his father with the Sensei, the narrator comments:

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K [excelled and thus] troubled me much with such difficult subjects as religion and philosophy, since he was at junior high school. I don’t understand whether it was due to his father’s influence or because of the house he had been born in, i.e. the temple, with its own peculiar air. Anyway he seemed to possess a far more priest-like character than any of the ordinary priests in a temple.17

‘Individualism-plus’ – Henry James’s The Beast in the Jungle Of course, group-orientated interdependency, most characteristic in Japan, is not a wholly bad thing at all. It renders both to society and to personal human relationships much security and stability, certainly in comparison with individualist-orientated Western society. We might well need both – group safety and dependence on the one hand, and individualistic freedom and independence on the other. Even in a Christian church, the formation of a congregation as a group has much significance, in parallel with an individual’s relationship with God. ‘No man is an island.’ Soseki seemed to be aware of the individual’s need for other people – friends, families, even strangers – when he caused his individualist protagonist the Sensei to mention to the narrator of the story that he had helped his mother-in-law with all his might when she was gravely ill, with the result that he felt great contentment from his deeds of love and caring. This love for others and maintenance of sound relationships with them are a key to salvation even in the context of failed individualism, as is perhaps particularly clear in instances where maintaining the maximum of independence and freedom leads to no available route other than death and suicide. Endo, on the other hand, resorted during most of his life to an identity within Japanese group-orientated society, despite his early experiences in France and his romantic but short-lived love for Françoise Pastre. Mishima does not seem to be much interested in forming ordinary or ‘humane’ relationships with others, rather in the way that the

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This metaphor expresses the atmosphere of the situation excellently. At another point in the description, the focus is on ‘K’ ’s background. In the Sensei’s final letter to the narrator, he writes of ‘K’:

protagonist of The Temple of the Golden Pavilion seeks unsuccessfully to relate himself principally to the sublime artefact of the Golden Pavilion itself. Mishima himself was said to be in the grip of death wishes and destructive impulses, just like his protagonist, who comes to desire the destruction of his utmost obsession, the Pavilion. This obsession had a number of times hindered him from making love to a real person, the prostitute, because the fabulous image of the Pavilion would rise in his mind at the critical moment. Mizoguchi, handicapped by his stuttering just as Mishima was by his homosexuality and loneliness, refused to be accepted and understood by ‘mediocre’ people, and took pride in not being appreciated by fellow human beings, remarking that it was a raison d’être of his existence that nobody could understand him by his language: ‘It was intolerable that I should be understood by their words. For my words were of a different nature.’11 Thus he relates in a much more straightforward way to various non-human objects, such as artefacts, the iron of the sword or blood, and to powers such as violence and sexual lust. These identifications are well mirrored in the use of such images as ‘breast and Golden Pavilion’, ‘the sea assaulting the river mouth’, ‘the sweetness of the iron’, and ‘lust for fire’, ‘lust and death’, and so on: The river water was certainly approaching the sea and already it was being attacked by salt water . . . The mouth of the river was unexpectedly narrow. The sea lay there indistinctly mingled with the dark cumuli of clouds, melting into the river, assaulting it . . . It was because of the sea that the wind was thus wasting its violent energy on these deserted fields.12 Until I returned to the temple, I remained in the midst of ecstasy. In my mind’s eye I could see the Golden Temple and the woman’s breast coming and going one after the other. I was overcome with an impotent sense of joy.13 I wonder whether I shall be believed when I say that during these days the vision of fire inspired me with nothing less than carnal lust.14 And it comforted me to think that, like the evening sun which is presently buried in the many-layered clouds, the quivering flesh

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I took the pocket knife out of its case and licked the blade. The steel immediately clouded over and the clear coolness against my tongue was followed by a remote suggestion of sweetness. The sweetness was faintly reflected on my tongue from within the thin steel, from within the unattainable essence of the steel. The clarity of form, the lustre of iron like the indigo colour of the deep sea – it was they that carried this limpid sweetness which coiled itself securely around the tip of my tongue together with my saliva.16 Some of these images, particularly the last three, convey Mishima’s idiosyncratic and possibly psychopathic personality, matching extremely closely his nihilism and anti-humanism, and the dominance in his lifestyle of night-time. (It was well known that Mishima worked during the night, sleeping during the day, reversing the usual daily cycle of most people, and thus experiencing even light and darkness in his own solitary way.) Henry James’s short story The Beast in the Jungle focuses on an extremely individualistic hero and his lover; he had loved her for ages but failed to recognise the true nature of his feelings for her until her death. In many ways the story resembles Soseki’s Kokoro – the themes of missed or lost love and friendship accounted for by the hero’s egoism, his unawareness of his true self, and of the extent to which he was hurting his beloved or his friend, as embodied in Kokoro in the relationship between the Sensei and his friend ‘K’. Henry James adopted the literary technique of ‘stream of consciousness’ for the writing of The Beast in the Jungle. In Soseki’s Kokoro, the Sensei’s egoism was suddenly revealed in ‘K’s unexpected suicide after the Sensei’s landlady told him about the engagement of her daughter to the Sensei. There is a similar abrupt self-revelation in The Beast in the Jungle when the protagonist, John Marcher, comes to recognise his lifelong egoism on his regular visits to the cemetery and the grave of his beloved Mary, where he is filled with remorse and a sense of loss. He comes to this understanding when, by chance, he witnesses another man grieving for a dead person in a newly made grave, seeing the extent of his devastation and loss, and his profound and violent emotion as it is expressed vividly in his face. James’s

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before my eyes would soon be lying deep in the night’s dark grave.15

hero needed the appearance of this stranger at a critical moment in his life. Equally, Soseki used his hero’s frequent visits to the Zoshigaya cemetery as the focal point of the novel, sustaining the reader’s wonder and speculation as to why he does this, and heightening the suspense of the novel’s atmosphere and the progression of its themes. As independent individualists, both Soseki’s characters and their counterparts in James are free from ordinary worldly concerns, problems or worries, particularly with regard to money, employment or family relationships. They hardly belong to any group other than that of their own loved ones and friends. In Soseki’s case, the Sensei’s circle consists of his docile wife, her mother, the narrator and the remorseful memories of his friend ‘K’. In The Beast in the Jungle, the protagonist relates only to Mary, except for the sudden appearance in the dénouement of the stranger mourning and grieving at the cemetery. It seems to be well accepted that Henry James based this psychological story on his own experience. One of his woman friends, Constance Woolfson, an American journalist, pursued James in Europe, loved him and wanted them to marry. Like Mary, she was left waiting for any response or proposal over a long period of time. The response never materialised, maybe because James hesitated and dithered, like John Marcher in the story, who is presented mainly as being engaged in a quest for his own self. In real life, James’s potential partner chose to kill herself in her despair, throwing herself off a tower in Italy. Henry James never recovered from this tragic incident in his real life, and it seems to be the basis for the episodes in The Beast in the Jungle. James may have regretted his self-centred love and may have wished to atone for it in supplementing the final scene with so much human drama, reflecting his own lack of warmth, love and strong emotion. It becomes a moving and most truthful account of how much as a human being one needs the love and concern of others, even if one identifies oneself as staunchly individualist and anti-groupist. In contrast to Henry James, Soseki allowed his character to pursue a single-minded, individualist way of life, as has often been the case with other Japanese writers, because such single-mindedness, in whatever field or context, carries a great positive value in Japanese culture.

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According to an observation made to me by an Austrian friend who specialises in child development, small children of kindergarten age in the West mix with other children as a group for about two years at the longest, but grow up gradually afterwards as individual people. As for the Christian church itself, if some of these children grow up as churchgoers, they belong to the congregation not as a group with which they identify but as individuals responsible both to God and to other individuals. It is extremely difficult for a Japanese mind to comprehend this kind of Western individualism. Living in a grouporientated society from birth to death, even the Japanese following the Christian faith tend to be immersed into groupism, as Shusaku Endo’s call for a ‘Christianity with Japanese characteristics’ basically implies. My Austrian friend has taught at Japanese universities for many years and knows Japanese groupism very well; she wonders if true Christianity can really put its roots down into that soil. Japanese groupism is inseparable from its principal inner defect – amae, or the ‘dependency syndrome’. For example, in Soseki’s Kokoro, the narrator was urged by his parents and relatives to ask his protector, the Sensei, to find a job for him. But he was reluctant to ask and to bother the Sensei with worldly matters that would not interest or concern him; and was in any case not keen on the idea of having regular employment. However, in any realistic perspective, it would be a disaster to live life without earning any money, and in view of that kind of practical consideration, I speculate that the narrator might eventually have been persuaded to take a job. However, the sense of amae might then subsequently have crept into his mind, especially if he were to find his job unsatisfactory or boring. He could always blame either the job provider or his own family for what was going wrong. Naturally, on the other hand, the social pressure put on him by his family would work out positively for him in such a group-orientated society in that, whether willingly or otherwise, he would at least be integrated and immersed into his particular social group, and would thus be much more secure than he would be as a wholly independent individual, even though he had lost some of his freedom of choice. In a similar vein, Mishima’s protagonist, Mizoguchi, was not in fact propelled by individualistic motives to destroy his most cherished ideal of beauty by setting it on fire in order to slay the inner enemy of his obsession. He acted because he firmly believed that he could

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change the world by his devastating arson, partly in view of his anger at his own self-discovery and realisation that even the supreme beauty of an artefact such as the Golden Pavilion could alter neither his disability nor the club feet of Kashiwagi, and that therefore the persistent image of ideal beauty that it represented constituted an obstacle to real life and real lives. Characterised by an idiosyncratic form of group consciousness, he blamed his own crimes and sins categorically on the responsibility of others and on his own fate, disability and handicap. This is why he felt no guilt about his arson, and he shows no sense of remorse even at the end of the novel – quite the contrary, in fact, he even felt a sense of accomplishment, and sighed with relief when subsequently he decided it was permissible to live, and decided to light up a cigarette rather than to commit suicide.

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The Visit by Hiroshi Yosano (1873–1935) and Akiko Yosano (1878–1942) to France and England in 1912

Hiroshi Yosano’s observations of Western individualism, and his adoration of it, despite his identification with the group: From Paris Hiroshi and Akiko Yosano are one of the best known and influential couples in the field of tanka, a style of Japanese poem consisting of lines of 5–7–5–7–7 syllables. Akiko was born in 1878 in the wealthy context of the family confectionery business in Sakai, not far from Kyoto. She married Hiroshi (whose pen name was ‘Tekkan’) after a turbulent romance which received much publicity and became famous throughout Japan. When the two met and fell in love, Hiroshi was still married to his first wife, and furthermore Akiko had to compete for his affections with another woman poet, Tomoko Yamakawa. She belonged to the same tanka faction, called Shinshisha; Tekkan was, in fact, its leader. They published the poetry magazine Myojo (‘Dawn Star’). It is said that Akiko’s success in translating the Tale of Genji from old Japanese into the modern language version contributed to financing the couple’s trip to France. Tekkan stayed in France for about nine months, but Akiko returned to Japan after only four months, because of concern for their children, who had remained in Japan. In this part of this chapter I shall discuss various interesting observations about French culture made by Tekkan, from his perspective as a poet. I shall take particular note of the extent to which he was impressed by Western individualism, as expressed in carnivals or art exhibitions. In contrast, he lamented the hideous interior decoration 31 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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of the Japanese embassy, and its treatment of guests according to strict hierarchies, which he encountered when the Yosanos were invited to the funeral ceremony for the Meiji Emperor after his death in Japan in 1912. It is also intriguing to note that they seemed to find themselves comfortable – even showing a touch of self-pity and amae as experienced in Japanese group-conscious society – when walking in London among the grey stream of workers going home in the early evening, the majority of whom were women. In the second part of this chapter I shall assess the impact of Akiko’s liberalism and feminism, which were strongly expressed in the article she published in a French journal on the French suffrage movement and women’s emancipation, in comparison with their counterparts in Britain and Japan. Although Akiko herself had left to return to Japan, Tekkan received numerous responses to her article from the French public, some of which showed the existence of a strong interest in Japan and its culture – one woman from an ordinary background wrote to Akiko, addressing her with much respect as a ‘famous’ writer and feminist, agreeing with her opinions on women’s emancipation, and candidly revealing how long she had cherished a hidden desire to visit Japan and glimpse its exquisite cultural artefacts. The third part of this chapter discusses some of Akiko’s tanka poetry, in view of its romantic sensualism, and its liberal feminism, which leads inevitably to its strong sense of individualism. What is most noteworthy is Akiko’s courageous expressions of antiwar feeling during the Russo-Japanese War, in which one of her brothers fought. She fearlessly advocates a policy of non-violence, in total contradiction to the trends in majority opinion at that time, in which the public was led to believe that the war they were fighting was a ‘holy war’ for the sake of the ‘divine’ Emperor. Her poem expressing the fervent wish that her brother would not be killed, entitled ‘Please do not die, my brother’, represents her innate honesty and courage. These qualities were equally present, indeed explosive, in the love she had for her brother and her love for her husband Tekkan, as expressed in her love poems. However, her honest feelings in the anti-war poems were misconstrued as a public criticism of the Emperor, and this antagonised both the authorities and the rather ignorant public. The poem was, in fact, the first occasion on which the Emperor had been criticised

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outside the realm of political tracts, and as a result both the poem and Akiko herself were criticised as being subversive.1 Akiko’s bold challenge was aimed not only against the War and the Emperor, however, but much more significantly against the Japanese ‘groupist’ psyche. In Japan there are many matsuri (festivals) for people to enjoy throughout the year – particularly the Gion matsuri in Kyoto in early July, which attracts up to half a million people to the town. The festival not only involves a massive number of spectators, but also gathers together a multitude of young men wearing brightlycoloured jackets and head bands, and white tabi (sock-like footwear), carrying small shrines (mikoshi) on their shoulders through the town to the central temple. A great quantity of sake is consumed, and sometimes casualties (and even deaths) occur, as a result of the recklessness of a handful of the youngsters who get drunk and lose their grip on the poles of the mikoshi, become entangled with other carriers, and may get trampled underfoot or run over. Apart from such occasional tragedies, a Japanese matsuri is a happy, joyous and lively event, temporarily uniting the populace into a single comradeship, even if the main protagonists are men. What do the women do at these festivals? They usually stay behind the scenes preparing various festive foods and drinks, which the men consume in a merry mood after the successful completion of the procession carrying the mikoshi to the main temple, where the little shrines, believed to contain the spirits of the gods, are safely restored to their places. Thus a matsuri can be viewed as the ultimate epitome of Japanese ‘groupism’, in contrast to the feel of a carnival in Paris, which Tekkan enjoyed enormously for its unique, individualistic atmosphere. Tekkan, at the age of 39, wrote how invigorated he had been by a carnival on the Grand Boulevard in Paris, in which he participated. He became actively involved in it, enjoying the experience of being transformed from a passive onlooker into an active player in the street activities, happily throwing confetti at the Parisians, young and old, who were parading along the Boulevard in various sorts of fancy dress. They each looked and behaved in a very individualistic way, full of variation, in complete contrast to the male-dominated and group-orientated Japanese matsuri, which is by comparison much more monotonous.

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In the carnival, Tekkan observed sharply that even old ladies who might well have grandchildren were fully entitled to enjoy the liberty of participating in the carnival, throwing confetti along with everyone else, including throwing it over Tekkan himself. Tekkan seemed to envy a society in which nobody would criticise a woman for engaging in such activities at such an age, which was something that could hardly be imagined in Japan, where a grandmother would have feared first and foremost the disapproval of others at such nonconformist behaviour – older women would dance in groups on their own, as at bon odori, a midsummer dancing festival. Tekkan also felt extremely pleased at being addressed as a ‘handsome man from Japan’ by the young and pretty Parisiennes as they passed by. He writes: At first I remained passive, but I began to feel gradually much more active, and carrying a large, red confetti bag I equally paid tribute to the beauties of Paris who were walking by. Doing that I felt as if I were reborn rather than just rejuvenated. It was such a totally innocent joy and play, unlike anything I had ever experienced in all my 39 years (to count them in a somewhat European way).2 Comparing the Paris carnival to the Japanese tradition of viewing cherry blossom, Tekkan was envious of the freer atmosphere, and particularly of the absence of drunkenness, often a disturbing phenomenon on such occasions in Japan: There are no drunken men to be seen at all, which is often the case in Japan on cherry blossom viewing occasions. Consequently nobody behaves in a persistently unpleasant manner, and so there are no police incidents. Even the police and the soldiers guarding the parades were ‘attacked’ only by those scattering confetti.3 Furthermore, according to my own observations, one of the most striking differences between a Japanese matsuri and a Western carnival is that the Japanese version mainly highlights the physical aspect of human group strength, as again in another favourite Japanese festive event, the tug-of-war. This is also a male-centred event, often a kind of boast of male power. This emphasis on male domination and

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physical power in the characteristic Japanese matsuri could well throw light on Mishima’s unusual preoccupation with the flesh and his efforts to keep it fresh and young (see further in the chapter on Mishima). In Britain, festivals are in that sense much more ‘feminine’ – celebrating arts and literature. And in the French carnival too, the people use their artistic and spiritual talents rather than their physical abilities, in such activities as devising fancy dress, and so on. Tekkan was greatly impressed by the independent exhibition of paintings held in a temporarily-built open air ‘gallery’ on the left bank of the Seine, where about 1700 entries were being exhibited. What he liked most, in contrast to Japanese exhibitions, was its totally free atmosphere, and the way in which evaluation of the artefacts on display was left to the individual onlooker’s judgment. He also envied the way the entrants seemed ‘extremely happy and jubilant about expressing their active lives in full’:4 ‘I was very impressed by the Parisians who will believe their own evaluations rather than follow the opinions of others when appreciating the paintings.’5 Then Tekkan went on to criticise the bad taste and rustic atmosphere of the interior decoration of the Japanese embassy in Paris, blaming the effect on the lack of effort on the part of the Foreign Office in Tokyo, rather than the Paris embassy staff themselves, accusing the bureaucrats in Tokyo of not having taken sufficient care and attention to refurbish the building with the better considered and first-rate art and decoration which alone would be fitting enough for the embassy of a top-ranking country such as Japan. In contrast, he greatly praised the efforts of ordinary Japanese people when he visited the Paris ‘Japan-Town’ quarter for their collection and exhibition of higher quality and much more authentic Japanese art. These people were largely unknown actors and actresses visiting from Japan, who had formed a theatre group. Auguste Rodin’s Japanese model, Hanako, might well have been one of these visitors (see Akimoto’s book, Hanako’s Neck). Some aspired to success in France, but most of them looked, Tekkan observed, as if they were trying their best to convey a truer image of their home country in the Far East to the Westerners in France than the embassy itself was able to manage. On another occasion, Tekkan, together with Akiko and another Japanese friend, Shosan, went to see Rodin in his studio-cum-salon, which was packed with his statues. Rodin wore a simplified red

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version of the prestigious French medal, the Légion d’honneur, on his collar, and was accompanied by a British lady friend whom he addressed as ‘Countess’. Shosan remarked about her to Tekkan, assuming that she might have been looking after him as a disciple. Rodin was a huge old man, who gave signs of having difficulty hearing; he talked to his visitors from Japan with ‘great’ smiles. He showed great pleasure and took particular interest in seeing photographs of his own work printed in the literary journal Shirakaba (‘White Birch’). Tekkan had been asked to present this to him by the well-known novelist, Takeo Arishima, who edited the journal and was the leader of the literary movement Shirakaba-ha (a group or faction of the Shirakaba). Rodin enquired about Arishima’s health as well as the state of the Rodin exhibition being organised by Arishima’s group in Japan. Tekkan replied with as much information as possible, which he had obtained from various newspapers and magazines, emphasising particularly how hugely the exhibition had moved Japanese youth, and the impact that the great man’s work had had (Tekkan addressed him honorifically as ‘Rodin sensei’), as it had been sent to the East for the first time in history. In the same chapter of the book From Paris (Paris yori in Japanese), Tekkan also reveals how much of a ladies’ man he was, because he next reveals his sharp, connoisseur-like observations and interpretations of the differences between French and Japanese women’s fashions. He particularly admired the good taste shown by French women in their choice of colour co-ordination, and the way they would choose some style in order to fit the needs and preferences of each individual. Tekkan was also highly impressed by the overall economical sense of Frenchwomen. They wore highly stylised clothes made not out of expensive materials such as silk, but from simpler materials such as cotton. This preference for the simple and economical might well resemble the good sense of the women of Kyoto, Tekkan remarked – they generally dressed well, but made their kimono from more frugal materials such as cotton. One should remember that Akiko was born not far from Kyoto, implying that her husband was also bestowing his praise upon her dress sense – something she may well have appreciated. During the 1910s in Japan, most women still wore the kimono; only a handful of the aristocratic and wealthy upper-class women wore

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so-called ‘modern Western clothes’. Akiko must have worn the kimono as her day-to-day attire in Europe, as is demonstrated in her account of her return sea voyage to Japan, in which she refers to changing out of her warm kimono into a cooler linen one when the ship approached the Indian Ocean, to take full advantage of any cooling breezes, particularly as she suffered both from sea-sickness and from the heat throughout her journey. Tekkan and Akiko Yosano visited London for a few days, and Tekkan started to compare British and French culture, noting the characteristics of the women in the two countries, and contrasting the countries’ atmosphere and ambience. Tekkan found, in the main, that London represented a much more ‘masculine’ aspect of Western culture, with the Thames reflecting in its surface Houses of Parliament, whereas the Seine in Paris seemed to reflect more ‘feminine’ aspects in the grander but more elegant buildings on its banks, such as Notre Dame and the Trocadéro. Tekkan praised all the museums in London as having better layouts and more perfect lighting than the Louvre, writing: ‘It seems that the Louvre has much more inadequate facilities as a museum, because it was built originally as a palace and not as a museum, unlike in London, although it has in fact a most grand and elaborate architecture.’6 In London, Tekkan paid tribute to the easy accessibility of large parks, in close proximity to the main streets, commenting: Equally in the town, the parks in Tokyo are as near to the city centre as those in London, but people don’t feel so familiar with them. [In Japan] it would be a great undertaking to go to Hibiya Park or Ueno Park, but it is extremely easy to get into the parks in London, which are located next to the main streets.7 He lamented, however, that there were no cafés in London. Tekkan was greatly interested in the beauty of women, partly as a poet reacting to beauty, reacting with sensitivity to the subject. According to his observations, the majority of British women’s faces, in comparison with some of the Parisiennes’, gave the impression of a certain manliness, having harder flesh and showing the forms of the bones with a reddish coloration.8 They looked rural, compared with the coquettish urban beauty of the Parisiennes, and

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had in general expressions somehow implying seriousness and detachment. Tekkan tried to find reasons for this seriousness in the features of the British women, attributing it in part to two factors, the ongoing outcome of the women’s suffrage movement, and the increasingly widespread education of women. He assumed that, thanks to the latter, many more women had begun to think inwardly and deeply. Regarding the suffrage movement, Tekkan showed some concern at its radical tactics, especially those taken by women that even men would not take at that time – perhaps thinking especially of the famous incident where a woman committed suicide by throwing herself under the hooves of the King’s horse at Ascot. However, Tekkan indicated his approval that the women ‘of a certain class’ should demand equal rights and access to equal qualifications to those of men (emphasis mine). None the less, he revealed the rather chauvinistic side of Japanese male mentality, when he commented that it was tragic that some British women should try to be intelligent at the expense of their physical beauty; contemporary British women seemed to have reached a crossroads much more precipitately than their Japanese counterparts.9 Having been bombarded by all these ‘shocking’ and individualistic impressions in London, the Yosanos found solace in walking among the anonymous crowd of Londoners going home in the evening – sharing with them a sense of their weakness and powerlessness in the throng, as well as experiencing that old Japanese sentiment of belonging to a group, though at the same time sharing their liberal, left-wing sympathy with fellow workers: We were, so to speak, ‘evicted’ from the city centre in London for two hours from 5 p.m., walking in the midst of millions of workers going home, crossing the numerous huge bridges connecting one side [of the Thames] to the other; I felt a kind of ease, as if walking in my home country.10 Akiko, in writing about their lodgings in London at 28 Finsbury Road, reveals a much more feminine aspect of the observant eye of the outsider, in her remarks on their host and hospitality. She was

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greatly appreciative of her hostess, Mrs Phillips’ polite way of treating her guests, particularly the kind consideration she showed in always serving something warm for breakfast, even though the Yosanos often came home late at night and rose late in the morning. Mrs Phillips’ husband was a renowned architect, and they took lodgers not in order to make money but in order to avoid loneliness, as the family consisted of only three members, including as it did Mrs Phillips’ son by a former husband, also an architect.

Akiko Yosano’s opinions on the status of French women in society, and on the French women’s movement; her feminism, and the importance of ‘home’ Akiko’s article ‘First Impressions of France’ was commissioned by the editor of a journal called Paris yori (From Paris). To summarise her essay, Akiko considers, even from her brief and rather limited observations of French women, that their efforts in the cause of women’s emancipation were less adequate than those of the British suffrage movement. Akiko mentions having seen many prostitutes soliciting in the Montmartre area, where she had lodgings in Paris, although most of their clients seemed to be foreign hypocrites from Britain and America. She also argues that, judging from her own experiences in Japan, it is often the women from middle-class families who later make great contributions to society, being regarded either as wise mothers or as eminent career women, because their efforts had to be in earnest and their resolution firm – Akiko presumes this to be the case in France as well. Although she is well aware of the significance of the home as the base camp of society, in its role as the place where upright and soundminded children are brought up (Akiko herself was mother to eleven (survived) children!), she equally and boldly suggests that women’s working hours in the kitchen should be reduced drastically. Women should then use the shortening of their working week to improve themselves intellectually, making every effort to widen their horizons in society. In conclusion, she proposes that only the diffusion of good education and high-minded self-determination can give women a secure social status, and a freedom and independence equal to men’s.

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She also refers to the necessity of correcting men’s selfish and domineering attitudes to women, to make sure they cease to regard women as their property, and can start to help them gain an equal footing in society. As Akiko had to leave Paris for Japan shortly after the publication of this essay, in response to anxieties and concerns for the Yosanos’ children back at home, Tekkan received on her behalf numerous interesting letters from readers, three of which were published in the From Paris. The first letter in reaction to her article was from the vicepresident of the Women’s Emancipation Movement, Mme B. Bique. She emphasised that the prostitutes in Montmartre whose existence Akiko criticised were not representative of typical middle-class women in France; if Akiko wished to meet quintessential French women, she should seek out people from the emancipation movement, which numbered several thousand. Mme Bique regrets that Akiko’s views on French women were rather partial and narrow, mentioning that she would be prepared to show Akiko all the relevant materials and publications necessary to demonstrate how great an amount of activity they had been promoting in the cause of women’s rights. She also expressed her sincere desire for her and Akiko to get to know each other, Akiko being a leader of the women’s emancipation movement in Japan, and that they should exchange opinions, believing that such communication would be fruitful despite their speaking different languages. The second letter referred to by Tekkan is from a gentleman of 75 years old from a middle-class background who agreed wholeheartedly with Akiko’s suggestion that most of the more able women in both France and Japan would usually derive from the middle classes, and not from the wealthy and privileged upper classes, in which the women’s preoccupation tended to be how to dress and look coquettish. He emphasised particularly strongly his view that middle-class women were on the whole excellent at domestic economic management. He praised Akiko highly for her talent and sharp eye for observation: ‘Your general criticism implies that your observations are deep, broad and right, as well as revealing your talent.’11 It is interesting that he notes: ‘looking at high-class women at close quarters, they all seem artificial to me’.12 The third letter Tekkan chose to publish was sent by a youngish

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unmarried woman living in Marseille, signing herself ‘M.D.’. She apologised profusely for her boldness in writing back to such an eminent poet as Akiko, since she herself was unknown, and of a lowly background. (Thus, as this letter suggests, Akiko must already have been famous and an established figure as a Japanese woman poet and a feminist, in France as well as in Japan.) Tekkan assumed that ‘M.D.’ might in fact have been a teacher. Ironically her modest attitude in the letter indicates that there still existed a stringent class distinction in France at that time, in which the position of middle-class women was not high. What strikes me most in her comments on Akiko’s essay is that ‘M.D.’ pointed out realistically from her own experience how difficult it was to manage both home affairs and her own career, especially without extra helpers in the home, such as maids or nannies. She expressed strong doubts about the realistic possibility of attaining Akiko’s radical proposition for shortening the time women had to spend in the kitchen. In conclusion, I think that Akiko Yosano succeeded in spreading her fame, drawing the French public to her strong opinions regarding such important issues as women’s emancipation, and probably attracting considerable interest and attention towards Japan and Japanese women. In this sense, her contribution to women’s issues and their emancipation on the one hand, and to Franco-Japanese cultural exchange on the other, was significant and well achieved. I also evaluate highly the unique characteristics of her contribution, in being committed both as a feminist and as a mother, as well as being a leading poet. In the contemporary mainstream in parts of the feminist movement such a combination of roles, and particularly the aspect of being a good mother, can often be neglected and even thought to be unattainable, because some feminists regard marriage as a degrading social institution that operates to oppress women and to discriminate against single women in particular.

Akiko Yosano’s indentification with feminine individualism, and its assimilation and acceptance by the Japanese public; its role in some of her tanka poetry In this section I shall discuss some unique characteristics of Akiko Yosano’s tanka poetry, and some possible reasons why her rather

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radical feminism and individualism was accepted successfully by, and had real influence on, her Japanese readers and the public. As revealed in her prose discussed and analysed in the previous section, Akiko identified herself with the liberation of women from the home, but commits herself equally to blissful motherhood. Boldly and courageously, she also spoke up for feminine sensuality, which she praised fully and abundantly before men, including her husband and lover, Tekkan. Men were called ‘lords and masters’ at that time in Japanese society, yet in her candid and honest view they lacked an insight into the true nature of their sensuality – not only physically, but more importantly mentally and spiritually. Second, the public warmed to Akiko’s individualism, which is wrapped gracefully (I do not mean ‘disguised’) in the sweet dreams of the aesthetic world – full of rich colours, blossoms and flowers in full bloom, in combination with a strange and remorseful sense of past sin, possibly in reflection of her responsibility as a woman and as a dutiful daughter. In her tanka she also expressed her sincere and profound love and respect for her tanka teacher and her husband, Tekkan, which is likely to have satisfied and widely impressed the Japanese public’s traditional sense of the importance of loyalty to the family and commitment to the group. The roots of her individualism, however, lie in her being true to herself, standing out against any personal pretension or mere social convention – as is well depicted in one of her best known tanka, published in the compilation Midaregami (translated as Tangled Hair, but I would much prefer a different title, such as Unbound and Loosened Hair – in the sense of not being primly stylised or highly combed). Incidentally, each individual tanka does not have its own title, in the way that Western poems overwhelmingly tend to. Here are two English translations of this tanka, neither of which I wholeheartedly endorse; but they at least convey something of its meaning. The first is a translation by Dennis Maloney and Hide Oshiro in Tangled Hair: Unable to touch the hot tide of blood beneath my tender skin, do you feel lonely teacher of the Way?13

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You never touch This soft skin Surging with hot blood. Are you not bored, Expounding the Way?14 The first translation sounds much simpler. Maloney translates the poem’s key word sabishikarazuya as ‘lonely’, asking this important question of the ‘teacher of the Way’; whereas Bownas and Thwaite use the word ‘bored’, asking the question of ‘you . . . expounding the Way’. The latter version is, I think, more accurate and in keeping with Akiko’s original. However, I will try now to explicate the Japanese meanings and implications in a version of my own: Without touching the hot passion of my [youthful] soft skin, Isn’t it sad my honoured guide, for you to try to persuade me to live in accordance with such a moral code? Without mentioning ‘surging hot blood’ directly, I took it to mean ‘passion’, because traditionally in Japan this image of the blood has been used as a symbol of youthful passion. Equally, in the question asked in the second half of this tanka, there are two problems – one is how to translate the adjective sabishi (–karazuya being a suffix indicating an interrogative form in old-style Japanese). Its direct meaning is ‘lonely’, but it often implies coldness and sadness. Thus my use of ‘Isn’t it sad . . .’. A second problem is to define as clearly as possible to whom or what this sadness is attributable – would it be attached only to the person (obviously in this context Akiko’s love, and then husband, Tekkan), which is the supposition on which both the above-mentioned Western translations are based. I wonder, however, if it could also encompass Akiko’s own feelings, and her honest reactions to his moralistic pretentions, or even the man’s self-deception as seen through the eyes of others in this group-orientated society? I hold the latter interpretation of this tanka. In contrast with the bold disclosure of her true love and sensuous

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The second is the version published in The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse:

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feelings, Akiko’s charm and goodness lie in the fact that she felt sinful about it, in the particular manner of a Japanese woman whose modesty was always a prerequisite at home as well as in society at large. So she writes first a reckless declaration and advocacy of her feminine power and beauty: To teach men a lesson I was born with pure skin and long black hair.15 And again: Spring is short: Why ever should it Be thought immortal? I grope for My full breasts with my hands.16 But then a moment of self-reflection comes, with an awareness of shame and sin: Now and then I look back on my passion in the past; it was like the blind one who fears no darkness.17 And she writes a good poem which underlines the importance of colour imagery: No camellia Nor plum for me, No flower that is white. Peach blossom has a colour That does not ask my sins.18 As I mentioned before, Akiko showed great respect towards Tekkan as a teacher of tanka, as well as in his role as the leader of their coterie, called Myojo (‘Dawn star’), paying tribute to his tanka in her poetry:

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A hundred years of life would be worthless without knowing the tender poems you compose.19 In another poem, she writes in a similar vein: I’m left pure and noble but lonely like silver metal in white-hot flames after reading your book of poems.20 Although Akiko sometimes felt sinful, it is interesting to note that she had a rather light-hearted attitude towards religion, as is shown clearly in the following four tanka: The sutra is sour: This spring evening, O Twenty-Five Saints Of the Inner Sanctuary, Accept my songs instead.21 Holding the bible, bowing before the tomb of my love’s parents, I chant the Buddha’s name in the fading evening. Should I betray the blooming flowers to sing the psalms of David? I am much too young for that! I threw the Bible into the pond and then fished it out, and looking up at the sky, wept, for this strayed child.22 Akiko stayed in Europe for only four months because of her increasing anxieties concerning her children. She became almost neurotic from the extent of her sufferings through homesickness and from missing her children desperately, so she made the painful deci-

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sion to leave Tekkan in France, where he eventually stayed for nine months. Akiko’s concern and love for their children is expressed in the following tanka, written on her tour around Europe with Tekkan. In Munich she wrote how sadly she missed her children, when she was taking a bath and suddenly realised herself to be all alone without them, whom she would otherwise have been bathing: With my husband I am on tour around the world, yet how lonely I am because I am on my own.23 After returning from France, Akiko was not only active and busy writing tanka, but was also commissioned by various women’s magazines and newspapers to write articles concerning women’s issues – particularly on how to liberate Japanese women from dependence on their commitment to home, husband and family, and thus to help them attain real independence as individual human beings. She was an idealist, especially as a poet. She also became a strong advocate of the women’s suffrage movement, expending much effort, enthusiasm and energy in promoting that cause, which for her had undoubtedly received extra inspiration from her firsthand experience of the women’s suffrage movements in both France and Britain. During the course of developing and promoting women’s liberation, Akiko’s individualistic enthusiasm and strength of persuasion often, and somewhat inevitably, took a different course from those of other prominent Japanese feminist activists. She was criticised heavily by other traditional feminists from the perspective of their somewhat different principles. For example, the well-known advocate of feminism, Raicho Hiratsuka, criticised Akiko for having been too unrealistic in her assertion of the importance of women’s financial as well as spiritual independence and emancipation, on the grounds that the national social framework to support such an ideal status for women hardly existed. Raicho and her supporters, for their part, emphasised the significance of persuading the government to reform the legislative and legal systems, to guarantee the protection of women’s independence in society. For them, Akiko’s actions in the

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cause of women’s emancipation were discounted as being too romantic and even naïve. Despite such rifts and discrepancies in relation to her activities in the cause of feminism, Akiko’s work and other cultural, social and educational activities continued to thrive. It is said that most of the reporters and editors who paid visits to the Yosanos’ home were really in search of articles and other notes by Akiko, while Tekkan was much less in demand – it was his wife who was the highly successful and journalistically popular member of the household. Tekkan suffered a considerable setback in his work as the main instigator and editor of Myojo, after this leading magazine had to close down after only eight years’ production – the magazine had been sustained in large part by Akiko’s continuing fresh output of bold and romantic tanka. The demise of the magazine was attributable mainly to the rise of a naturalistic trend in Japanese literature, represented by such novelists as Katai Tayama. Tekkan was not fortunate in his search for another suitable job. Over a year after his return from France, he was still without work, as Seiko Tanabe records in Yosano Akiko.24 Finally, and partly in desperation, he decided to stand as a candidate for the Upper House (Shugiin) of the Japanese Parliament, despite many objections. Akiko, however, helped him greatly in his campaign, canvassing farmers and their wives in the rural areas of the consistuency. He had chosen to stand in his home town, Kyoto, with the general election date being 25 March 1915. He said to his supporters and friends that he would try to organise and engage in an ‘ideal election’, following the manner of the British one, of which he had had direct experience in his study-tour of Europe. However, the campaign turned out to be a complete failure, and he secured only 99 votes. (This dramatically small number should be set against the electoral rules of the time, according to which only males over 25 years of age and paying at least 10 yen in tax were eligible to vote.) Akiko, whose vigorous campaign on her husband’s behalf had involved numerous rather meaningless bowings to complete strangers, later commented on her disappointing experiences: Democratic politics can hardly work in Japan, and could even be called an anachronism, because the majority of the electorate consists of unintelligent farmers; and above all, there is

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Tekkan Yosano later joined the teaching staff at Bunka Gakuin College in Tokyo, founded in 1921, and worked there as a Dean of the Arts Department for ten years. The College, now a university, advocated the liberal doctrine of access to higher education for women, and aimed at achieving the educational ideal exemplified by Jiyugakuen, which Edmund Blunden loved to visit, calling it ‘Mrs Hani’s School’ in consequence of his friendly connection with its founder, the well-known Christian educationalist, Setsuko Hani. Akiko Yosano also taught at Bunka Gakuin, in her case for nineteen years, from its foundation in 1921 until she succumbed to a cerebral haemorrhage in 1940. She worked there variously as a teacher, dormitory mistress and headmistress in charge of the girls. She pursued an amazingly active life as the wife of a famous poet and man of letters, a mother who gave birth to thirteen children and brought up the eleven who survived, while at the same time maintaining a successful career as an educationalist and women’s suffage activist. Akiko and Hiroshi Yosano lived a most fortunate and liberated life, considering the still unliberated cultural atmosphere of their age. Their work and love seem to be amalgamated on the foundation of their quintessentially intuitive and genuine understanding of individualism, as we can see right from the courageous and epochmaking publication of Akiko’s first collection of poems, Midaregami. The Yosanos both firmly believed in the value of truth, rather than the easy submission to giri, or to social and cultural conventions. Tekkan is reported to have encouraged Akiko in the publication of her book: Akiko, let’s publish your collection of poems. Let’s stop worrying about the falseness of giri, worldly considerations, and other silly things – let’s encourage ordinary people to use their heads. There has never been a poet who has written such beautiful poems as you do. I am certain that your poems will be loved by the people 100 or even 1000 years hence. Your poems are a bombshell, a beautiful and magnificent bombshell with the power to destroy

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nothing sillier than canvassing by means of home visits, with all those salutings and bowings-down (in contrast to the British handshake).25

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Thus the bonds tying the Yosanos together were their love for tanka poetry and their deep sense of individualistic liberalism, free from giri.

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the social conventions that have lasted for so many years . . . Look, the world would be shaken enough to have the author of the book Shomakyo blown away.26

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Yukio Mishima (1925–70): His Love of Idiosyncracy and of ‘Failed Groupism’, in Parallel with His Romantic Escape into the Freedom of the Sea, Observed in his Work The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (Kinkakuji)

The general reactions of the Japanese to Mishima’s work as a novelist have not been favourable, particularly in the colourful context of his stunning suicide by disembowelment in the office of the head of the Self-Defence Forces in Ichigaya, Tokyo on 25 November 1970. He died at the age of 45, after making a verbal protest on the balcony of the Self-Defence offices against the weakening of Japanese patriotism and its central focus in the authority of the Emperor. But no Japanese seriously believed in the genuine authenticity of his propagandist performance, clad as he was in the uniform of his own private army of about twenty handsome young men called Tate no kai (‘Group of Shields’), with their headbands in which the symbol of the rising sun (from the Japanese flag) had been bleached out. Gore Vidal, the American novelist and critic who knew Mishima as a friend, enjoying his cheerful company as a drinking companion and as a leisure and conversation partner whenever they met in America and Japan, made some interesting comments on his Japanese counterpart’s work, life and personality, published in the New York Review of Books on the occasion of Mishima’s untimely death in 1970.1 I agree with what Vidal has said about Mishima, and particularly with his comment that Mishima was greatly body-conscious, that 51 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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‘flesh is all for him’.2 Mishima loved being idiosyncratic – for example, in relation to his ‘open’ homosexuality, although he had married a respectable Japanese painter’s daughter and had two children. Jiro Fukushima was Mishima’s homosexual friend in his youth and wrote about their relationship in a candid manner in the book entitled Sword and Cold Crimson in 1998. He was subsequently sued by Mishima’s children for breaching the copyright of their late father’s letters to him. His book reveals that Mishima’s marriage was an unhappy one, and that his wife, Yoko, was always extremely hostile to her husband’s male friends when they visited, suspecting them to be homosexuals. Mr Fukushima has now retired as a teacher of Japanese literature. I interviewed him in February 1999 in Kumamoto, in the southern part of Kyushu. He talked of his memories of Mishima as a very clever man, but who often took offence at small, unguarded remarks Fukushima might make, or his perceived failures of duty, in the context of their clandestine partnership. He also stressed that Mishima believed very firmly in the authority and system of the Emperor as the highest point in the evolution of Japanese values. Mishima had been educated at the nationalistic and patriotic Peers’ School (Gakushuin) in Tokyo, and seemed to desire, and indeed to seek, a firm foundation and wholly reliable shield, which for him resided only in the Emperor’s powerful leadership and protection of Japan, and in his secure authority, as established and practised before Japan’s defeat in the Second World War. Gore Vidal also states his belief that Mishima committed suicide in part because he felt he had failed in developing his work. I concur with the view that Mishima had the strong feeling that he had become ‘stuck’ in his novel writing. He was unable to find ways of changing, remoulding and further developing his writing, and thus remained less of a major novelist than he might have become, advocating a kind of romanticism. And, perhaps more significantly, he tended to concentrate most of his efforts on improving his lifestyle and his physical form rather than his art – for example, he took up body-building in his thirties in an attempt to keep his body strong, youthful and masculine. Mishima’s sense of being ‘stuck in a groove’ is deeply evident in his work The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, which I shall analyse in

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this chapter in relation to Mishima’s anti-individualist psyche, and his cherishing of nihilistic and inhuman idiosyncratic behaviour patterns, as represented by his novels’ protagonists. There is a tendency to regard Mishima, not least from his own promotion of his selfimage, as a rather Western-orientated and romantic individualist; but it strikes me that, as a novelist, he possessed a much more traditionally Japanese ‘groupist’ mentality. As is often the case with Mishima’s novels, the outline of events in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion is clear-cut and simple. The hero is Mizoguchi, who is to some extent modelled on a real-life Zen Buddhist acolyte. In Mishima’s story, Mizoguchi becomes increasingly intoxicated by the beauty of the Golden Pavilion, a historic and much privileged Zen temple in Kyoto. He had become an acolyte there because the high priest of the temple was an old friend of his deceased father. Gradually, Mizoguchi’s obsession turned into a target for destruction, seemingly in accord with the doctrine of Zen Buddhism that one can be completely free only after releasing oneself from one’s obsessions, which he interprets as implying liberation even by means of violent destruction. Thus Mizoguchi planned to set fire to the Golden Pavilion; part of his motivation was, however, that he had fallen out of favour with the normally rather generous high priest, who had gradually become disillusioned by the development of the hero’s true self and his frequent misbehaviour, both at the Buddhist University, and with some of his friends who complained about his unpaid debts, and with a prostitute who complained about his violent behaviour. In his short life, Mishima travelled widely in the West, both in America and in Europe; he was said to be particularly fond of Greece, which has at times been famous as a popular destination among homosexuals. Anthony Thwaite, who befriended Mishima, remarked in my interview with him that he was asked, whenever the Japanese novelist visited London for a short time, to direct him to a gay sports centre. Thwaite told me that he was rather ‘impressed’ by Mishima’s openness about his homosexuality. The Westerners described in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion are few in number – there is an American soldier, called just ‘G.I.’, who goes sightseeing at the Pavilion with his prostitute girlfriend. He half seriously asks Mizoguchi to trample on his girlfriend’s stomach when she falls down in the deep snow, to induce a miscarriage of their baby,

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whose birth he did not want, for obvious reasons. Mizoguchi carried out this request, and was later punished by the high priest, to whom the prostitute came to protest about the young acolyte’s violence and to demand compensation from the temple. Mizoguchi had received some cigarettes from the G.I. as a reward for his collaboration, which he presented to the high priest to regain favour. The novel is set in the period immediately after the War, when Japan was so impoverished that even American cigarettes were still a rare and highly valued commodity, along with chewing gum and other such ‘trivia’. For Mishima, a foreign country reflected what was strange, different and alien; foreigners are described as ‘people of a different size’ – representing Mishima’s typical way of viewing things and human beings by their outward forms or physiques: ‘As usual, I felt uneasy as I tried to imagine what feelings must move within a person who differed so enormously in size from myself.’3 Equally, there is a comment on foreign countries as being ‘cruel’: ‘the fact is that when people imagine cruelty, they normally assign some foreign character to it.’4 Mishima gives Mizoguchi a friend, called Tsurukawa, who represents the good, ‘shining light’ side of life, and another called Kashiwagi, who represents the darker side. Kashiwagi quotes from Hamlet the remark by Laertes that one had better not borrow money from one’s friends, when Mizoguchi asks for a loan to cover the expense of a holiday, on which he embarks partly to annoy the high priest by leaving without permission, and partly to make up his mind absolutely firmly before undertaking the ‘mission’ he has set himself of burning the Golden Pavilion to ‘cleanse’ himself of his obsession.

Mishima’s individualism Mishima’s individualism is far from that advocated by Soseki, which aimed at the realisation of individual freedom. Mishima was brought up in an atmosphere of excessive devotion by his grandmother, whose ‘regime’ denied access to him even to his own mother, apart from on certain special occasions. Thus he spent most of his youth as a lonely child; he was occasionally allowed to play, but only with small girls, as it was feared he would be hurt by rough boys living nearby (see, for example, John Nathan’s biography of Mishima). I believe that this loneliness and solitude lay at the heart of his advo-

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cacy of always being different from others, being unique in one’s own way, which later developed into his full panoply of idiosyncratic, almost psychopathic, modes of value judgment and bizarre behaviour. Furthermore, Mishima’s sharp awareness of his homosexuality, which was covered up successfully so far as the Japanese public were concerned, but with which he seemed comfortably open to his Western friends, turned his propensity for ‘being different’ into an entire territory that his mind and psyche inhabited. Mishima often depicted disabled characters, for example stutterers or the lame, as his main protagonists; he apparently identified himself and his homosexuality with them, from the position of being different from ordinary or ‘mediocre’ people. There is an example of this in Roses and Pirates; similarly in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, the protagonist is a stutterer and his friend Kashiwagi has a club foot. It seems to me that Mishima’s evaluation of these disabilities reveals not an individualistic but rather a typically group-orientated view of the people he depicts – that is, he evaluates them not as individuals but as members belonging to a particular category or group: ‘the stutterer’, ‘the lame’ and so on. Though both the characters Mizoguchi and Kashiwagi pursue their own idiosyncratic purposes and life principles, Mishima’s treatment of them manifests their group membership. There are plenty of examples in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion: I was still rather dubious about how Kashiwagi and his companions had come to be on such close terms. I could not understand why this girl, who looked so hard to please, should have become friendly with a penniless, club-footed student like Kashiwagi.5 Another piece of dialogue close to the above extract reads: ‘Why don’t you make love to that girl?’ he said to me as I sat there quietly. ‘I brought her along especially for you, you know. Or are you shy because you think she’ll laugh at you if you stutter? Go ahead – stutter, stutter! For all you know, she may fall in love with a stutterer. ‘Do you stutter?’ said the girl to me, as though this was the first time she had realized it. ‘Well, well, almost all the deformities are represented today!’6

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It is clear from the above quotations that both deformities and disabilities remain in Mishima’s mind as surface matters; but they deserve much deeper and more sympathetic analysis, because Mishima must have failed to understand that under such surfaces there might lie hidden the true personalities of those suffering from such disadvantages. It seems to me that he should have depicted and revealed these true inner qualities of the deformed people in his novel; this might have given it much greater depth and a more agreeable human understanding. Thus the whole story might have developed into a wider and much more significant major work, rather than remaining part of his minor oeuvre. (One must not forget that Mishima’s primary interest lay in the physique of a man, and not in the mind.) Simultaneously, Mishima emphasises not the true minds and natures of disabled people, but rather his own imaginary labelling of them, as part of his embodiment of evil and wickedness in the figure of Kashiwagi: His cruelty, his little plots, his betrayals, his heartlessness, his tricks for extorting money from women – all this merely served to explain his subtle charm. The only thing in which I myself needed to believe was Kashiwagi’s sincerity regarding his club feet.7 Kashiwagi’s wicked misbehaviour, and his cruel treatment of his girlfriend, is accounted for in the novel as resulting from his deep-seated resentment of his own disability, which Mishima even refers to as his ‘charm’. Even worse than such group-orientated labelling and categorising of human beings, Mishima’s ‘selfish’ individualism refuses to accept the protagonist’s need for other people, let alone the necessity of acknowledging their freedom – in contrast with Soseki, who advocated a belief in true individualism. Mishima’s main protagonist, Mizoguchi, even takes pride in not being understood by others – his stutter may even be partly accounted for by this desire, though we have no analysis from the author regarding this point. In Western individualism, particularly that rooted in the Christian faith, the centre is founded on one’s relationship with and total dependency on God. However, in Mishima’s isolated and solitary

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world, he himself is the centre of everything. As his protagonist in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion encapsulates, he enjoys anything that draws attention to himself, even if it is only his own attention that is being drawn. As with Endo, Mishima escaped into Japanese groupism, in which relativism prevails and each depends on others in the horizontal aspect of social relationships; in the vertical aspect, the group is organised according to human ties regimented by status, education, wealth, family background and so on. Soseki’s solution to the failures of individualism was freedom in death, which was often attained by committing suicide. Mishima’s form of exit is described in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion as his protagonist’s yearning for the freedom of the sea, which is very vague and ambivalent, though romantic, as a symbol of the salvation of the spirit. The sea is described as follows: ‘Maizuru’ had become a sort of generic term for a sea that cannot be seen, and in the end it came to represent an actual foreboding of the sea.8 I did not expect that I should encounter the sea here on any intimate terms . . . I realize that the impulse which had made me travel had contained an intimation of the sea; it had not, however, been an artificial harbor sea like the one at Maizuru, but a rough sea that still retained its newborn vigor, like the sea with which I had come into contact during my childhood in my home on Cape Nairu. Yes, it had been the irritable, rough-grained sea, always so full of rage, that one finds along the coast of the Sea of Japan.9 [The Sea of Japan] was a wild sea. The waves surged forward in an almost continuous mass, hardly letting one see the smooth, gray gulfs that lay between one wave and the next. Piled up over the open sea, the great cumuli of clouds revealed a heaviness and, at the same time, a delicacy.10 As represented in his popular short story The Sound of Waves (Shiosai), the ocean is a favourite theme for Mishima, probably because of its violent and changing features and phases, often provoked by other natural movements such as storms, winds and tides.

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Yukio Mishima

Japanese Writers and the West

In contrast with his obsessive concern with physical forms, Mishima showed less of an understanding and appreciation of spiritual matters. He notes that neither the beauty nor the sublime sound of music, which the evil-minded Kashiwagi was playing, could do anything to change or improve the deformity of his club feet. Music and art may not be able to change anything bodily, but I do think they can affect our minds for the better, and that is the aim of art – to cleanse our spirit and mind, raising them to a happier and more highly contented state. Although both Japanese groupism and Western individualism aim at reconciliation (called ‘harmony’ (wa) in the Japanese case), and treat that as one of their highest goals, there are certain clear differences between them. In the Western case, reconciliation comes vertically and inwardly between the individual person and God (or one’s highest objective, if one is a humanist) as the centre. In the Christian sense, one’s self-centredness is to be replaced by a Godcentred relationship characterised by one’s total submission to and dependency on God. Consequently, the result of the relationship should be to establish a complete inner peace. On the other hand, in the Japanese group-orientated relationship, reconciliation or wa will be established horizontally and outwardly with other human beings, based on relative values. Here, inner peace is not the real aim, and is to some extent thought of as being irrelevant and less significant in comparison to adjustments aimed at the attainment of even a superficial harmony with others. Hence, people’s inner conflicts can remain unresolved, leading to unhappiness, though reconciliation can apparently seem to be restored – thus here too it is possible for such unique Japanese concepts as honne and tatemae to flourish. It is also possible for a person to be left very lonely and solitary in the midst of all this ‘groupism’. Suicide is not uncommon. Mishima’s lack of belief in spiritual values is well depicted in the final scene of The Sound of Waves. The protagonist wins his fiancée, in competition with another suitor, after doing battle with the stormy sea as the courageous sailor of the last ship owned by her father. She had given him a protective charm just before his embarkation; but in the end he finally remarks in triumph that he knows that his salvation from the perilous sea was not due to the lucky charm but to the power of his own youthful body – contrary to the girlish

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Yukio Mishima

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John Haylock’s assessments of Mishima I was fortunate to receive some interesting comments on Mishima’s personality from his friend, the author John Haylock, in a personal communication (dated 20 November 1999): I first met Mishima in 1958 when I acted in a production of one of his Noh plays (translated by Donald Keene). Mishima appeared at the rehearsals. I was afraid of drying up in one rather long speech I had to give. Each time I managed to deliver the speech, hesitantly but without actually forgetting a line, Mishima, a smile in his huge, dark eyes, would say, ‘Well, you got through that all right.’ I was not sure whether he was being complimentary or sarcastic. In 1962 I lodged with the publisher, the late Meredith Weatherby, who translated The Confessions of a Mask and The Sound of Waves, thus being responsible for introducing Mishima to the West. Mishima often visited Meredith’s house and I would see him there. He had a lively and incisive mind, but he seemed tense. I shall not forget his staccato laugh, which was without a ring of humour and betrayed nervousness if not abnormality. His English was inaccurate but fluent. I think that basically, like many Japanese, he was shy and forced himself to overcome his disability, just as he turned his puny body into a muscular one by regular work-outs in a gymnasium. A [illegible] man one could never forget (I can see his dark, soulful eyes and his pale face topped by a crewcut as I write) but one who lacked warmth. Dynamic he certainly was, vigorous too, and, of course, a prolific writer. He told me once that most of his fans were teenage girls and it was thanks to them that he was rich. His excessive vanity was revealed by his love of posing in Weatherby’s home for photographs by Tamotsu Yato, who also lived in the house. He would wear only a fundoshi and a hachimaki and brandish a sword. There is a photograph of him so garbed kneeling in the snow in Weatherby’s Japanese garden, looking fierce. No one with a sense of humour could thus have posed. He pub-

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imaginings and beliefs of his fiancée, who is thus greatly dismayed and disillusioned.

Japanese Writers and the West

lished a book of photographs of himself in various guises, one with a rose between his teeth. In my view, the less said about his miserable end the better. I was in Cyprus at the time. Weatherby wrote: ‘You must not think that he was mad.’ A Japanese professor, who came to stay with me shortly after Mishima’s suicide, said: ‘Unbalanced.’ But one must judge a writer on his work, not on his private life. I think that The Temple of the Golden Pavilion [is] his best novel. After the Banquet and Forbidden Colours [are] also good, as is Thirst for Love, and of course The Confessions of a Mask is outstanding. I liked the tetralogy, especially the end of the first volume which contains a splendid scene when Hilda, who knew the protagonist Katazai, her ex-lover, says she’s never heard of him. . . . I never met Kawabata, whom Mishima knew well. I think Mishima was consumed with jealousy when Kawabata won the Nobel prize. . . .

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Traces of a Different Sort of ‘Groupism’ in Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami (b. 1949)

This love romance of Murakami’s is a light-hearted novella. None the less, it constitutes an example of how strongly the group-orientated Japanese psyche underlies the mentality even of the younger generation of novelists whose writing careers started after the Second World War. Superficially, Murakami’s works seem not to reflect the characteristics of the serious side of things, with its challenges to ‘individualism’ and ‘groupism’ as ways of solving the problems of life. As the author himself freely admits in his blurb, the situations in his novella are rather frivolous, and concern the sexual urges of young and middle-aged men and women, without expressing any judgmental views on their behaviour or on society itself. However, a closer examination of a work such as Norwegian Wood reveals that it represents many aspects of the Japanese pleasure in gathering together in clusters. None the less, Murakami’s characters tend to form groups in a distinctly different way from those of his predecessors, such as Soseki, Endo, Mishima or even the Yosanos. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Murakami’s figures avoid direct confrontation with their society and its standard values, while at the same time preferring and often choosing much more private relationships – for example, liaisons characterised by light-hearted sex and music. This absence of a serious-minded sense of responsibility towards one’s society and country can in fact be seen as one of the positive merits of Norwegian Wood, evincing as it does a relaxed atmosphere, and thus enabling the author to attract a massive readership among 61 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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people who are otherwise living in hard-pressed and stressful situations. In fact, the novel sold more than a million copies, to the astonishment even of its author – who eventually took evasive action, and ‘fled’ to Princeton University in the United States for a couple of years because of his fear of being hounded by the mass media for interviews, and by his enthralled public in Japan. Interestingly, Murakami not only shunned the media, but also preferred to be isolated from the ‘establishment’ of contemporary famous writers, possibly because he suspected they would regard him as being not very serious, or indeed merely as an irresponsible writer of best sellers. One type of ‘groupism’ evident in Norwegian Wood is, in my view, that the protagonist and his friends form together a unique triangle of relationships. For example, Toru Watanabe, drifting between the ages of 18 and 21 as a student at a mediocre university in Tokyo, had a friendship with Kizuki (a boy he had known from their younger days but who later committed suicide), and a sexual liaison with a girlfriend, Naoko, to whom he became close after Kizuki’s death. In a similar triangle, Toru forms a relationship with Reiko Ishida, twenty years his senior, who had been a companion, friend and room-mate of Naoko’s at a sanatorium for the mentally deranged in an isolated mountain location some distance from Kyoto. Naoko’s account of her relationship with both Kizuki and the protagonist is amazingly innocent, and seemingly grounded in practicalities: We were like kids who grew up naked on a desert island, if we got hungry, we’d just pick a banana; if we got lonely, we’d go to sleep in each other’s arms. But that kind of thing doesn’t last for ever. We grew up fast and had to enter society.1 It is noteworthy that Naoko understands the appearance of Toru in her relationship with Kizuki as an initiation and introduction into society: ‘We grew up fast and had to enter society. Which is why you were so important to us. You were the link connecting us with the outside. We were struggling through you to fit in with the outside

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Furthermore, Reiko Ishida comments on the merit of their triangular relationship to Toru as follows: ‘ “I think the three of us can help each other – you and Naoko and I – if we really want to, and if we’re really honest. It can be incredibly effective when three people work at it like that.” ’3 (This happens prior to her sexual relationship with him, which occurs only as the finale of the tale, after Naoko’s death – in a parallel way, his relationship with Naoko started only after Kizuki’s suicide, and in that sense each love affair seems to be regulated by a kind of non-promiscuous one-to-one moral code.) Underneath such statements, Murakami’s characters show that they lack confidence in a one-to-one relationship, and feel insecure about it. For them, individual values and initiative fail to enable them to take decisive action or to take risks. Fay Weldon, in her novel The Bulgari Connection expresses a much sharper, ‘analytical’, Western observation on such relationships: ‘But without Flora as catalyst it wouldn’t have happened. A marriage that needed a third person around to bring it to life couldn’t be all that good.’4 As novelists, both Weldon and Murakami can be bracketed together as good storytellers who strongly emphasise the significance of sexual acts in love and relationships. Interestingly, Murakami has been nominated for the Booker Prize in Britain, which even Weldon, a prolific writer, has not achieved. Another stark contrast between Western and Japanese cultures that exemplifies the stronger family orientation in Japanese relationships, is parental control and influence on sons and daughters. However, at a superficial level, most of the young characters in Norwegian Wood appear to be completely free from their parents. Toru’s parents are absent from the story, except briefly when his mother is mentioned, when Toru tells his vivacious girlfriend Midori about his mother’s relish for visiting restaurants in large department stores such as Takashimaya in his home town of Kobe. It used to be a typical leisure activity for a middle-class Japanese housewife to go to a large department store in a city for a combination of shopping, lunching and relaxation, at a time when there were no other such leisure provisions. Even at the time of writing, despite the growth of social and

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world as best we could. In the end it didn’t work, of course.’ I nodded.2

Japanese Writers and the West

cultural opportunities in large cities, such as concerts, operas, exhibitions and various sporting activities, famous department stores have retained their attractiveness as symbols of the decency and aspirations of the middle-class outing. Midori’s mother, on the other hand, whose husband owns a small bookshop in a residential area of Tokyo and who thus belongs to a lower middle class in the Japanese social ladder, never showed any interest in dining out at large stores, partly for economic reasons, as well as for class-based social ones. Midori gave Toru this glimpse of her mother when she first met him at the university; her mother had already by that time died of a brain tumour. Even Midori, is a strong, self-willed girl with a strong and individualistic personality, has to comply with her parents’ wishes as to which private school she should attend. She revealed honestly to Toru her distaste for her exclusive girls’ high school in Yotsuya in Tokyo, but she had to attend it simply in order to satisfy her parents’ vanity of aspiration, and their superiority complex, in feeling that they would belong to a higher class through the status of their daughter’s education. Midori says: ‘I wanted to go to an absolutely ordinary state school with ordinary people, where I could relax and have fun like an ordinary teenager. But my parents thought it would look good for me to go to this fancy place . . . The teacher tells your parents, “With marks like hers, she ought to go there.” So that’s where I ended up. I went for six years and I never liked it. All I could think about was getting out.’5 Thus not only the parents but also the teachers had a strong controlling influence over the future direction of young people. More importantly, Murakami does not mention the religious (Catholic) background of the famous school for high society girls located in Yotsuya, which Murakami uses as his model in his novel. In fact, it has a long history as a convent school; one of the most prominent of its former pupils was the late mother of the present Empress, Michiko. Often in Japan, Westernisation has been delivered through private mission schools for boys and girls, which put strong emphasis in their teaching on Christianity, as well as on foreign languages, especially English. It seems that the girls tend to be much

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more susceptible than their male counterparts to becoming converted to Christianity, and even baptized. They then tend to nurture Christianity in their home life after marriage, thus forming a vehicle for the successful inheritance of both Western culture and Christianity from generation to generation. One such example was the mother of Shusaku Endo, who went on to try to educate her son in those historic traditions. In Murakami’s story, Reiko Ishida disappointed her parents, because her ambition to be a concert pianist, which had looked very promising at an early stage, was dashed by the onset of pain and disease in her fingers. This totally unexpected and cruel blow of fate destroyed her life’s dreams and triggered the mental illness which was to confine her to a distant sanatorium for many years, thus isolating her from any ordinary life, and from the sustenance and support of family and friends in society. Furthermore, her husband’s parents disowned him because he had married Reiko, at that time his piano teacher, against their wishes. They were hostile to the match because of her history of mental illness, and the shame they would feel about welcoming their prospective daughter-in-law into their group and family. The difference between Soseki’s characters in Kokoro and Murakami’s in Norwegian Wood is that the former at least specifically aim to be individualists, and have a much more acute sense of social consciousness, being aware of their isolation from the group and from society, in general with a hint of guilt and regret. For example, the narrator oscillates in his mind between, on the one hand, the dream he has nurtured as a disciple of the Sensei, to imitate his freer and more individualistic way of living, as in having no fixed career or earnings with which to support himself; and on the other hand the strong pressure he always felt from his parents and siblings to find a career, even if it involved asking his mentor/Sensei for help. The narrator knew too well that he should plan to lead his life in the manner expected of the son of a well-respected middle-class family who had graduated from the best university – Teidai – with good grades and a high level of attainment. Compared with this orthodox notion of Western individualism embodied by Soseki’s narrator, Murakami’s protagonist and his friends in Norwegian Wood are less individualistic, and also have a much weaker sense of social awareness and responsibility, even

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towards each other. They all seem to aim at being different from other people, but not truly unique and individualistic in the manner of the more seriously liberated and personalised figure of Soseki’s Sensei. For example, Toru Watanabe, the protagonist in Norwegian Wood, is a mediocre eighteen-year-old with little social ambition and few future dreams, studying at a mediocre university; it happened to be the 1970s, a period characterised by rampantly radical student movements driven by sectarianism. These movements absorbed all the students’ attention, resulting in an indifference to anything or anyone else on the campus, an indifference reciprocated by the teaching staff, none of whom therefore became Toru’s mentor or sensei. Toru found some suitable part-time work in a record shop in Shinjuku, where he worked in the evenings, and where he could enjoy listening to Western music across its whole range from Bach to the Beatles. Thus he made for himself a niche within his small circle, his routine and his world, maintaining a largely irresponsible daily life of girlfriends and free sex. Toru Watanabe seems to be reading Western novels, such as Unterm Rad (literally, Under the Wheel, though translated as The Prodigy) by the German author Herman Hesse, and short stories by the American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. However, the readers of Norwegian Wood are never told what kind of influence, if any, those Western writers have on his understanding of himself, his environs, or of the wider world in general, in which he was growing up. Neither are we informed as to the reasons why Toru, Reiko and the others preferred Western music, or how they really enjoyed it, or what impact it may have had on their personalities, lives or relationships. This non-analytical and non-explanatory approach to characterisation by this author renders the novella rather shallow and contributes to its somewhat frivolous tone. Even the real reason for Kizuki’s suicide is not explained, which gives the reader an unsettled feeling that tends to obstruct a fuller understanding of Toru’s love for Kizuki’s former girlfriend Naoko, and of her mysterious lovelife and close relationship with Kizuki. Compared with the male characters, who are on the whole common, uninteresting and stereotyped, Midori, Toru’s livelier and slightly wild girlfriend, is presented as unique, self-reliant and independent, a more rounded human being. None the less, even she is unfortunately not as much of an individual as Endo’s French

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lover, Françoise Pastre, was able to be, in the Western way; yet in her very Japanese-minded and group-orientated way of thinking, she preferred to choose different norms from those chosen by others. She first approached Toru in a restaurant, because she had noticed with pleasure his small act of defiance in the classroom, where he challenged both a lecturer and his fellow students by refusing to answer the roll-call. No student would ordinarily choose to be recorded as absent when they were in fact present. Indeed, the very opposite would be more predictable – that is, for a friend to answer for an absentee during roll-call – a trick going by the name of daihen. Equally, Midori challenged her fellow citizens in her town by an act of self-willed defiance when fire broke out in some nearby houses. She led Toru, who had come to visit her and taste her cooking, to the rooftop of her house, where there was a sort of veranda where the family hung their washing. Here they embarked on a small feast with beer, and sang songs loudly to the accompaniment of a guitar, while enjoying a good view of the fire as it spread, and of the fire engines, fire-fighters and rescue teams, among the panic-stricken neighbours who were rushing around without apparent purpose or direction. Even the self-effacing Toru was alarmed by Midori’s venturesome spirit in such an action, and advised her not to antagonize her neighbours. How would a Western individualist have behaved in such an emergency? Certainly not like Midori, who gave full rein to her selfish and impulsive motives, mistakenly treating the dangerous fire as if it were a mere spectacle, a firework display decorating the night sky. Such a shallow appreciation of and reaction to reality shows her youthful naivety and her lack of experience. Françoise Pastre would have been more likely to join in with the rescue teams as they tried to help the panic-stricken neighbours, and calm their nerves. In other words, she would have chosen a course of action based on her sense of social responsibility, communal spirit and solidarity. Being merely different from other people and the group, which is Midori’s option, and being a true individual, as in the case of Françoise Pastre, need to be clearly distinguished; but in Japan there is still very little analytical understanding of this difference. As the following quotation reveals, Toru was attracted by Midori’s ‘animal-like’ liveliness and her changes of mood:

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Japanese Writers and the West

A fresh and physical life force surged from the girl who sat before me now. She was like a small animal that has popped into the world with the coming of spring. Her eyes moved like an independent organism with joy, laughter, anger, amazement and despair. I hadn’t seen a face so vivid and expressive in ages, and I enjoyed watching it live and move.6 As Soseki mentions in his comments on the individualistic life, being different can also mean to be isolated and lonely, apart from the group. For example, looking at various campus scenes at his university, Toru felt some sadness and loneliness in himself, in that he did not belong to any groups: It was the usual midday university scene, but as I sat watching it with renewed attention, I became aware of something. In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn’t tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one there who was not truly part of the scene.7 At some point on an earlier occasion in the story, Toru seemed to identify himself with ephemeral transitoriness and the sad pathos of the short life of a firefly – beautifully described in this novel, and a traditional, almost stereotypical Japanese delight in transitory beauty as represented by the image of cherry blossom: ‘Long after the firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained inside me, its pale, faint glow hovering on and on in the thick darkness behind my eyelids like a lost soul.’8 As is revealed here, real life was still beyond Toru’s grasp, and he was living in a very Japanese-like world of vagueness and ambiguity: ‘More than once I tried stretching my hand out in the dark. My fingers touched nothing. The faint glow remained, just beyond my grasp.9 As a Japanese-minded young student, in comparison with Midori’s apparently ‘Westernised’ free-thinking and her pursuit of a different lifestyle from others, Toru well realised the difficulties inherent in trying to understand other human beings – particularly someone like Naoko, whom he dearly loved:

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I gave her an honest account of my feelings. There was a lot I still didn’t understand, I said, and though I was trying hard to understand, it would take time . . . For one thing, we knew too little of each other. If, however, she would grant me the time, I would give it my best effort, and the two of us would come to know each other better. In any case, I wanted to see her again and have a good long talk.10 Toru was determined that he should let Naoko know of the hard effort he was putting in to achieve some sort of understanding between the two of them: Some people get a kick out of reading railway timetables and that’s all they do all day. Some people make huge model boats out of matchsticks. So what’s wrong if there happens to be one guy in the world who enjoys trying to understand you?11 Naoko was neither sure of, nor concerned by, his seriousness. Thus she responded to him in a rather sarcastic tone: ‘Kind of like a hobby?’ she said, amused. ‘Yeah, I guess you could call it a hobby. Most normal people would call it friendship or love or something, but if you want to call it a hobby, that’s OK too.’12 Behind the mask of mediocrity, Toru hid a strongly independent mind, as is shown by the fact that he did not go home or to his parents in search of consolation and comfort when he heard the devastating news of Naoko’s suicide. Instead, he travelled alone to isolated country places, sleeping rough on the sea shore, sometimes being rescued by a stranger, such as when a local fisherman took pity on his destitute state, and offered him food and sake. Toru came to an end of his sufferings, and eventually overcame his grief and despair, recovering his radical self and regenerating his youthfulness by his own efforts, without relying on anyone; he needed no family, friends, or close confidants. This represents a sad example of a kind of Japanese solipsism, the solitariness of a man who has never experienced the Western style of communal spirit or mutual help and assistance. Being different from others is another form or manifestation of Japanese ‘individualism’. For example, a protagonist is often seen to relish admiring and ‘communicating’ with the moon, especially if

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The moon was so bright, I turned the lights off and stretched out on the sofa to listen to Bill Evans’ piano. Streaming in through the window, the moonlight cast long shadows and splashed the walls with a touch of diluted Indian ink. I took a thin metal flask from my rucksack, let my mouth fill with the brandy it contained, allowed the warmth to move slowly down my throat to my stomach, and from there felt it spreading to every extremity. After a final sip, I closed the flask and returned it to my rucksack. Now the moonlight seemed to be swaying with the music. Twenty minutes later, Naoko and Reiko came back from the bath. ‘Oh! It was so dark here, we thought you had packed your bags and gone back to Tokyo!’ exclaimed Reiko. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t seen such a bright moon for years. I wanted to look at it with the lights off.’ ‘It’s lovely, though,’ said Naoko. ‘Reiko, do we still have those candles from the last power cut?’ ‘Probably, in a kitchen drawer.’13 When he was in grief because of Naoko’s death, wandering the strange shores of Tottori or the hidden parts of Hyogo, a young fisherman took pity on him and offered him ¥5000 for board and decent lodging, rather than the rugged beach. Toru, however, declined this kind offer, saying that he couldn’t accept that as well, on top of sushi and sake: The young fisherman came back half an hour later with two boxes of sushi and a new bottle of sake. I should eat the top box straight away because that had fish in it, he said, but the bottom box had only nori rolls and deep-fried tofu skins so they would last all tomorrow. He filled both our glasses with sake from the new bottle. I thanked him and polished off the whole top box myself, though it had more than enough for two. After we had drunk as much sake as we could manage, he offered to put me up for the night, but when I said I would rather sleep alone on the beach, he left it at that. As he stood to go, he took and folded a ¥5000 note from

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sipping brandy; this Toru Watanabe did when he paid a visit to his beloved girlfriend Naoko and her soulmate, Reiko:

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Toru none the less declined, saying: I said he had done more than enough for me and that I couldn’t accept money on top of everything else, but he refused to take it back. ‘It’s not money,’ he said, ‘it’s my feelings. Don’t think about it too much, just take it.’ All I could do was thank him and accept it.15 The reactions from both parties – the young fisherman and Toru – reflect very much the Japanese group-orientated psyche in their ways of tying a knot of relationship with others. For example, the young fisherman who refused to take back the money Toru had declined tried to explain by just saying ‘It’s not money, it’s my feelings’. One of the most important factors in the establishment of a firm human bond in a Japanese relationship is the exchange not of tangible objects, such as the money, but of kimochi – one’s feelings, sympathy or compassion. It is interesting to know that even the less well educated and comparatively unsophisticated fisherman bears in his mind an indelible mark of the traditional Japanese respect and regard for feelings of others, and of consideration especially for those who are in a troubled and often weakened or distressed state. This kind of consideration is often also well nurtured in the generally conformist and group-orientated mentality of the Japanese social environment. As for Toru, he is unmistakably programmed by the Japanese sense of giri and ninjo, even in his young mind; this sense usually binds the older generations through the sense of duty in the reciprocation of on – debts of gratitude. Although eventually accepting the fisherman’s kind offer (of about £25), one of the reasons for his initial refusal is subconsciously but none the less clearly present, and represents his continuing sense of giri. What he is refusing is to embark on the process of accumulating bonds based on debts of gratitude. He reflects that the fisherman-stranger ‘had done more than enough, and I couldn’t accept money on top of everything else’. Such a sharp reaction to the susceptibility to on is, as I have observed and explained several times before, unique to the Japanese

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his pocket and shoved it into the pocket of my shirt. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘get yourself some healthy food. You look awful.’14

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psyche, to the extent that it is almost second nature to the people. It may appear to be a rather trivial and trite syndrome at first sight, but in fact it conceals considerable and significant problems, even having an impact on such a huge issue as Japanese difficulties in accepting Christianity, in the way that it obstructs the concept of pure acceptance of Christ’s love in faith, with the Japanese sense of giri (duty) and on (debts of gratitude). In other words, the Japanese can’t accept the love or kindness of others straightforwardly, without thinking of the ties of giri, and this negative evaluation almost always hinders the pure and childlike acceptance of God’s love, which would encourage believers to ‘give and take’ as freely as God would, without the sense of doubt, obligation, duty or bondage, but purely, unconditionally and genuinely. In conclusion, Norwegian Wood looks at first sight like a mere description of scenes of young people enjoying a Western-style individualism. However, on closer examination, it turns out to be full of glimpses of the Japanese group-orientated mentality, traditional but still continuing among the younger generation, who are too young to have experienced defeat in the Second World War, and did not live through the changes in Japanese society during the traumatic period following it. One of the marks of the ‘individualism’ of Murakami’s characters is the state of being different from others, represented by the vivacious student, Midori, who becomes Toru’s girlfriend to whom he returns with assured confidence and love after the death of his first love, Naoko. As in Midori’s case, being different does not carry as such any social responsibility, sense of justice or communal consciousness. Yet it is interesting to note that ‘being different from others’ matters a great deal to these young people, and this might represent the promising start of a budding individualism in Japanese society. Murakami and his novels have numerous British fans; and they communicate both with the author and with each other via his internet website. I asked two young such fans – Marilyn Thompson and Richard Savage, both of whom work in Cambridge – why they are so enthusiastic about his works. According to Marilyn Thompson, Murakami is Britain’s biggest-selling Japanese author, and indeed one of the most popular authors overall. The reasons for their love of Murakami’s work seem to fall into three broad categories. The first of these is his mixing of genres – for

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example, juxtaposing in a single work a hard-boiled detective story, a metaphysical novel, a poignant love story and a fairy tale. It is often the case that this kind of mixture and juxtaposition are characteristic of a favoured style in Japanese culture. For example, at a Japanese-style dinner, all the courses may be delivered to the diners at the same time – soup, main course and dessert. This is quite different from the Western practice of presenting one course at a time. The second reason for the popularity of Murakami’s novels is, in the words of Richard Savage, a kind of restraint in the writing, which reminds him somewhat of the work of Kazuo Ishiguro. Murakami’s restraint and reservation contrast sharply with the recklessness of young Western writers. Richard Savage says: So many young Western writers try too hard to explore alternative worlds of sex, drugs and rock-and-roll, whereas Murakami reminds me of Kazuo Ishiguro (especially The Unconsoled), rather than all the imitators of Martin Amis. A mixture of restraint and formal innovation provoke a more ambivalent response from the reader. Third, Marilyn Thompson values the unpredictability of Murakami’s plots and characters, whereas Richard Savage seems to be attracted by his marginalised characters, especially as they may strike the Western reader as fresh and surprising, in the context of the stereotyped view that they probably have of Japan as a highly organised collective and spiritually ‘serious’ society. Thus, for some Western readers, such as Richard Savage, Murakami’s characters, including Toru and Midori in Norwegian Wood, can represent the strands of individualism existing in such a group-orientated society with its emphasis on giri. Interestingly, this is not so far from my own view and analysis of Norwegian Wood; though Murakami’s individualism reflects a new post-war pattern of thought in which some people seek to be free from social obligations, duty, or the awareness of oneself as having responsibility for others.

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Shusaku Endo (1923–96): His Japanese Context and Its Importance in the Analysis of His Relationship with Françoise Pastre (1930–71) Endo’s love affair with Françoise Mitabungaku is one of the best-known literary journals of Japan, founded mainly by the literature graduates of Keio University, whose main literature faculty is located in Mita in Tokyo, giving the journal its title. It was at one time edited by Endo himself. In its autumn 1999 issue (volume 59) there was a surprising contribution from Geneviève Pastre, revealing that there had been a love affair between the youthful Endo and her late younger sister, Françoise. The affair started in France in 1953, and ended painfully in 1971 with Françoise’s death from cancer, in the context of her profound despair at the lack of any caring love for her on Endo’s part. The affair reminds one poignantly of the sad and unfulfilled love relationship between Aki Hayashi and Edmund Blunden, which took place similarly against the background of the meeting of two cultures. Geneviève’s article on her sister was translated into Japanese by Tetsuo Takayama, professor of French literature at Keio University in Tokyo. Her original text was written in French, and she regrets that, at Professor Takayama’s suggestion, she omitted four sections relating to Françoise’s personal record of her philosophical studies. She gave me a copy of the original text without these omissions. This has been translated into English and is presented as Appendix 2 in this book. The love affair between Endo and Françoise Pastre – though Endo denied there was any sexual relationship between them – was 75 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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revealed for the first time in his book, The Hill at Rouen (Rouen no oka), published posthumously by Endo’s widow, Junko, in 1998. Geneviève Pastre paid tribute to Junko and acknowledged her courage and consideration for her sister Françoise. Interestingly, Endo concealed his love affair from his wife and friends during his lifetime, as Blunden did with regard to Aki Hayashi at the begining of their affair. Endo met Françoise in 1953 when they were both at university in France; she was 22 and he was 29. He was studying French literature, while her main subject was philosophy. They fell in love with each other. Soon afterwards, however, Endo became seriously ill with tuberculosis, which required his hospitalisation. On the advice of his doctors, Endo left France for an operation and period of full convalescence under the loving care of his family and friends in Japan. The Hill at Rouen clearly depicts Endo’s close relationship with Françoise. She accompanied him on his farewell journey to Marseille, from where he embarked for Japan. Most strikingly, Endo promised he would marry Françoise in due course, either by summoning her to Japan, or by he himself returning to France. During their ‘romantic’ three-day journey they shared intimate time together in train compartments and hotels. Nevertheless, Endo denied any ‘physical misbehaviour’ en route, though he does mention sharing a bed with her in one hotel. As Geneviève notes in her article, there may have been some fanciful editorial touches added to his account, overdramatising the real facts, and only he and Françoise could have known the truth. Seemingly, Endo wants to stress the innocence of their love, by repeatedly mentioning that he had never touched her before they were to be married. Geneviève Pastre also acknowledged in her article in Mitabungaku that her sister had never been sexually attached to Endo. However, Françoise mentioned later in the 1960s in a letter to Endo, quoted by Geneviève, that while she was teaching French fulltime at Dokkyo University near Tokyo she was brooding on the prospect of having a child either by Endo or through adoption. There is no account of his reaction to her bold and desperate search for self-rescue from her loneliness and suffering in her hopeless love situation. Endo in fact married a Japanese woman, Junko Okada, in 1955 in Tokyo, without telling Françoise. Geneviève Pastre accuses Endo

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of betraying his promise of marriage to Françoise, and she herself accused him of neglecting it because she was far away from him at that time. This ‘betrayal’, though founded on many cultural and perhaps inevitable premises, caused Françoise and her sister a long period of emotional distress, depression and despair, in both France and Japan. Ten years after Endo married, and by then fully aware of his status, Françoise set off for Japan, to teach French at Sapporo University, on the northern island of Hokkaido. By then she had become a specialist in Japanese language and culture at the University of Paris. Though inevitably influenced by her relationship with Endo, her interest in Japanese culture seemed to have become genuine, and she was attracted by it as having the most delicate, sensitive and refined aesthetic, well matching her own exquisite sensibility. In Japan, she met up with Endo, and they used to discuss his ‘novels, Christianity and God, and Franco-Japanese cultural differences’. Soon her Japanese friends found a full-time teaching post for her at Dokkyo University near Tokyo, enabling her to mingle better with the inner circle of Japanese cultural personalities. She made friends with well-known artists, painters and critics, such as Shuichi Kato, Keiichi Tate, and her colleague, the French teacher, Kyoko Ogura. None of Françoise’s friends seemed to imagine or surmise the true nature of her relationship with Endo, now a famous novelist in the Japanese literary world. Françoise herself had a genuinely French ‘Western’ sensibility, concerned with evaluating truth and pursuing interests directly, in contrast to the compromising harmony and relativism of Japanese values, which often prevailed among Endo’s circle of Japanese friends.

Endo’s silence to Françoise about his marriage According to the article published in 2000 by Tetsuo Takayama in Shincho, Françoise Pastre was engaged to a Frenchman at the time she met Endo. As she broke off this engagement in the hope of marrying Endo, we can understand the depth of her disappointment and despair when she became aware in 1957 of Endo’s betrayal of his marriage promise. In a sense, she had lost everything she had planned and hoped for in her love-life.

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

As for Endo’s silence to Françoise regarding his marriage to the Japanese woman, Junko, many interpretations might be possible; Takayama, in comments at the end of his article, ascribes Endo’s silence mainly to his kind consideration for Françoise. In other words, Endo was extremely cautious and polite in his Japanese way, and particularly did not wish to hurt her by telling her his decision clearly and directly. He thus chose Japanese ambiguity as the best way to avoid possible confrontation. Considering Endo’s ample knowledge and experience of the West, and France in particular, one might however wonder if Endo had more tactical reasons for choosing the course of not letting Françoise know about his marriage. Had he informed her of it straightforwardly, such a smart and shrewd man as Endo must have realised perfectly well that his strong-willed French ‘fiancée’ might have tried with all her might to wreck his planned marriage before it materialised. That is my own interpretation of Endo’s silence, knowing of his complex personality and subtlety, and his competence in handling worldly matters in his life.

The significance of Françoise as a reminder of Endo’s Western experiences Ten years after his marriage, Endo contacted Françoise anew when he visited France, accompanied by his wife, in 1965. Soon after this, Françoise went to teach French in Sapporo, on the northern island of Hokkaido, moving two years later to Tokyo to take up a full-time teaching post at Dokkyo University in Saitama Prefecture. They had been meeting as friends, discussing Endo’s works, cultural differences between France and Japan, and various philosophical matters Françoise might have been interested in as a philosopher. She keenly and dutifully tried to translate Endo’s major novel The Silence, sometimes making extremely harsh comments to him on his lack of ‘unselfish’ objectivity regarding his own works. Her translation remained unfinished, partly because of her untimely death. Françoise almost accused Endo of the trait of ‘thinking only about his own welfare and the satisfaction of his ego’, which, she believed,

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was reflected in (Father) Rodrigues’ attitudes to the poor, tortured, suppressed and persecuted Catholic peasants in the novel The Silence. She put it to Endo, to his great outrage and anger, that Rodrigues had been concerned only with escape from his own sufferings – which had resulted from his being forced to see, hear and experience his faithful followers’ excruciatingly agonizing persecutions and death. ‘Rodrigues did not think of God, but only of himself’, Françoise wrote to Endo, in the context of her interpretation of The Silence’s main theme. There is a novel by the Catholic author, Graham Greene, entitled The Power and the Glory, which also focuses on the figure of a persecuted priest. In Greene’s novel, we are given a clear picture of this so-called ‘whisky priest’, who was hunted like a hare, and of the social environment in which he was enveloped during an anti-clerical purge in one of the southern states of Mexico: [Padre José] walked very slowly among the tombs because of his bulk: he could be alone here, there were no children about, and he could waken a faint sense of homesickness which was better than no feeling at all. He had buried some of these people. His small inflamed eyes turned here and there.1 . . . that was the trouble – he could trust no one . . . He walked backwards all the time, weaving his plump fingers, shaking his head . . . He was scared, and yet a curious pride bubbled in his throat, because he was being treated as a priest again, with respect. ‘If I could,’ he said, ‘my children. . . .’ Suddenly and unexpectedly there was agony in the cemetery. They had been used to losing children, but they hadn’t been used to what the rest of the world knows best of all – the hope which peters out.2 By comparison, Endo’s characterisation of Rodrigues, the protagonist in The Silence, is barely sufficient, though he does hint at reasons for his minimal account of that character, in dialogue with another Japanese writer.3

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

Though the period of their collaboration was short, lasting only about five years until Françoise’s tragic death from breast cancer in 1971, Endo must have been acutely reminded by her of his close and fateful bonds with the West – she may indeed have been for him a symbol of the Cross, with a sense of guilt and regret weighing on Endo’s Christian conscience for the rest of his life. He is said to have remarked: ‘Just by passing through someone, a person can influence his or her whole life.’

Junko Ogura’s reminiscence of Françoise Pastre Junko Ogura, a scholar of French literature and emeritus professor at Dokkyo University, whom I interviewed in Tokyo in May 2000, remembers Françoise, who was one of her colleagues almost thirty years ago, as a kind, sensitive, quiet yet very friendly person, and said that she had never mentioned or revealed her close relationship with Endo to anyone, not even Mrs Ogura herself, as if it were a secret ‘treasure’ shared and remembered only by her and Endo. On one occasion, however, when Françoise was taken ill (possibly with the first intimations of breast cancer), Professor Ogura remembers hearing from one of her friends that Françoise’s urgent entry into Keio University Hospital was swiftly arranged by Shusaku Endo. After undergoing an unsuccessful operation there, Françoise moved to the hospital of the National Cancer Research Institute in Tsukiji, Tokyo. Professor Ogura reminisced about how on another occasion Françoise revealed how sensitively she could feel towards animals, especially birds. Françoise was out on an excursion with Professor Ogura and another colleague to the coast of Chiba Prefecture, passing through a Flamingo Centre where many flamingoes were (and still are) trained to perform or dance for paying audiences. Françoise must have felt it was cruel to exploit the birds commercially in such an amusement centre. She said to Mrs Ogura that she could not bear to look at the ‘forced labour’ of the flamingo performance, and left the group, standing apart from the seemingly naive Japanese crowd. If Françoise had stayed longer in Japan, she may well have encountered many more such ‘cruelties’, such as abandoned cats and dogs, which many foreign visitors had found in Japan after the Second World War. There was (and regrettably still is) no Japanese equivalent of

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well-respected organisations such as the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), and cruelty to animals is still rampant. Ironically, Endo may have been right to choose a Japanese wife, well aware of the troubles that might be caused by a Western-born wife coming across countless cultural rifts and discrepancies. After marrying Junko, Endo became very much the Japanese Teishukanpaku, or ‘Lord Husband’, treating her in the way that oldstyle Japanese husbands used to. For example, when Endo went to the Vatican with other Catholic writers such as Shumon Miura and Otohiko Kaga to be presented to the Pope, he strangely refused her request to be included in the presentation group, as she recalls in her book Homework Left by My Late Husband (Otto no shukudai), on the grounds that, although she was a Catholic travelling with the group to Italy, she was not a member of the literary group. His attitude contrasts oddly with the considerate and loving husband role that he is usually assumed to have taken. In my interview with Mrs Endo in May 1998 I asked her what sort of comments she would expect her late husband to have made about her lively literary activities after his death. In addition to her memory of him Homework Left by My Late Husband, she has edited Endo’s posthumous work The Hill at Rouen, and has made several television appearances, written newspaper articles and given lectures. She told me bluntly and cynically that he would say ‘a humble and lowly woman like you must remain withdrawn, at the back, not appearing at the front of the stage’.

Endo’s strong tendency to be extremely Japanese As shown in his attitude to his wife, Endo seemed to possess a genuinely Japanese male mentality in his heart and mind – domineering, egocentric, and yet philanthropic like a Buddha, believing in everybody’s spiritual salvation. He was also a protector, helper and boss (oyabun), and a father figure to his many protégés and dependants. In fact, one of the groups over which he presided was the Kiza (literally meaning ‘Theatre of the Tree’ in Kanji, but also implying phonetically, according to the katakana characters, ‘being dandy and showy’). On 30 December 1999, during a trip to Sotome, where many of

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

the scenes in The Silence are set, I interviewed an interesting man called Toyohiko Otake. Mr Otake, who still owns a sushi shop in Nagasaki, became an ardent protégé of Endo’s, ‘commuting’ to Tokyo by air to attend the meetings and rehearsals of Kiza. Endo dutifully became a godfather to Otake’s son when he launched himself into professional acting, offering his own name, Shusaku, as Otake’s son’s stage name. In such ways, Endo’s philanthropic sense seemed to be boundless. As a Catholic believer in Japan, where Buddhism and Shintoism remain the major religions, Endo may have felt greatly ill-at-ease, being a Catholic novelist while at the same time carrying in considerable degree the strong traits of the Japanese ‘male protector’ psyche. In order to resolve such disagreeable inner conflicts Endo must subconsciously have found a way to compromise, and settle himself with security, safety and ease in a conformist society; the conscious principle of ‘love and mercy for all’, familiar to Christians, also traditionally and psychologically appeals to the Japanese mind and Buddhism. On the other hand, Endo also tried faithfully to spread Catholic beliefs in Japan. Starting with his own circle of literary friends, both novelists and critics alike, he was well known for his missionary-like or even evangelical activities, persistently advocating to his secular friends that they should be baptized. However, he knew exactly whom he should target to ‘convert’ – for example, Mr Otake told me in our interview that he had never been approached by Endo for possible baptism, at which he looked rather regretful. However, Endo did convert a number of Japanese novelists successfully to Catholicism – for example, such as Otohiko Kaga and Shotaro Yasuoka. Otake first met Endo in 1965 when Endo was visiting Nagasaki to carry out research for The Silence and to write the novel. He often went there without his wife, and therefore needed someone to provide his meals. Endo went to Otake’s sushi shop almost every day, and the latter realised how badly in need Endo was of decent food. After a week or two Otake began to offer him other food, more like home cooking – nimono (cooked vegetables with soy sauce, sugar and rice wine) – cooked by Otake’s wife. Endo gladly accepted this offer, and he and Otake became close lifelong friends. Otake joined the Kiza, and his plane journeys to Tokyo from Nagasaki took place almost every weekend for several months as he attended its meetings

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and rehearsals. Kiza stages a performance every year at a prestigious and renowned theatre such as Teigeki (the Imperial Theatre in Hibiya Ward, Tokyo), and even professional performers would be keen to appear in its annual shows. Endo sent his foreign friends to Otake’s sushi shop – Euan Cameron and Anthony Thwaite dropped in when visiting Nagasaki. Endo would telephone from Tokyo, often at such short notice that Otake had to prepare everything by himself; Endo would use the short phrase Tanondayo, meaning ‘I leave all to you and your good judgment’. Otake could not speak English but seemingly communicated with Endo’s friends by using only a couple of phrases, such as ‘How do you do’ or ‘Please’. He would place a Japanese–English dictionary under the sushi counter in case of communication problems with Endo’s foreign guests. Endo would ask whether there could be any other response in English to sushi than ‘delicious’. Endo revealed some other peculiarly Japanese traits in his poignant relationship with Françoise Pastre. He showed a desire to avoid confrontation, an inclination for ‘groupism’ in contrast to Western individualism, a certain awareness of sin, a strong sense of shame and loyalty, a kind of fatalism (en, or ‘karma’), and resignation to human weakness. On the other hand, he must have learned from Françoise about the importance to her of European humanism and French liberalism, which influenced and stimulated her philosophical way of thinking. Regarding the avoidance of confrontation, Endo could and should as an honourable man have written to Françoise about his intention to marry a Japanese woman, even if he was not in a position to tell her face to face; but his silence constitutes a choice, intentional or otherwise, to avoid any sort of confrontation, even indirectly. Endo’s awareness and appreciation of liberalism and humanism are well reflected in his works, such as The Silence and The Deep River. In The Silence he extends the interpretation of divine salvation to include even fallen priests and persecutors; in The Deep River it even encompasses a sceptical priest. His European-style liberalism, under the possible influence of philosophical discussions with Françoise, angered conventionally-minded Japanese Catholics, and some Jesuit priests in Tokyo even preached against him from the pulpit. Although in the early 1950s Endo had intended to stay only for two years in Japan in order to receive treatment for his tuberculosis,

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

he married a Japanese wife and never returned to stay in France, thus breaking his promise of marriage to Françoise. One reason for this behaviour may have been his adherence to Japanese ‘groupism’. Endo wrote about that subject, a most characteristic mentality of the Japanese, in his novel The Sea and the Poison, in which Japanese doctors, without much sense of guilt, operated on some of the American prisoners of war. They felt secure in doing this because of their sense of conformity to the group and loyalty to the Emperor. According to Endo’s interpretation in his working of the theme, the amount of guilt felt by the Japanese doctors as they murdered American PoWs would have been no more than a ‘drop of poison’ falling into the ocean – hence the title of the novel. They must have known personally that they were committing a grave crime against humanity by using medical procedures intended for the saving of life as a means of torturing people and terminating lives.

Endo’s advocacy of ‘sad’ aspects of Japanese Catholicism Françoise Pastre is unlikely to have influenced Endo with regard to the Catholic faith, as she made it clear that she did not share it. She was a non-religious academic and philosopher; her thesis had concerned the use of the verb ‘to be’ in Plato’s writings. She valued only human conscience, and ‘being true to one’s own self’ was much more important to her than faith. As is almost legendary, Endo inherited his Catholic belief from his strong-willed mother, almost interpreting it as his fate and as the faithful and loyal duty of a son towards his mother. During his life, particularly when he was young, he attempted to discard his religion on a number of occasions, wishing to be free from the bonds that the Catholic faith (as well as his mother) could impose on him. He wanted to become independent of their clutches. This element of fateful motherly inheritance in his faith – in the sense that it arrived without his own spontaneous initiative – might have coloured it as dark, sad and pessimistic. In every Christian denomination, I believe that one should value hope much higher than despair, love much more than hatred, joy more than sadness. Yet, by tradition and custom, Japanese Catholicism tends to be gloomier than Protestantism, much more so than the evangelical chapels and so on, and often seems to lack the qualities and ingre-

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dients of joy, love and hope. The Catholic churches had an aura of surviving by the routine repetition of the Mass and of the importance of Holy Communion and other rituals. Endo’s dominantly pessimistic tendency in his understanding of his faith seems to influence Rodrigues’ failure in the novel The Silence to guide the persecuted and poverty-stricken peasants out of spiritual and physical misery despair, into the hopeful salvation and resurrection of Christ in another world. In The Silence, Endo seems to be much more concerned with Rodrigues’ relationship with another character, Yajiro, as a form modelled on that of Christ and Judas and his betrayal, than with the difficult problems of spiritual salvation. Yajiro was a weak peasant and devout Catholic who sold Rodrigues to the authorities of the Bakufu (the government at that time), possibly much more for the money than out of any other particular weakness. Endo was so preoccupied with following this well known biblical betrayal story that it almost seems that he forgot to develop and deepen the Rodrigues–Yajiro saga. It could well have been used to mirror and illustrate cultural differences between Japan and the West regarding the depth of faith. Thus Rodrigues might have found a way to save the Japanese ‘clandestine Christians’ (kakure kirishitan), and even himself, and bring about a much more gloriously hopeful ending to their sufferings, mirroring Christ’s resurrection after the Crucifixion. Rodrigues might well have been able to avoid trampling on an icon of Christ (fumie), and reverse the ignominy of being forced to wear a Japanese Buddhist habit, to marry a Japanese woman who had her own child by a former husband executed for criminal offences – and worst of all being forced to work for the government, as his mentor Jesuit did, against Christians and proselytising for Buddhist-style prosperity. Endo’s lack of joy and pleasure in his faith reflects his personification and presentation of Christ as a saviour in his novels, in which he embodies him as a weak and helpless human being: Rodrigues, whom Endo describes in The Silence as a Portuguese missionary, tall, young and well-built. His outward physical strength struck the Japanese onlookers in the villages near Nagasaki most forcefully when he was arrested by the town officials and led in handcuffs to their official headquarters. Despite this outward power, he was a weak man, swaying from the inner faith in which he was tutored by his

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

mentor and ending up suffering from his extreme experience of the sight and sound of the torture of other men and women believers. In The Deep River, Endo’s last novel about the pursuit of faith, written during his period of suffering from tuberculosis, diabetes and kidney disease, he portrays another weak Japanese priest and Brother who had been expelled from a Catholic monastery in France because of his ambiguous, Japanese-style ‘philanthropic’ Buddhist faith. He travelled and eventually reached the banks of the River Ganges in India, where he worked as a bearer of corpses. He had also gladly accepted numerous other humiliations aimed at him by his sarcastic former girlfriend, Mitsuko. He even raised no voice of protest when Mitsuko suggested that they should refer to God and Christ as ‘onions’! In the end, Mitsuko witnessed the violent death of this excommunicated priest when he was attacked by a group of other Indian corpse-bearers and thugs. There may be much discussion as to whether it is justifiable to portray Christ as such a weak figure. To me he was a powerful figure, wise, clever and courageous, who showed much compassion and love to those who were poor, weak and suffering. He had courageously turned over all the vendors’ stalls in the temple, accusing them of soiling God’s sacred place. He was powerful enough to bring about miracles and healings. He advised his followers to be wise and cautious so that they would not be betrayed by their oppressors, nonChristians, Philistines or prosecutors. He is God himself incarnated into human form. Endo’s perception of a weaker Christ might have been one of his Japanese reactions against what he had seen in France in his youth – highly glorified images of God embodied in all aspects of the arts, painting, statues, music and particularly architecture, such as the cathedral at Lyon. In another novel, The Woman I Abandoned (Watashi ga suteta onna), Endo describes a trite woman who gave to men and women alike all she had, both physically and spiritually. Mitsu, a plain and ordinary woman in her twenties, offered her body to a common man of average salary who was interested only in sex, women and company promotion, having graduated from a ‘mass production’ private university where he had neither developed his intellectual ability nor deepened his sensibility. He had managed to obtain the necessary course credits literally by copying his friends’ notes, passing through four years’ study ‘like the wind passing through a corridor’ – only 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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nominally a student, like many used to be in certain Japanese universities. Then he met Mitsu at one of the bars where she was working as a waitress; she gave him her body, and indeed her all. Eventually, however, he managed to develop a relationship with his boss’s daughter, and marry her, thus securing his future job security – meaning that he discarded Mitsu’s love and sacrifice for him without any regrets or pangs of guilty conscience, like throwing away a used tissue. He represents a typical Japanese man with a ‘dependency syndrome’ (amae), who may have a tiny sense of shame but no real guilt and no close contact or relationship with God. He is motivated only by his sense of ‘relativity’, feeling comfortable if everything around him meets his needs and momentary satisfactions. Mitsu, recovering from this psychological setback in her love-life, decided to sacrifice herself in the service of unfortunate people. It is interesting to note that the image of Mitsu is totally different from that of Françoise, whom Endo had almost literally ‘discarded’ when he reneged on his promise of marriage. However, neither does Mitsu resemble Endo’s wife, whose strength is far superior to that of the ‘adorable’ heroine. In reality, Endo was attracted by formidable and powerful women such as Françoise and Junko, with strength in both will and intellect, reflecting the way he had been greatly attached to his mother in his childhood. In that respect he created an image of woman in his novels opposite to that in reality – of no self-interest or ego, and not selfish, but innocent, pure, perhaps a bit ‘foolish and silly’ in life, self-sacrificing, with total submission and dedication to others, modelled on the obvious images of the Virgin Mary and figures such as Mother Teresa. Endo might well have been trying to embody the biblical phrase: ‘Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God’. Mitsu reminds us of the self-sacrificing heroine of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, which Endo must have read in his youth, and which was one of the classic texts on the reading list of every serious university student in the 1950s and 1960s.

Endo’s evangelical activities depicted in his work Endo thus seems to be interested in reflecting his own interpretation of Christ in his novels – such as Gaston in Obakasan (Wonderful Fool), 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

Mitsu in The Woman I Abandoned, Yajiro and even Rodrigues in The Silence, and the ex-priest, Otsu, in The Deep River. When Endo was writing Wonderful Fool, which is a kind of comic detective story, it seems he had some particular respect for Westerners. His hero, Gaston, is French, and a failed novice for the priesthood. The readers are not informed as to his identity nor his mission in Japan until the end of the book, except for an incredibly unrealistic genealogical descent from the great Napoleon Bonaparte. Gaston’s physique reminds one of a horse – tall and strong, standing out among the smaller Japanese; yet he appears almost subnormally naive, with his comically short, ill-fitting trousers and permanent smile; and the worn-out knapsack he carries is his only material possession. In a way he reminds one of characters portrayed by Charlie Chaplin in his films. Gaston emerges from his cabin on a ship from Singapore. The cabin is located among the lowest of the low in the bottom of the ship, recalling Endo’s own journey to France as an elitist young student of French literature after the Second World War, and suggesting the possibility that Gaston might be Endo’s double, whether as an ‘ideal’ or an ‘anti’-self. There is a nuance in the Japanese title Obakasan which does not come out in its English translation as ‘wonderful fool’. The Japanese meaning of the term is that, while the person is not mentally fully alert, he is however highly endearing and lovable. Baka literally means ‘stupid’, to be looked down on; but adding the polite and honorary prefix ‘O’ transforms the negative image into something much more positive. Obakasan could be ‘one of us’, while baka could only be an outcast. The English expression ‘my dear good fool’ would probably express the meaning better. What Endo embodies in Gaston is none other than this endearing personality. But the character can also remind one of the loving persona of Christ as a human being. Obakasan is an interesting and important novel among Endo’s works in many respects, particularly because it indicates his potential decisions about which main themes to pursue and to develop in the rest of his career as a novelist, especially in his representative oeuvres such as The Silence and The Deep River. There are perhaps three different directions he might have considered developing further – a Christian theme in which Christ as an embodiment of

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peace, love and reconciliation is portrayed by a beloved fool, Gaston. However, revealing a second possible direction, Gaston also suggests a certain ethereality, like Saint-Exupéry’s main character in The Little Prince, who comes from and returns to a world of stars. (In Japanese literature, this recalls Princess Kaguya in The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter (Taketori monogatari) which Endo mentions in Obakasan – the princess was born in the hollow of a bamboo stalk and returned to the moon after providing much happiness to a childless old man and his wife.) As a third possible direction for further development, Endo might have attempted to use a foreigner as a main character, such as Gaston, who as a Frenchman and supposed descendant of Napoleon would be especially attractive to the Japanese. Endo describes in his novel how Gaston is accorded special treatment by a Japanese policeman who allows a notorious gangster to escape inspection at a roadside checkpoint because he felt taken aback and overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sight of the Westerner sitting next to the gangster in the car he should have been inspecting. People usually regarded all Westerners as being American regardless of their real nationalities. They were particularly valued and put on a pedestal after the Second World War, possibly because of their rarity in Japan at that time, and because of Japanese historical belief in the supremacy of the white race. There are many other important elements in this novel, which Endo developed in his major works – such as his sense of humour, his sarcastic view of young women (their superficiality, exemplified in the character Tomoe), his sharp observations regarding East–West cultural differences, the insensitive treatment of animals in Japan and so on. Endo is extremely skilful in introducing the protagonist Gaston Bonaparte into the novel, and particularly good at sustaining the reader’s interest in what is going to happen next in the story.

Correspondence between Françoise Pastre and Shusaku Endo Shusaku Endo’s Western experiences were much more direct than those of other Japanese writers, and consequently had the strongest impact. In his youth, Endo studied French literature for more than two years at Lyon University, which is where his romance with

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

Françoise Pastre began. The affair was disclosed to the public in his memoirs of his Lyon era, though very briefly. The memoir was found in draft form after the author’s death, it was explained, and subsequently published posthumously by his widow, under the title The Hill at Rouen. The striking resemblance between Endo’s love for Françoise and its sad outcome on the one hand, and Edmund Blunden’s lifelong relationship with his devoted secretary and assistant Aki Hayashi (which also ended for her in unrequited love), shows that it would often be the woman who was left with a situation in which she would suffer greatly, whether her partner was a Western or a Japanese writer. Françoise Pastre criticised Endo for the betrayal she felt in his abandonment of the promise of marriage in one of her letters to him: No, there is nothing sacred here, nothing; absolute love doesn’t exist, or at least if so, then only for me . . . You can’t be trusted, and have no willpower. I think you haven’t understood. You talk about happiness, but you deliberately caused me unhappiness, because I was far away; and you seek a comfortable happiness from people who aren’t challenging, who love you too little and too childishly, in their own interest; and you yourself play at being the Father protecting his children. But a woman is not a child, indeed not. I’ve been thinking all day long about adopting a child, or what would be much better, having a child by you? Quite by chance I was reading Osamu Dazai’s The Setting Sun this evening – what a funny coincidence. I think I’d be well capable of bringing up a child without you. Without a husband. I’m not one of those crappy, clinging women. I’d be able to provide a child with intelligence and happiness. But there is Society. Would the University accept the situation? I’d need a year off . . . Why should I be the only sacrificial victim in this story? You are responsible for everything.4 Françoise always called Endo by his Christian name ‘Paul’. Her sister Geneviève Pastre wrote that there occurred a crisis when Françoise saw a television programme in which Endo played a

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silly, clown-like role, chattering and producing meaningless gossip, at the behest of the television company. It was an unbearable experience for Françoise. Although she well understood the progressive influence of Americanisation on the Japanese mass media, which had reached a far more advanced state in Japan than in France, she was still badly hurt by Endo’s silly gestures. She wrote in her diary: Paul is wonderful as a human being. Yet here (in Japan) everything leaves a bitter and sad taste . . . I am feeling a bitter sadness . . . So that is why I tell myself tentatively that I would try to help Paul as much as possible by translating his book. I can see how things will work out after that.5 Compared with the passivity of Aki Hayashi’s suffering when Blunden, despite his written promise of marriage to her, decided instead to marry Sylva Norman, Françoise Pastre behaved much more aggressively, accusing Endo of breaking his promise, and criticising vigorously his activities, his personal friends and even his work. In her diary, she wrote: ‘Sunday . . . started the translation of [The Silence]. It’s tough!’ She also wrote in a letter to Geneviève in 1970: I started translating [Endo’s book] again. I think it may be an illusion to consider that I would be able to reform him, because the author’s self-degradation and self-justification have reached such a progressive stage. I am doing it, however, not only because I feel some responsibility, but because I won’t want to be annoyed by regrets in the future.

Geneviève Pastre Françoise Pastre’s elder sister, Geneviève Pastre, was born in 1924. I interviewed her in Paris on 25 and 27 August 2000. Geneviève Pastre lives in a flat on the Boulevard St Germain – alone, as she is divorced – and works as a poet and as a publisher of gay literature. Our interview was translated by Professor Jacqueline Pigeot into Japanese on 25 August, and into English on 27 August by an American poet, Marilyn Hacker. My Japanese article stemming

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

from this interview was published in Minami Nihon Newspaper on 11 November 2000. What I heard from Geneviève Pastre, an ex-teacher herself, was an emotional account of her younger sister’s extremely pure and enduring love for Endo, which was, almost heart-breakingly, to remain absolutely sad and unrequited. She often quotes Endo’s poignantly youthful love letters and postcards to Françoise from various ports on his return home from Paris via Marseille to Japan, which express great concern for her and reveal how he frequently missed her presence and companionship, and which always have the tone of ‘wish you were here’. One of the letters Endo sent towards the end of his journey implies an intimate relationship with Françoise as they travelled from Paris to Marseille – ‘You were mine for only three days’ – and looks forward to their life together in a marriage hopefully to be contracted in the near future, whether in Japan or in France. Endo was returning to Japan to recover from tuberculosis. He was already engaged to Françoise, and firmly believed they would marry after his recovery.

Keiichi Tate, and the first meeting between Françoise Pastre and Endo I also interviewed Keiichi Tate, a Japanese painter eighteen years Françoise’s senior, now living in Montparnasse, whose work Françoise praised highly, comparing it to that of Endo. Tate reminisced: When I first went to see Endo in 1953 at the University College Hospital in Paris, to which he had been transferred from Lyon where he was studying at the university, and being treated for tuberculosis, I met Françoise, who had already got engaged to Endo, and came to see him there. Then Tate went to the station with a group of Endo’s friends to see him off on his return journey from France to Japan, his French doctors having advised that his recovery would progress much better in his native cultural context and family surroundings. Tate recalled:

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Endo’s departure from Paris to Marseille on the platform was extremely showy and theatrical, close to an actor’s performance. The most striking scene was when, after thanking all his friends for coming to see him off, he helped Françoise to get on board the train, as if displaying to his friends in an exaggerated and boastful manner that he had this pretty French girl as his fiancée and thus in his possession. Tate referred to Endo as having the reputation among his friends of being something of a bluffer. However, Geneviève Pastre suggests that: the main reason for Françoise being attracted by Endo was (apart from the exotic aspect of his being from the other side of the world and from a different culture) that he had a highly refined sensibility. During my long interview with Geneviève Pastre she once or twice became highly emotional, expressing her deep sympathy and solidarity with her younger sister. She even shed tears when she was showing me the letters Endo sent Françoise during his return journey to Japan, which directly confirmed his deep love for Françoise and his determination upon their future marriage. Geneviève said she could not help her tears, because the letters had been kept hidden even from her, the person closest to Françoise, and had been found by chance in the furthest corner of a cupboard after Françoise’s death in 1971. Françoise became greatly distraught over Endo’s cold and unsympathetic attitude to her – he never came to see her when she was sick, even when he was visiting France on other business and had sufficient time and the means to do so, let alone to ask for her forgiveness for breaking his promise of marriage. The worst of it was that he never told her that he had married someone else in Japan – Françoise, learned this shocking news, which destroyed her happiness completely for the rest of her life, in a letter sent by one of Endo’s friends, Oide. Geneviève Pastre wrote to me after our interview, suggesting that the relationship between her sister and Endo must have been much more intimate than that described in The Hill at Rouen, and certainly not the pure and innocent one envisaged by Mrs Endo. She has defi-

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Shusaku Endo

Japanese Writers and the West

nite reasons for her belief. She claims that one of Endo’s early works, entitled Blue and Small Grapes is based on a real-life story concerning Françoise’s and Geneviève’s grandfather’s experiences in the Second World War, which was related to Endo by Françoise. Geneviève also claims that Françoise would not have revealed such family secrets to Endo had she not trusted Endo’s love for her completely, and unless their relationship had been close, and indeed intimate. In Blue and Small Grapes Endo also identifies himself as a member of the race that was accused of committing crimes against the Chinese during the Second World War. Simultaneously, he values, through the comments of the protagonist, the strength and power of the group – though he worries about his inability to commit himself to it firmly. In the novel, a member of the French Resistance called Mondon writes a note regretting the outbreak of factional in-fighting between members of the Resistance. Powerful Resistance members started to torture and execute innocent citizens who had been suspected of even the slightest collaboration with the Nazis, including people who had traded with them or had slept with them as prostitutes. Their aim was to take power after France’s victory over the Nazi occupation. Mondon himself felt helpless in the face of such atrocities, and the novel reveals his inner fear and disgust with regard to his old comrades. He considers that what they were doing was worse than the behaviour of the Nazis, and his independence from them and his hostility to the idea of belonging to any group somehow reflect Endo’s difficulties in re-immersing himself into Japanese ‘groupism’ after his return from France. Mondon writes: I was thinking about my position. I am only a miserable human being, as I am neither a Christian nor a Communist. I haven’t got any community behind me. Of course, I realise that what makes history and moves politics is no longer an individual, and how strong an energy the crowd (a group) could have, and the solidity and power of a community. This is one of the things I have learned from my participation in the anti-German movement. Nevertheless, even today, I still cannot commit myself to the group [like Bronvergé]. I cannot understand how to harmonise the differences between the goodness of a group and that of an individual.6

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It is interesting to note that none of the Western writers who visited Japan has ever focused on skin colour as one of the factors differentiating them from the Japanese. Even if they subconsciously felt that the white race was superior, they show no overt sign of this in their writings. It seems never to have occurred to them that it might be worth mentioning differences of skin colour together with accompanying psychological effects, these factors being for them much more trivial than cultural differences. For Shusaku Endo, however, it was far more significant to take note of the yellowness of his skin when he was in France than to focus on the impact of cultural differences in Franco-Japanese relationships. Indeed, the physical factor was for him the clearest indication of his national identity, a symbol of his Japaneseness, and is mentioned as such in Blue and Small Grapes.7 There was a conscious awareness of defeatism in the 1950s as a consequence of the misery of loss in the Second World War. Western writers also hardly ever compared or criticised their own countries or cultural traits from the new perspectives they might have been expected to acquire during their stay in Japan. It seems they never considered it appropriate to compare and evaluate the two different cultures, precisely because they were so incompatible with each other in their histories and natures. Endo, on the other hand, reveals his despair over the muddle and confusion of Japanese emotionality (in comparison with Western reason, logic and clarity), through his depiction of the protagonist in Blue and Small Grapes.8 Endo’s novels on the whole reflect not only his despair concerning his own country during his youth, but also his pessimism regarding life itself. What he kept seeking, and indeed awaiting, was an answer from God;9 but this never arrived, as God always remained silent for Endo. Simultaneously and symbolically, God’s silence echoes the silence of the whole universe;10 thus the answers he eagerly sought never arrived. This feature of his novels is one of the factors explaining their sadness and pessimism, and the disagreeable darkness of their imagery, even in the case of a light-hearted and humorous work such as Wonderful Fool. In Blue and Small Grapes, however, Endo tries to find some solution, albeit something small and temporary, symbolised in the image

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Physical and cultural differences

Japanese Writers and the West

of happiness and salvation represented by the bunch of blue (aoi) grapes. A young woman, Suzanne – significantly given the same surname as Françoise (that is, Pastre) – had given a Jewish soldier blue grapes when he was on the run from the Nazis during the war. His committed and relentless quest for this woman after the war not only forms the main theme of the short story, but signifies his desperate search for his spiritual salvation from the dark and miserable memories of himself as an oppressed human being.11 This is in a similar vein to the exploratory quest for a blue bird, representing true happiness, by two small Austrian girls, Tittil and Mottke, in Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Contrary to the youthful girls’ quest for true happiness, Endo presents the Jewish soldier’s search for salvation differently in his strong commitment and willpower; he also concludes that his protagonist can never gain his objective passively, just by waiting for a windfall from heaven or for God’s answer as a gift, but can only achieve it by what he creates on his own initiative.12 Endo’s gaijin (foreigners) complex is revealed in its utmost strength when the protagonist mentions that even the white race represented by the Westerners committed similar atrocities in the war – such as the incident at a well in France where innocent civilians were massacred – to those inflicted by the Japanese military on Chinese civilians in Nanking. The tone of his remark seems to echo the defiant discovery by a yellow-skinned man, the protagonist, that he can be the equal of the supposedly superior white people, even in the sharing of a horrendous sin.

Endo’s misunderstanding of St Peter’s denial of Christ, as an underlying theme in Rodrigues’ acknowledgment of Christ’s permission to him to step on his icon ( fumie) in The Silence; and the problem of Japanese lack of consciousness of the passage of time as its possible cause When the The Silence was first published in 1979, the official Catholic attitude to the novel and to Endo in Japan was extremely hostile and unsympathetic. The main reason for this unfavourable reception was rooted in the description of the main character’s desertion of the Catholic faith under torture by government officials, during which he heard the voice of Christ permitting him to trample on his icon – ‘You may put your foot on it’ – in order to be spared further

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suffering, both physical and spiritual. Supporters of Endo argued that Christ sufficiently revealed his understanding, love and compassion for the weak and suffering, including in this gesture towards the tortured priest, Rodrigues, who was a new arrival and unaccustomed to the Japanese people and environment. Japanese Catholic officials, along with various conservative and orthodox believers, took a stance firmly opposed to Endo’s liberal views of the matter. They asserted that it is unthinkable for Christ to encourage even a tormented, young, immature and weak missionary priest to trample on his icon. They further added that Christ might have forgiven Rodrigues for his desertion after he had committed the act of trampling, but certainly would never allow him to comply with the dictates of the persecuting government. Father Yoji Inoue, a close friend of Shusaku Endo’s from the time of their shared voyage to France to study (now almost fifty years ago), reconfirms his support for Endo’s belief in Christ as one’s accompanying companion in life, as well as his liberal interpretation of the ‘trampling’ incident. He clarified his position in a recent lecture in Kagoshima, and in my interview with him in Tokyo some time later, in both of which he stated that Endo had clearly in mind some underlying passage in the Bible, namely the well-known passage concerning St Peter’s denial of Christ, suggesting a parallel with Rodrigues hearing Christ’s approval of his renunciation of him. The Bible mentions that Christ predicted that Peter would deny him three times before the crowing of the cock, despite being his disciple. Peter never believed that this prophecy would materialise, but it did.13 One of the misunderstandings of the Japanese about Christ’s admittance of Peter’s denial, including by Endo and his supporters, may be because of the lack of a clear sense of time in the Japanese mentality. Given such a clear sense of time, it is easier to construe the significance of Christ’s prophecy as pertaining to events that will happen in the future, excluding any notion of Christ’s attitude towards, or in particular approval of, Peter’s act of denial. However, there is no clear indication or demarcation of time in the Japanese language, in which the ‘present’ tense embraces the future and the present perfect, and the ‘past’ tense is fully past perfect – that is, finished and irrelevant to the far or even near future. In the Bible there is only one passage, in Luke,14 that might be taken as indicating Christ’s mild approval of Peter’s denial: ‘Christ

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Japanese Writers and the West

gazed at Peter’ – though even here Christ’s emotional feelings are not mentioned. In fact, this gaze seems on the whole to signify only Christ’s acknowledgment of the fulfilment of his prophecy of Peter’s denial, rather than indicating any approval of Peter’s behaviour. In reality it was a steady gaze of sorrow and compassion, which made Peter weep.

Endo seen through Japanese eyes What was Endo’s Japanese friends’ understanding of his personality and his Japanese Catholic faith, in comparison with Françoise Pastre’s Western comprehension of him and his character? The essaydialogues written by Shotaro Yasuoka, a novelist, and Yoji Inoue, the writer and priest who was Endo’s friend for many years, were published as a book entitled Why Did We Become Christian?, a work that provides some interesting answers to these questions. Shotaro Yasuoka particularly notices a dual personality in Endo, who always had the two aspects of seriousness and light-heartedness in extreme measure. Endo himself admitted, as Yasuoka remembered, that being a Catholic in Japan, involving membership of a minority group, had made him develop a dual personality – having both to conform to an established ‘groupist’ society, and on the other hand to a Catholic faith originating in Western individualism. Another reason for his duality might have been, according to Yasuoka’s analysis, the division of his loyalties to the Emperor on the one hand, and to the saviour Jesus Christ on the other, especially during the Second World War when he had been forced to choose one or the other as his master figure. It was an era of terror, so to speak, in which absolute obedience to and worship of the Emperor as the divine descendant of ancient gods had been imposed in practice on every individual of Japanese nationality by power-hungry militarists, politicians and generals. The dual aspects of Endo’s personality might also have been enhanced by separation from his father because of his parents’ divorce – a lack of paternal authority. It was arranged that Endo would be brought up under the custodianship of his mother, whereas his elder brother, whom he always envied as being cleverer than himself, went to live with his father. Whenever Endo went out with his father, he felt strongly that he was deceiving and betraying his

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mother, who had divorced his father on the grounds of his adultery: he had been conducting an affair with his secretary. Thus Endo’s sense of separated and divided inner selves had taken root and been nurtured both by his personal childhood experiences and the encounter with the rampant warmongering of the time. He described his inner experiences in the novel Iron Shackles (Tetsu no ashikase). Yasuoka and Inoue were both close friends of Endo, and it is interesting to enquire about the specific aspects and features of their understanding of Catholicism and Christianity in general, as this was an area they undoubtedly entered into with Endo. Here the faith clearly encounters the influence of Japanese groupism, of fondness for nature and belief in its supreme power over human emotions and the mind – at times to the extent of a totally submissive nature worship rather contrary to Catholic faith and to the truth about God and Jesus. It also encounters the oriental preference for the comparatively easier and much more comfortable paths to salvation preached in the doctrines of Buddhism. Regarding the tendency and inclination towards groupism, for example, Shotaro Yasuoka mentions that he was not only pleased at having been baptized under the guidance of Endo, who became his godfather, but that he also felt a certain en or karma, in other words a Buddhistic predestined fate, about becoming a Catholic. He also implies that there must have been destiny in his coming to belong to a group of believers, rather than appreciating his initiation into the faith in the manner of an orthodox Western understanding of God’s gift of grace. Father Inoue observes in the book that in Japan religion has been orientated towards and based on the family, whereas in the West, Christianity and faith belong to each individual, to his decision and choice, rather than to the family or other group. Because of the strong influence of Confucianism over many generations, the Japanese home or family was focused on a narrow range of concerns, which encompassed only the welfare and happiness of its own members and near circle. People were used to looking after themselves without taking in a wider perspective. Furthermore, the political strategies of the older governmental regime of Japan called Bakufu had encouraged (even legally enforced) a situation where every household had to enrol as a member of a nearby Buddhist or Zen temple, the real purpose being to control and closely monitor

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Shusaku Endo

the development of people’s religious beliefs, movements and activities. By keeping the upper hand in this way, the undoubted intention of the Bakufu was to prohibit the spreading of Christianity in Japan. Ironically, however, as Father Inoue notes, this strategy caused a great degradation and corruption in Buddhism and Zen, because their temples were allowed by law to make money by the collection of a monthly tribute from the householders, or danka, supporting a certain Buddhist temple. Even today this decay and degeneration is recognised in the term ‘funeral Buddhism’ – that is, the temples are seen as long ago having abandoned the effort of preaching their doctrines or of offering salvation to people by responding to their spiritual needs, in favour only of conducting age-old rituals, such as funerals in particular (in Japan, people tend to get married in Shinto shrines, or in increasingly popular secular imitation ‘chapels’). People feel let down by such temples, feeling that they should have received more tangible spiritual support, not only at special occasions such as deaths in the family, but in their everyday spiritual security and salvation. (The popularity of the ‘chapels’ dates especially from the period of the great ‘economic miracle’ – that is, from about 1964, when the Olympic Games were held for the first time in Japan, until about 1989 when the bubble definitively burst on Japan’s so-called ‘Black Friday’. It is a period that people now often look back on with a touch of nostalgia; however, there were a lot of vain dreams being entertained before Black Friday. This was the period when enormous sums of money – in the billions and trillions of yen – were invested in huge building projects, such as leisure complexes, five-star hotels, golf courses and so on. In some cases a uniquely Japanese phenomenon occurred – some wealthy, high-class hotels shamelessly built annexes in the style of chapels, for the purpose of making enormous profits out of the vanity of young couples desiring to marry in glamorous venues. To me this is a symptom of Japanese insensitivity in exploiting commercialism over religion, and a sinful manifestation of lack of respect for spiritual values, which have been replaced by the worship of money. These so-called chapels are, in fact, empty, but they use the emblem of the cross on their rooftops. They stand like ‘love hotels’ next to commercial properties, and have no priests or congregations. They reveal nothing but emptiness and a Japanese fondness for imitation and convenience. The average cost of marry-

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ing in such surroundings can be as much as £35 000, explaining the keenness of the hotels for this competition in ‘chapel profits’.) Father Inoue recollects a particular aspect of Endo’s exceptionally sharp sensibility, as follows: ‘He has lived with an unusually talented inborn receptivity throughout his life; he tried to cover this up by deliberately “playing the fool”, or acting like a “bad guy”.’15 This recognition of Endo’s outstandingly sharp sensibility corresponds well with Françoise Pastre’s reasons for her attraction to the novelist when she met him for the first time, as well as touching upon the aspect that so angered her. The book by Yasuoka and Inoue also mentions that Endo irredeemably regretted his failure to save a French priest during the Second World War who was wrongly suspected of espionage and arrested by the Japanese police.16 Endo wrote himself about this sad experience in an essay entitled Double-minded Activist in the journal Umi (The Sea), September 1983, in which he compares himself with Yukinaga Konishi, a samurai warrior who eventually abandoned his calling after living a double life of loyalty to his powerful lord, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and to his saviour, Jesus Christ. Endo confessed to having seen his own shadow or anti-self in Yukinaga’s way of life. He was extremely disappointed by his own lack of courage, a weakness that was to lead to self-hatred. Apart from the oppressive policies towards Christian missionaries and their activities by Hideyoshi and succeeding Bakufu governments over 200 years, there were other reasons for the failure of Christian missionary activity in Japan. Even at the time of writing, less than 1 per cent of the population is converted, a small achievement considering that the first missionary, a Jesuit priest from Portugal called Francisco Xavier, arrived in Kagoshima 450 years ago. Father Inoue argues that one of these reasons was probably the attempt to impose the Christian missionaries’ Western values on the Japanese mind in the preaching of the Catholic faith.17 In order to correct these mistakes and regain the opportunity of a prospering Church in Japan and an increasing number of believers, Inoue suggested a collaboration with Endo to start a new movement to bring the remote Western-orientated Christian religion closer to the mainstream of Japanese mental and emotional taste, and thus make it more congenial. As I mentioned before, Endo coined the metaphor of adjusting the excessively loose Western clothing of Japanese Catholicism to

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Shusaku Endo

a tighter, kimono-like fit. This metaphor, however, sounds very Japanese in its vagueness and ambiguity regarding its aims. Nevertheless, what Inoue stresses in his advocacy of the new reformed faith can be assumed to be more nature-orientated, seeking a fusion of nature, faith, poetry (he writes haiku which for him are analogous to prayers), God’s merciful love and forgiveness, maternal inclination, and the inclusive embrace of all human beings. Endo’s ‘faith with Japanese characteristics’ seems to focus much more on Christ as a loving and forgiving person than on Inoue’s attachment to nature. Endo’s own personal and inner experience of Christ as the forgiving and merciful channel of the love of God and his thoughtful and concerned overview of human failings and incompleteness is brought out in the incident in The Silence where Rodrigues tramples the icon and thus apparently repudiates his faith under the forgiving gaze of Christ, recalling the biblical scene of Jesus’ understanding reaction to Peter’s threefold denial. In Japan’s encounter with the West, and its progress towards modernisation, Christianity has been and remains one of the major Western influences on Japanese culture and attitudes, along with Western individualism. Christianity clearly represents, or even equates to, the West in the Japanese psyche. Françoise Pastre notes particularly in a letter to Geneviève that general psychological movements tend to be horizontal in Japan, whereas in the West matters seem to be more vertical. This attitude towards the Japanese mind is not especially new or original; as Roland Barthes notes in his book, The Empire of Signs, Japan lacks a centre. Further, under the concept of groupism, Japanese people tend to be concerned with others much more strongly than those influenced by individualism. Father Inoue seems to represent one such case in his overblown concern for the salvation of the entirety of the general public, rather than for specific people such as himself. Endo’s friends’ idea of the Christian God is tinged with Buddhist tendencies, in which believers aim to follow a relatively easy path to salvation or the solution of human problems by chanting nenbutsu or visiting temples and shrines as often as possible. Some Buddhists aim to visit their local temple a million times (hyakuman ben) in order to promote the fulfilment of their special wishes; place names reflecting this aim still survive today in ancient cities such as Kyoto. In

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Shusaku Endo

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Reading the gospels well, one can understand that Jesus forgave all the deeds of the weak. He never cursed or severely punished them as the God of the Old Testament used to do. However, European Christianity, because it has been ambiguous about the non-continuity between the Old and New Testaments, tends to be bound by the Old Testament; thus it can never forgive such acts as betrayal whatever the reason. [European Christians] will firmly declare that Jesus would never forgive it; they believe that the strong would be given the rewards while the weaker get the punishment . . . and also that Judas was the worst man in the world, who would be condemned to Hell. At all costs and whatever the reasons, they praise and glorify martyrs and judge all others as damnably useless and weak. However, the basic and fundamental preaching of Jesus is, as I have explained, founded upon matriarchal principles in which God forgives all, and He is nothing but Giving Love. Thus what Mr Endo wrote in The Silence is a reversion and return to the original image of Jesus, which was as natural as always. Consequently he was criticised and attacked by those who had been worshipping the old and transformed image of Christ as if it were the true image. Of course, there were some who vigorously supported Endo among the Christians.18 The huge controversy raised by this work has resulted in enormous attention being paid to these matters. Endo wrote in his essay entitled ‘What Is God for Me?’, concerning his concept of original sin: ‘We are always confronted with such difficulties as fearing the terror of death, suffering from anxieties, or facing human limitations. Thus not being perfect is called original sin.’19 This is a very humane interpretation of original sin; yet one knows that, for Christian fundamentalists, original sin means that committed by Adam and Eve, which was atoned for in the crucifixional blood of Christ. It reveals a very specifically Japanese characteristic that neither Endo nor Inoue take sides against or in praise of the persecutors of

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Father Inoue’s case the major stress is placed on the generous forgiveness of the Christian God, in ways that differ from the standardly received concepts; he says:

the Bakufu government officials. One of these was also called ‘Inoue’, and was in charge of the Chikugo district, being regarded as a rather intellectual interrogator because he did not aim savagely to butcher or torture Christians to death, in contrast to the tyrant Roman emperor Nero’s practice of throwing them to the lions.20 Endo and Inoue seem to follow the Japanese virtue of wa (harmony), steering a middle course without blaming anyone, even the chief enemy and merciless oppressor of Christians. What they shamelessly or irresponsibly maintain was that the Chikugo official Inoue’s prime purpose was to encourage Japanese Christians to abandon their faith, and not to murder them. This sounds like nonsense, especially when we remember what Father Inoue writes about the excruciating pain the persecutors inflicted on the believers. For example, the missionary Father Ferraira, who eventually abandoned his faith, was held upside down over a hole filled with excrement. His blood was unable to circulate properly, and he suffered from mild pain at first, which increased gradually until in the end it reached a stage of agony which was beyond words.21 The official Inoue used to say ‘It would be best to abandon your faith – then everyone will be happy. You shouldn’t be so concerned.’22 Such was the ‘intellectual’ style of his persuasion. If his target was a priest, official Inoue would have treated him extremely well, entertaining him and seeking to have him seduced by a woman, thus making his victim consider himself silly, useless and worthy of damnation. Then he would begin persuading the priest to abandon his faith. In other words, this persecutor Inoue was just as bad as Nero in my estimation of his cunning tactics. According to Father Inoue, Endo also said: ‘In order to convert a captured missionary, first offer him nice food, then a woman. Once he falls down over the woman . . . his faith has also fallen down.’23 In the end we reach a concept of God that is not necessarily Christian, but a more universal concept of salvation underpinned by Japanese groupism which aims at the equality of salvation for all. For example, Father Inoue remarks: Anyway, it is essential to bear in mind that oneself is not the centre of all things, but what it is that makes you and keeps you alive. It does not matter what it is – whether it is Buddha or Christ or Amida; maybe they are all the same.24

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The centre might also be a psychological depth or subconscious realm where all the roots and sources of both literature and religion lie.25 There are some equally interesting comments on the historic development of ‘clandestine Christianity’ (kakure kirishitan). Endo writes that whenever he met a descendant of the clandestine Catholics he found them still somewhat nervous and watchful of their surroundings, looking around uneasily. He uses clichéd descriptions of them as ‘looking like dogs’, but it seems that he tried to identify himself with them in the aspect of their leading a double life. In his research for his novels, Endo met the present-day surviving kakure; however, they do not acknowledge or approve of the presentday Japanese style of Christianity introduced since the end of the Meiji era. Father Inoue also witnessed that they would stubbornly decline invitations to come to church, however hard some of the Catholic priests and believers tried to persuade them. They call the present-day Japanese Christianity the ‘New Sect’ (Shinkyo), or use the term ‘Protestant’ in the sense of implying that Catholicism is the old religion (kyukyo), and distinguishing their brand of the faith from the new and open church. They showed their strong feelings of suspicion when a kind priest dressed in old missionary clothes because he thought they might prefer it, and they complained that he looked like their traditional priests but was somehow different, and so they couldn’t trust him, resisting pressure by saying that they would rather choose to follow Shinto or Buddhism than the New Sect. To my mind, they represent a typical form of Japanese groupism, protecting their own style of faith narrow-mindedly, their loyalty to that group leading them to suspect and reject others, even though they are supposed to believe in the same Christian God. In a broader sense, the Japanese attitude to foreigners is clothed with a similar group-orientated exclusiveness, as foreign nationals have often complained. The Japanese word for a foreigner, gaijin, means ‘outsider’. Similarly, the Japanese on the whole dislike those who behave differently from themselves. The highly prized ideal is wa, harmony, which can often be interpreted as necessitating a code of behaviour that ‘everybody should agree with and be bound by the group’s moral code’, and should sacrifice individual differences,

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Shusaku Endo

choices and tastes. Gradually, however, though regrettably belatedly, the Japanese have begun to realise this groupist notion of loyalty can lead to lack of adaptability, an especially difficult lesson to learn in the context of the recent overpowering economic slump and deflation, which came as a great shock after the ‘bursting of the bubble’ of the long period of economic prosperity.

Peter Owen on Endo Peter Owen, Endo’s British publisher in London, whom I interviewed in October 1999, considers that Endo was a first-class writer who well deserved nomination for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Owen recalls that Endo chanced to meet Graham Greene in the Ritz Hotel in London; they were both well aware of each other’s work, evaluating each other highly as Catholic writers in their different cultural realms. Owen thinks that Greene might have been influenced heavily by such works as The Silence and Wonderful Fool. Peter Owen told me candidly how deeply disappointed he had been at Endo’s failure to be nominated for the Nobel Prize. He did not appreciate the successful laureate Kenzaburo Oe (born 1935), dismissing his novels as too difficult to understand, and not enjoying them. Owen said that he believes there are several reasons why Endo did not win the Nobel Prize, which Owen had long been hoping for. Owen believes that Endo might have been able to obtain enough support among the Japanese judges presenting their recommendations to the Nobel committee if he had been a Buddhist rather than a Catholic; Catholics could not gain as much sympathy and support as, say, Kenzaburo Oe must have managed, because Catholics were regarded with mistrust and suspicion, and misunderstood as belonging to a cult or associating with the ‘clandestine Christian’ (kakure kirishitan) persecuted by the Tokugawa Shogunate. Endo might have been identified with one of the ‘kakure’, having written such novels as The Silence and The Deep River. It occurs to me, furthermore, that Oe’s greater ‘populism’ might have contributed to making his Nobel candidacy easier to support. In recent correspondence with the American feminist author, Susan Sontag (born 1933) (see, for example, Asahi Shinbun newspaper dated 23 June 1999), he and she have exchanged thoughts on matters such as democracy, fascism and the responsibility of being a ‘serious’

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writer; considerable gaps emerge between East and West in ways of thinking. As Sontag mentions in her letter, both writers advocate and are earnestly devoted to writing serious literature, especially as an antidote to commercialism and cheap culture. However, their ideal realms are different: Sontag wishes to belong to the so-called ‘republic of world literature’ in which she has found enormous pleasure and privilege in drawing inspiration and moral courage from other writers’ work on a world-wide scale. Oe, on the other hand, wishes to be a ‘democrat and intellectual’, but for Sontag his notion of being a democrat appears both too vague and too naive, because ‘Do you mean also being a democrat in matters of culture – specially in matters of literature? I presume that you do not. . . . More difficulties to wrestle with. . . .’26 She also stresses the complexity and the responsibility of seeking to be both ‘democrat and intellectual’, because being a democrat may sometimes mean the opposite of being an ‘elitist’: Sontag’s enemies, such as supporters of popular culture, would often accuse her and fellow liberals of being ‘elitist’ while they are the ‘democrats’. For them, elitists represent those who despise the manipulative consumerist culture, and advocate the writing of serious literature. At other points Sontag seems to mildly warn Oe not to be too naïve or simple – which may be a reference to the ‘narrowness’ of Japanese views in comparison with the ‘two-sides-to-every-argument’ concept of Western thinking and debate. Sontag’s complex views, embedded in Western culture, contrast with Oe’s apparent naivety in terms of cultural exploitation. Raising the matter with Oe in her candid manner, Sontag asks him why he had attended a literary conference sponsored by the Atlanta Olympic Committee and held in New York. The participants included a number of eminent figures known to Sontag personally, but she did not approve of the nature of the conference, because she judged it to be a kind of exploitation by the Olympic Committee, who were in desperate need to boost the Olympiad taking place in Atlanta, which had no cultural assets comparable to Athens or Madrid, and was only culturally famous for Margaret Mitchell’s novel Gone With the Wind. Another reason why Endo might have missed out on the Nobel Prize is deep-rooted, having to do with his very idiosyncratic con-

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Shusaku Endo

cepts of Catholicism. His student days at Lyon University in the early 1950s provided his first direct encounter with real, living French and European Catholicism, probably causing him something of a shock. Endo had been baptized before then, under the powerful influence of his mother, as I have already mentioned, feeling it to be his obligation as a dutiful son. It should be noted that Endo had not come to Catholicism spontaneously of his own volition, and was therefore rather insecure in his belief and was still searching, being rather unsatisfied and undeveloped in his faith. All these issues seem to be reflected in the persona of Rodrigues. As we shall see in the next chapter, they also became focal points of conflict and crisis between Endo and Françoise Pastre, which came to a head in the course of her struggle to translate Endo’s The Silence.

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Geneviève Pastre’s Article about Her Sister, Françoise

Introduction and commentary Geneviève Pastre’s article as translated into Japanese and published in Mitabungaku was not complete but had been edited by the translator, Professor Tetsuo Takayama, who omitted various parts of the author’s comments as they were, in his view, not relevant to the theme of Françoise Pastre’s personal life. However, when I interviewed Geneviève Pastre in Paris in August 2000, she gave me the complete original version in French (subsequently translated into English by N. W. Gill, in the wake of an initial translation by Jacqueline Sheldon), which is a much more striking and articulate version than the edited one, especially in its accounts of Françoise’s personality, her views of Japanese life and culture, her students, and her work in Japan (which consisted mainly of her translation of Endo’s novel The Silence). Her difficulties in her relationship with Endo, stemming mainly from differences and discrepancies between Western and Japanese culture, especially the fundamental, if implicit, concepts of Western individualism versus Japanese groupism, are clearly delineated. The full version also reveals that, to both Françoise and Geneviève, Endo was known not by his Japanese first name of Shusaku but by his baptismal name, ‘Paul’. Geneviève Pastre even mentions that it was unthinkable for her to envisage him other than with his Western name, though Françoise remarks how pleased she was when Endo signed his Japanese name for her. Judging from the full version, it is obvious that Françoise’s love for 109 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Endo was unrequited. Endo seems to have lost any real interest in her when they separated from each other in Marseille in 1953 on the occasion of his return to Japan; however, her love for him continued unabated, both in France and in Japan upto her death.

Françoise Pastre’s early life – her meeting with and parting from Endo – the devastating consequence of Endo’s marriage – individualism versus groupism The full version of Geneviève Pastre’s article also reveals that Françoise Pastre’s life was transformed into happiness by meeting and falling in love with Endo; she achieved self-confidence and satisfaction for the first time in her life, feeling much more relaxed and self-assured: ‘Indeed, I found my sister transformed, relaxed, self-confident, at peace – in a word, happy. I had never seen her like that.’1 Although her mother was a feminist and brought up her three daughters according to her principles, carefully giving priority to their receiving a higher education, Françoise Pastre’s early life was beset with difficulties, such as the Second World War and the frequent long absences of her father, who was a professional soldier: In fact, as I said, her childhood had been marked by the war, the rigours of life in the capital, followed by an adolescence in the difficult conditions after the war. She was of great sensibility, but not introverted, and with no hint of egotism; she used to think a lot and listen to others.2 Before meeting Endo, Françoise had a French fiancé, introduced in the article only by his initials ‘J. L.’; he began to be discouraged in his advances towards her, and was eventually excluded from her world: ‘I had already been caused, at her request, to meet a certain J. L. who was pursuing her assiduously, and tell him rather firmly that my sister was not in love with him and that he should cease to pester her.’3 Being so sensitive and delicate, Françoise tended to be hurt by mingling with ‘mediocre’ company, thus preferring to remain by herself in solitude rather than engage in a social life, rejecting the emptiness and vanity of parties and other gatherings. Her sister writes:

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Her extreme delicacy and her receptivity made her vulnerable when she found herself in mediocre company – earthy or even worse – but she had an inner strength which was exceptional. Philosophy suited the depth of her temperament and allowed her to deploy the full strength of her thinking.4 Françoise travelled in Greece, Spain and Italy, loving nature, particularly hilly country and the sea. In Japan too she loved the sea and to go swimming. However, she was very hard on herself (though kind to others), controlling her emotions and subjugating her sentiments and weaknesses. She later wrote to Endo, explaining that she was really not so strong a woman as ‘Paul’ might have thought: To you I seem strong because I hide from you all my despair, out of self-respect, in order not to hurt you, and in short out of love. From my childhood onwards till I met you, I was in despair about myself and my weaknesses, though I didn’t nurture them. Every defect has its quality; I attached myself to that quality.5 Françoise met Endo when she was 22: ‘In the company of some of Paul’s friends she met him at the University Hospital, and they immediately made an indelible impression on one another’. Her new love brought about in her a marked change in mental calmness and peace. Though the attachment sadly turned out to be unrequited for her, it began in a spontaneous and reciprocal way: ‘It was at the beginning of her university course that she met ‘Paul’ [Endo]; she fell in love with him, and he with her. This was immediate, reciprocal and straightforward. And serious, in the way that happiness makes you serious.6 The first blow – and the first sign of tragedy – struck when Endo’s tuberculosis required him to return to Japan for two years. Françoise was thrown into deep despair by this sudden transition in the situation, which was to affect both their lives gravely and tragically: She was in despair on account of the gravity of his illness even more than because of the inescapable brutality of their separation in such serious circumstances, but she coped well with the situation. I encouraged her. We got some information about the oper-

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112 Japanese Writers and the West

In Geneviève Pastre’s eyes, Françoise coped well with the new situation. As a feminist, Françoise firmly believed that a woman should carry on working after marriage. Later she accused Endo of ‘looking for comfortable happiness in the company of those friends who would never dare to challenge him’, declaring that ‘a woman is not a child’. Nor, for that matter, was every man her father, a role that Endo also seemed to try to take on. Later, in his memorable accounts in the The Hill at Rouen of his departure for Marseille, accompanied by Françoise, and thence alone back to Japan, he described their relationship with a sense of purity and naivety – like a kind of Romeo and Juliet – without making any mention of the fact of their engagement. Geneviève Pastre says: This is not the place to comment in detail on [Endo]’s version; comparing it with that of Françoise his account is fairly accurate. But I detect in it a kind of stage setting, an aesthetic reworking à la Kawabata, an addition of perspectives full of shadows, precautions and interpretations.8 However, the reality was much harsher and tougher than this vague and dim novelistic description. After Endo’s departure from Marseille, Geneviève Pastre writes, Françoise received a letter from him, from the Indian Ocean. But no more letters arrived; there was complete silence. I think we see a crucial cultural difference in interpreting Endo’s silence, between the Japanese group consciousness and Western individualist culture. To the majority of traditionallyminded Japanese, Endo’s complete silence clearly indicates his loss of interest in Françoise, meaning that there will be no hope for their relationship, let alone any glimpse of an encouraging signal as to the seriousness of their engagement or possible future marriage. However, neither Françoise nor her sister placed such an oriental interpretation on the turn of events. In France they applied a different, occidental analysis to Endo’s silence, indeed wondering seriously whether he was, in fact, dying, or even already dead. Another similar misunderstanding occurs regarding Endo’s strange remark concerning his reasons for being unable to marry Françoise,

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ation in question, which was not a treatment of last resort, and should have a good outcome.7

made in 1960, well after his marriage to Junko, his classmate in the French Literature department at Keio University. The occasion was his second arrival in the port of Marseille, by that time both a family man and a famous novelist in Japan. It is intriguing that Endo offered a clear-cut reason against their marriage at this time (which by then, of course, would have involved him in divorce) – namely, the existence of his son. It is interesting to note that he characteristically never took full responsibility for his actions, but transferred them to others – in this case, his son; just as he transferred the responsibility to his mother in the case of his faith in Catholicism. This is one of the manifestations of the gap between Japanese groupism and amae on the one hand, and on the other Françoise Pastre’s independent and individualistic decision to discard her Catholic faith, after a process of stringent examination of it through the works of Pascal, St. Thomas and others, to the painful conclusion of a humanist position, regarding Christ as a ‘[fine] human being’ but not the son of God, and his life as a ‘poetical myth’. Françoise courageously told Endo that through her agonizing struggles with faith, she endured a painful separation from her sisters, who retained their Catholic faith. She declares to Endo, almost accusingly, that she believed that ‘a man is born naked’, and not pre-clothed, in the manner Endo implies regarding his own Catholicism in his reference of it to his mother. Here, Françoise seems to be critical of Endo’s easy-going attitude, his exhibiting ‘dependency syndrome’ and group consciousness even with regard to something as serious and personal as his spiritual faith. Endo was never known to have examined his faith with such scrutiny as Françoise had examined her. Borrowing Françoise’s words, he was not born naked, but was brought up under the controlling ‘coat’ made by his mother. This kind of sharp and revealing analysis of Endo’s religious belief could scarcely have been carried out by any of his Japanese colleagues or friends, who would never have dared to challenge him, let alone criticise such a famous man of letters. They lived in a sort of mutual admiration society, immersed in the amae of their own group. Endo’s silence lasted approximately four years, until a mutual friend of Françoise and Endo, called Oide, told Françoise that Endo had got married in Japan in 1955. (Geneviève Pastre remarks that it might have been 1957, and puts a question mark on the earlier date.) Naturally, this shocking news came as a terrible blow to Françoise,

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much more so because she heard it not directly via Endo himself but via a third party. Her pride must have been deeply wounded. Françoise Pastre’s health was much affected by this terrible news, and it worsened rapidly, because her state of health was linked strongly to her mental state. Geneviève offered her some help, suggesting that she would be ready to write to Endo (possibly to make enquiries about his true feelings?). Françoise, however, decided against this, stressing that she would wish to solve her own difficulties by herself – another sign of that strongly nurtured Western individualism: Françoise wanted – and needed – to deal with her problem herself, which I could understand. It is such a delicate matter, intervening in someone else’s personal problems. The slightest indiscretion is likely to be hurtful, and will in any case be clumsy. But she kept me in the picture. . . . I don’t remember now which one of them made the first contact by letter, she or Paul, but I know that she saw him again during his second trip, in November 1959. (The Young Woman I Abandoned came out in 1959.) I got to read a postcard scribbled in French from the port at Marseille, in which he wrote at the beginning of January 1960: ‘Here I am in Marseille, just like in the winter of 1953, at exactly the same spot, but all alone, looking at the sea, the ships, and the human beings’. The subject was so painful for her that I avoided bringing it up. If I understood things correctly, he told her he couldn’t get divorced because he had a son, but that he wanted to. In short, the situation seemed open. Could hope spring again?9 During these difficult years what sustained Françoise was Keiichi Tate’s strong support, which she greatly appreciated. She also gained strength from continuing to study the Japanese language.

Western individualism versus Japanese ‘groupism’ If there were a machine to measure and interpret the cultural DNA of each country, Japan would be represented by ‘groupism’ as its predominant national and psychological propensity, in contrast to

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Western individualism. Shusaku Endo could almost certainly be classified as an author who was much interested in the significance of ‘groupism’, and was even a committed advocate, in contrast, for example, to Soseki Natsume, who valued Western individualism much more highly than Japanese groupism, especially the groupdomination prevailing in his day. Why was it not possible for Endo to say ‘no’ directly and personally to Françoise, clearly enough for her to understand at least to some extent why he could not marry her, before or even soon after he had married another woman? This might well be accounted for by the Japanese disposition to avoid confrontation, which could result from saying ‘no’ with clarity. Endo might have wished to be a typical Japanese husband, remaining as inconspicuous as possible within, and even hiding behind, the group of Japanese society, avoiding the path of becoming a ‘courageous’ individual who expressed his own wishes forthrightly and thus risked a particular kind of embarrassment, that of being different from others. Ironically, however, to be a Christian in Japanese society already entails being different, not belonging to the mainstream group, and thus being forced to accept some uncomfortable incongruity in traditional society. In addition to Endo’s evasiveness in his rejection of Françoise, there has been an interesting interpretation of his negative response. More than one of my Japanese academic friends have suggested that Endo might have been frightened by the idea of a literal face-to-face confrontation with Françoise, in which he would have had to explain his negative feelings, and assess the possibility of future difficulties for them as a couple in view of their cultural differences – and he would have had to accomplish all of this in French. One of my friends suspects that he might not have been fluent enough to handle such a situation, as he might in his own native tongue. She herself remembered an awkward situation during leave in Cambridge studying Greek philosophy, where she accepted three invitations to join different friends for Christmas pudding, simply because of her nervousness at her inadequacy in explaining the situation to her friends in English. She reflected seriously on this embarrassing experience, showing much sympathy for Endo, seeing how difficult it is to say ‘no’ in a second language when the situation calls for the expression of reasons and justifications. The Western custom of

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embellishing an answer with reasons is another difficult hurdle for a Japanese to overcome, as this is generally not the expectation in interpersonal relations in Japan. Father Yoji Inoue went to France on the same ship as Endo to join the Carmelite order in Bordeaux and stayed and studied in France for seven years. He came to feel strongly that it is illogical to try to marry Western Christianity with the Japanese mind, which reminds us of Endo’s analogy of trying to dress the tiny physique of a Japanese in large and loose Western dress. After Inoue’s return from France in 1957, he tried, together with Endo, to promote a new movement of Christian faith more suited to the Japanese mind – ‘Christianity with Japanese characteristics’, so to speak – believing that this was the only effective way of increasing the ever-decreasing Christian population of Japan. Endo’s ambivalence about the Japanese capacity to accept Westernorientated Christianity is represented further by his analogy with his own personal problems – namely, his seemingly fruitless efforts to ‘recut excessively loose Western clothes to fit Japanese clothes sizes’. None the less, my observations throughout these researches and analytical studies of Japanese writers’ works indicate the existence of huge complications at the crux of the largely unsuccessful development of Christian missionary work in Japan. A large part of the stumbling block is the persistence of the traditional Japanese mentality of giri and ninjo. In such a difficult context, Rodrigues’ passion and effort to spread Christianity in Japan described in Endo’s novel The Silence was destined to be thwarted by the traditional constitution of the Japanese mindset. Father Inoue’s 45-year crusade for an adapted Japanese-style Christianity is based on his rather unsatisfactory experiences in the Carmelite monastery in France. He recalls some discrepancies he felt when looking at the moon with some other foreign students there. In Japanese culture, the moon has particular psychological implications, both poetically and sentimentally. For example, Basho wrote the following haiku in praise of the moon: The beautiful moon moves around the pond, changing its phases minute by minute, during the whole night.

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Looking at the autumnal moon makes me ponder various sentimental thoughts, in so far as I am not looking at it alone, but with some millions of others. (These are my own renderings of the meanings of these poems.) Basho, in his haiku and in his Japanese mind, praises the beautiful moon which changes its phases, in transit from a lower and weaker light to the full, bright light at its height in the sky. Most interestingly, however, it is important to note that his praise of the moon and nature itself is one-way and one-sided; Basho might wish to make friends with the moon, and have some special and similar human relationships. Unfortunately, Basho’s wishes are unrealistic and unattainable, being obviously one-sided and based on his own assumptions. It is impossible to know the moon’s reactions, even if such things ever existed. Basho’s admiration for the moon and his hidden desire for some special relationship with it reveals his unique and characteristically Japanese psychological propensity for ‘groupism’ rather than Western individualism. Basho disliked the sense of being alone in the world and in nature, always wanting to forge links, even with the moon. Naturally, both Basho and other Japanese writers tend to use the moon as a mirror in which to reflect many of their thoughts, as this is an integral part of the Buddhist cultural heritage, in which the moon is seen as a symbol of enlightenment, shining in the darkness that represents the unenlightened spirit. Otomo’s poem also reveals this side of the Japanese psyche, in this case through the desire to be united with other moon watchers – whom he has never met or talked with – in a sort of group emotional solidarity, sharing pleasure, joy, sadness or despair, or even a kind of unrequitable love, as evoked by the sight of the moon. There is a strong sense of Japanese vagueness and ambiguity, along with certain presuppositions, underlying such ‘groupism’. With regard to the Japanese feeling for nature and its relationship to groupism, there is a good example in one of the most popular songs among all classes, ages and genders in Japan, which illustrates

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And Otomo Yakamochi wrote a tanka:

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The spring blossom party at the highest gazebo of the ruined castle; The passing of Japanese wine glasses among the celebrants – A shadow has darkened the glasses and the group who gathered to admire the cherry blossoms. Let’s search for the ancient light which has gone forever – Where has it gone? It used to shine through the castle’s pine branches. In contrast, the Western reaction to the moon might be much more rational and individualistic. As is shown by the original Latin word for the moon – luna – the Western connotation of the moon also encompasses a much less admirable image than the Japanese one – the rather detestable image of the ‘lunatic’ as well as romantic, under the supposed influence of the moon’s gravitation. This may well explain why Father Inoue found it strange that his Western friends seemed not to have shared or understood his particularly strong emotional attachment for the moon. This prevailing tendency towards groupism in Japanese society and culture can be explained further in connection with amae (‘dependency syndrome’). Robert Christopher brilliantly recounts in his book The Japanese Mind how the Japanese mind is affected by this ‘dependency syndrome’ from childhood. According to Christopher, Japanese children tend to be spoiled by their mothers, who do this deliberately through a strong desire to put their children under their control. In this respect, Japanese society is characterised by matriarchy. When those children grow up, they tend to depend on their bosses or others in positions higher than their own, immersing themselves into this groupist network in which, for example, small errors or mistakes at work can be overlooked, and promotion is often made on the basis of loyalty to superiors and the group. The Christian faith which arrived from the West is based on individualism. However, as seen in the above analysis of the link between the special Japanese feeling for nature and the ‘dependency

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this unique Japanese psychological trait. The name of the song is Kojo no tsuki (‘The moon [observed] at the ruined castle’), whose first stanza goes as follows:

syndrome’, the traditional or average Japanese mind is overwhelmingly disposed to groupism and loyalty to superiors. Here lies the greatest hurdle that Christianity in Japan has to overcome, which it has so far failed to overcome. In Endo’s case, though, he encountered Western individualism in France while he was young, but he returned rather readily to the cosiness of Japanese groupism, which was better suited to his natural inclinations and tendencies. Further light can be shed by the notion of ‘groupism’ on the Japanese tendency to be unable to say ‘no’ directly to others, because in the group, with its heightened sense of belonging and security, one tends to be afraid of breaking the harmony, or wa in Japanese. In such circumstances the search for truth can eventually be subjugated and substituted by relativism and relative values.

Françoise’s discovery of Japan and its beauty – glimpses of happiness found in Japan – her work translating Endo’s The Silence, through which conflicts and a crisis between them arose – her views on teaching Japanese students, and her views on Japanese life and mentality At length a new and happier phase of life, albeit short-lived, seems to have opened up for Françoise Pastre. Through her first trip to Japan with a group in 1965 she found a world of totally different beauty in Japan, which suited her sensibilities extremely well, and in which she felt a sense of belonging. The beauty of Japanese art and culture struck her with the shock of revelation, and fascinated her completely. Even Japanese religions such as Shinto and Buddhism made remarkable impressions on her. Then, in 1966, she embarked on a solo trip to Japan as a teacher of French language and philosophy at Sapporo University in the northern island of Hokkaido, staying there until 1968. Fortunately, as discussed earlier, with the help of various friends she was able to move to Dokkyo University near Tokyo, which was much more convenient for meeting Endo and other friends; she taught there during 1968–70. Her life seemed to be more fulfilled in this period, and she felt happier and more contented, with the exception of her troubled love for Endo. Françoise spent her life teaching, and travelling to Kyushu and Izu. She planned to learn to drive, and to study Noh and calligraphy.

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Her work included the translation of Endo’s The Silence, editing the Standard French–Japanese Dictionary, and producing some essays on Camus. Her life in Tokyo was not so easy, mainly because of the poor structural condition of her one-room apartment. As is often the case with rented accommodation in Japan, the walls were so thin that she could hear almost every movement of the man next door – even when cleaning his teeth, his gargling and spitting into the basin. An even worse distress was the location of the apartment directly beside a busy road. Françoise disliked the way some Japanese students seemed to behave regimentally, like soldiers; but what she detested most was the prevailing ambience of moral mediocrity. Despite such discouraging social circumstances, however, she found ‘lovable beings and new customs’. Thus, in a sense, her career had started to take off anew and with greater fulfilment in Japan, and she was able to put aside numerous difficulties in her relationship with Endo – her unrequited love, and some disagreements with him concerning the true nature of friendship and comradeship. For her, as she tells him, treating friends as one’s equals entails a revealing mutual understanding at the level of ‘one whole conscious being to another’ (‘conscience à conscience’, a phrase which includes something more than the meaning of the English expression ‘heart to heart’), even when that brings criticism, harsh comments and disagreements. Françoise made some criticisms of The Silence for shortcomings of style and theme, and the author’s self-conceit and pride as represented by the weakness of the protagonist Rodrigues. Endo became upset and reacted angrily to her making critical comments, accusing her of lacking respect for him, thereby creating a real crisis between them, which Françoise tried to overcome with her enduring sense of love for him. Working thus on the translation of The Silence brought Françoise to realise several important aspects of Endo’s personality, and her own deep love for him despite his limitations, insensibilities and pride. She reacted to the ambiguities of the Japanese language, the banality and use of stereotypes in Endo’s novel, and to the deformity of Japanese Catholicism during the period of persecution and martyrdom. Above all, she became aware of Endo’s difficulties in dealing

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with the portrayal of the problems of a Westerner – Rodrigues being a Western priest on a mission to Japan. Thus, I believe, because of her genuine occidental love for Endo, she expresses her wish to help him in his state of being ‘torn apart by two cultures’. It is clear from Geneviève Pastre’s article that the more Françoise made progress with the work of translating The Silence – which she started at Endo’s suggestion and had substantially completed at the time of her death – the more she uncovered, ironically and poignantly, how deeply she was in love with him. There is ample evidence of her hopeless love, which it is very sad to witness, even being intertwined in her work. Regarding the translation of The Silence, Françoise found it difficult, particularly because she found its Japanese style monotonous. Through this work, however, she noted the vagueness of Japanese language, how suited it is to the expression of emotional matters, but how it lacks all the articulate precision and clarity attributable to a Western language such as French: We must recall that on her arrival in Sapporo, a journalist had interviewed Françoise; he wrote ‘for her Japanese is “suited to the expression of emotions, impressions and feelings without articulation . . . words escape, slip through the fingers, and are impossible to capture”, said this Parisienne with verve’.10 Françoise confronted Endo with all the problems she encountered with The Silence, but he was greatly affronted by her criticisms, honest and genuine though they were. To her Western judgment, this implied nothing other than pride on Endo’s part, and she saw how he was surrounded by groups in a state of ‘constant adoration of himself’: The worst of it is that when grappling with this problem I talked about it to him frankly (in the way we had between ourselves). I caused quite a drama: his pride was wounded (and in fact one can say in him, pride has become a monumental Japanese-style wart; he’s a kind of Japanese Fellini, in other words with the least of tender nuances). His circle, his wife and his friends are incapable of judging him, or of assisting him sanely, and have maintained

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In this dilemma, Françoise doubted whether she should disturb the balance, the wa harmony of Endo’s tepid immersion in the group and its amae of mutual allowance. However, her Western sense of individual responsibility prevailed over her hesitation, and overcame her doubts and fears. She decided to try to break Endo’s unreal dream state and reawaken him to reality, because she believed as a Western humanist that ‘to stay silent would be to look down on him’: I am wondering, furthermore, if I have the right to disturb such an unshakeable self-assurance. What would be the point? But to stay silent would be to look down on him. Whatever term should be used to describe the relationship between us (and I think that no language could produce a satisfactory one), if it is impossible for us to challenge each other mutually and totally, then the relationship is going nowhere. I always revolt against the idea of not treating someone as my fellow man.12 Though criticising some defects in The Silence, Françoise Pastre also values its merits, one of which for her is its tone and life. She also applauds aspects of its style, such as Endo’s avoidance of brutal sentences: ‘As for the problem itself, you bring nothing new to it; for sure you show the scale of it, but the value of your book comes from something quite different, what I call “tonality” and “life”.’13 She believes that, though the book ‘scandalised Japan, it will not scandalise France’. As one might expect, one of the demerits Françoise noted was a lack of articulateness in Endo’s style: ‘I think the value of your book lies in its life, what I have called its “tonality”, but your mode of thought [crossed out] of expression is not so far from the Western mode.’14 However, there is for her a major problem with the book, concerning the personality of Rodrigues. This perception is intertwined with her criticism of Endo’s own personality, particularly in its state of immersion in its own pride and self-righteousness, and the surrounding group of comfortable, unchallenging friends and admirers – in all, a totally non-critical atmosphere. She connects this with her

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him in a constant state of self-adoration. His disciples are devoted to him to a positively feudal degree. Now imagine what happens when I land in the middle of all this!11

criticism of Rodrigues for having done nothing helpful for fellow Christians, who were being tortured and persecuted by the Bakufu government, and for asking only for God’s help. Françoise sees him as weak, cowardly and unbearable as a human being, let alone as a Christian or a missionary. She also often criticised Endo in a similar vein, by saying: ‘You are too preoccupied by yourself. You should think of others and try to help them. The most important thing about writing a novel is whether it can help others by influencing them, affecting and changing their views and prospects of life, their world and their future.’15 Françoise, who had chosen to abandon her Catholic faith for humanism at the age of 19 after a rigorous scrutiny of herself (‘Why am I myself and not another being?’), firmly believed that she owed responsibility to other human beings and not to God; she states that if one listens only to God’s word, one will tend to neglect or forget about one’s duty to fellow human beings. Regarding the theme of The Silence, one of the crucial differences in its interpretation between Françoise and Endo is attributable to the incongruities between the Western understanding of Catholicism and the manner of its assimilation in Japan. To put it another way, Françoise apprehended that Endo’s intention in writing the novel was to describe the ‘deformation of Christianity’, whereas Endo himself was apparently trying to communicate the generous tenderness and versatility of Christ’s forgiveness of human sin. As Father Inoue stressed to me in my interview with him on 23 February 2001 in Tokyo, it was Christ himself who understood Rodrigues’ hardship and suffering so much as to encourage him to ‘trample the icon (fumie) underfoot’ so that he would be freed from torture. Father Inoue went on to explain that Rodrigues seemed to have visualized Christ’s caring eyes of forgiveness, exactly as in the biblical scene of Peter’s denial of Christ after his arrest. According to Father Inoue’s interpretation, there are two noteworthy matters. First, it was not acceptable for the traditionalists in the Japanese Catholic population, clergy and congregation alike, to believe that all those who had bowed to the government during the time of persecution would be forgiven by God, saved and raised to Heaven alongside the glorious and officially approved martyrs. That was the reason why The Silence was initially included in the list of books proscribed as unacceptable to ordinary Catholics. Second,

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Father Inoue considers that Françoise Pastre gravely misunderstood the intended theme of the novel, by missing the importance of Endo’s stress on the ‘caring and loving eyes of Christ’. Through her work on translating The Silence, Françoise seemed to learn much about the realities of Japan, and about her unstoppable and undeniable love for Endo. In 1965, when she first arrived in Japan, Françoise Pastre was struck by the simplicity and refined economical beauty of its culture and art. However, over the space of several years, the gradual revelation of a greater truth and reality dawned on her, which totally transformed her first impressions and reactions. Now Japan came to reflect sadness, lacking in absolute love, where everything is valued in accordance with relativism and groupism. Shocked by Endo’s silly clowning on television, Françoise also realised there was another side to his personality, sadly generalising that Japanese men on the whole are ‘down to earth and not metaphysical’. None the less, it is obvious from various annotations which survive in Geneviève Pastre’s hands that at this time she still found Endo irresistably attractive. She writes that Endo was a ‘large scale of a man’, and she was attracted to him because he was a Christian. She confessed to Geneviève: ‘I am keen on him’, and on discussing various topics with him, including philosophy and the differences in culture and custom between France and Japan. Even so, she sometimes felt like abandoning the translation of The Silence because of difficulties in communicating with the ‘opportunistic’ Endo, whose Japanese pride refused to let him appreciate her conscientious Western efforts to treat him as an equal ‘conscience à conscience’. Despite all these obstacles, Françoise Pastre considered one of her boldest ideas as a woman: she desired to have a child, either by adoption or by Endo. She was confident, she told him, that she could raise a child perfectly well single-handed. What concerned her most at this stage seems not to have been Endo’s reaction to her potentially dangerous and surprising suggestion, but how Japanese society would react to her project, fearing especially the probable negative reaction of her employers at the University, and the repercussions that would have. This plan was apparently abandoned eventually. In the end, it is sad to know that Françoise Pastre continued unabated in her blame of Endo for his unfulfilled promise of mar-

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riage, his cowardly irresponsibility, and the unhappiness of her life, which he could get away with because ‘I was far away’. Unrequited love changed her from a rational, intelligent philosopher into an ordinary, irrational woman, for whom Endo was enemy number one, responsible for all her failures and miseries.

Françoise’s conviction that ‘He did love me’ – her ignorance of her terminal condition – her fervent desire to return to Japan shortly before her death – her posthumous recognition from Dokkyo University and her Japanese colleagues and friends – Geneviève Pastre’s final thoughts It seems there were two major factors supporting Françoise Pastre in the final stage of her suffering life. The first was her realisation, or if that were somewhat illusory, at least her self-assuredness about Endo’s love for her, even though it had scarcely borne any fruit. She also realised, as her following mocking remark indicates, that her and Endo’s mutual love had been wasted – which must have been a source of deep despair for her: I love him as a mother loves her child, despairing at his deficiencies in complete lucidity, taking responsibility for him . . . I believed in his life, as something pure and whole, which is exactly how I wanted it to be. That telephone call this morning was for me a real stab in the back: to learn that he did love me – and as for all the rest of it, who was he?, what’s been going on? the inevitability of an ongoing situation. It is just like a marriage, like the fate of most marriages. But I know I have the right to speak out. I paid for it all right, I paid with my life.16 Did Endo ever threaten to silence her, or even ask her to be quiet? We don’t know. However, Geneviève Pastre voiced their true feelings when she said: ‘He abandoned her in her suffering.’ Geneviève also claims that Endo’s consciousness of his own secret sin and failure concerning Françoise is revealed in Endo’s work, appearing as the recurring theme of man’s weakness or of his desertion of a woman. Geneviève also strongly criticised Endo for not

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having ‘confessed’ his marriage at once, ‘liberating her, allowing her to live, to forgo that love, to take responsibility, go forward, create her own life’. Françoise seems to complain to Endo and nag him for living in a totally Japanese style while declaring himself to be a Catholic. She also criticised him for ‘degrading his thought in order to earn money’. Commenting on his Japanese-style marriage, Françoise cruelly yet truthfully points out that he had no essential respect for his wife’s mind, ‘no searching for a dialogue with her’. On the other hand, what Françoise wanted from Endo was to be her judge, ‘the person who can help me, whose help I accept for the whole of my life’. It was indeed both ironic and poignant that Françoise at the end of her unfulfilled life met a similar fate in the foreign country, Japan, that Endo had had to endure in foreign France in his youth – a grave illness. Françoise eventually had to return to France, against her wishes but to the warm family care and love of her sisters, where her doctor predicted that she had only eight months to live. Geneviève sadly and remorsefully reminisces that she could not find in herself sufficient courage to tell Françoise this cruel news. Consequently, whether fortunately or not, Françoise firmly believed with much hope and anticipation that she would return to her teaching job and her beloved students and friends at Dokkyo University. Indeed, she wrote a number of letters to Professor Toyota Ichihara, then the dean at Dokkyo University, concerning her fervent desire to return to Japan, and at the same time informing him of her state of health and how she was recovering from her cancer treatment. It is extremely poignant to know that Françoise believed she would be able to return to the University in time for the beginning of the new academic year in April, because her elder sisters had decided not to tell her that her condition was terminal. She wrote several times to Mr Ichihara, as the following extracts reveal:17 [20 August 1970] On the way to Montpellier, going past Bourges, the pure light, the simple faith of the stained glass windows of the transept . . . and on the parvis, the Kings of Judaea, beheaded during the revolution, just like present-day China . . .! I am surprised by the changes and transformations of contemporary France, and I miss the past. . . .

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[28 September 1970] Sensei, You haven’t heard from me for a long time and I do not know how to ask you to excuse me . . . the truth is that I haven’t yet entirely succeeded in realising that two months will soon have passed since my departure from Japan. I have the impression I left only yesterday. In the first place – be completely at ease about my health. While waiting, at present still at my sister’s and brother-in-law’s in Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, on the hill in front of the Carthusian monastery (of which I enclose a photo), I am savouring the last days of summer in Provence, where in my opinion the golden light and the mildness of the air are reminiscent of Tuscany. In the garden, there are cypresses, an Arizona tree, a Paulownia, a Japanese cherry tree, and some mint and thyme. . . . [Undated, autumn 1970] Lying on a deckchair, I am resting, listening to some variations by Fauré that my brother-in-law is working on at the moment; in the evening, we often go to pick up my sister after her classes at the Lycée, returning in the car along the track used by the pupils. Provence is very beautiful with its cypresses, olive trees, Thuyas and roadside reed hedges . . . We chatter about music, Japan and – about you. If you come to France one day, this house is surely ready to welcome you. Like you, my brother-in-law likes travelling, and likes Nature. He will be your best guide. Are you tempted? I regret you are not here with us. How are you? How is Mrs Ichihara? I can imagine the new academic year at Dokkyo, your work and perhaps a rainy autumn? I should let you know that I haven’t forgotten the dried leaves I had to bring back. If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to write to me. . . . [19 October 1970] In memory of a very tasty onion soup that you had us eat in Furumoto, in my honour on the occasion of my discharge from hospital . . . Do you remember?

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[10 September 1970] In excellent spirits, pampered, spoiled, rallied around, I do not forget about Japan. Respectfully and dare I say filially.

Geneviève (my sister) writes to me from Paris that she has received a telegram from the University. ‘Regarding departure, wait for letter’ . . . I think I detect your kindness once again! The support of everyone gives me the courage and patience to endure my small current tribulations – because I’ll be back in Japan, indeed quite soon, maybe in a month. Thank you most sincerely. An Avignonnaise in full strength. [7 January 1971] Here are a few ‘crottes de chocolat’ made by my niece and – by me. [20 January 1971] Sensei, I have received the beautiful set of postcards you sent me from the Fairmount Hotel [a hotel located in central Tokyo], which has awoken a growing nostalgia in me! I am nonplussed that you should have given yourself so much trouble over my treatment. I should have looked more closely at my contract. Please excuse my oversights – I, who thought I had finished giving you headaches. I can’t ever thank you enough for all the grief you gave yourself, for all the steps you had to take to get the University to grant me half my treatment. Here, as you have no doubt heard, we experienced all the joys of Sapporo this winter. The Rhone valley motorway (Lyon– Avignon) was blocked, the dead branch of the Rhone completely frozen over! Even now there are still some patches of snow, but it seems we are heading towards spring . . . of which here is an image in anticipation (card 3). I will soon go back to Paris, the last stop before making preparations to leave . . . I am already gripped with impatience at the two months that separate me from my return [to Japan]. Tell Mrs Ichihara how much I rejoice at learning that all is well with her from now on. As for you, Sensei, let me underline my gratitude once more. [1 April 1971] Dearest Sensei, Your letter reached me just after Jacqueline Pigeot told you a bit about my situation. And I have been very touched that you did not wait for my reply, and that you yourself told me that the University would not be opposed to an extension of 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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128 Japanese Writers and the West

sick leave. This has deeply relieved me, though, knowing all of you and the spirit of the University, I never in fact doubted the outcome. I present you both my thanks and my gratitude. I haven’t written to you because I am far too clumsy to write in bed. I haven’t even managed to write coherent letters to my family, and wouldn’t dare write an incoherent letter to my sister Geneviève whom you met in Tokyo. Why all this? The sciatica I had in November returned in early February, and I have been back in bed since February, in fact for over a month, without being able to move. My treatment has been changed and I am undergoing radiotherapy, which doesn’t leave me feeling very dynamic! Do not worry. It appears that this treatment is working well, and apparently it has an effect in the region of the spine. I’ve taken the liberty of sending you an official medical certificate, for which I apologise, since you are not responsible for such official matters. Would you please transmit it to the services, if necessary? It is also significant that Françoise Pastre had maintained absolute secrecy so far as the University was concerned about her close relationship with Endo. This was possibly because she feared the probability of malicious and uncomprehending gossip flying around among both her colleagues and their beloved students. Further, she might not have wanted to reveal her past failures, perhaps at least half realising that her pure and youthful love for Endo had been savagely betrayed by his worldly concerns and their cultural differences. Françoise Pastre died on 4 April 1971 at the home of Mme Bruel, her other sister, near Avignon, having suffered until the very last moments of her life from the extreme pain characteristic of terminal cancer, as the following letter by Mme Bruel to Mr Ichihara recounts with much emotion: [14 April 1971] [I am writing to you] though I know you only by way of conversations with Françoise, which revealed the fervent admiration she had for you, to which we all add the great gratitude we share for your solicitude on her behalf at the time of her operation, her stay in hospital and throughout her illness. We are if anything even more aware of your sympathy and affection for her now that she has left us. 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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She fought valiantly and stubbornly against the illness which was undermining her, trying to ignore it, to despise it, the better to defeat it, and making herself scrupulously obedient to the advice of her doctors, so as to be able to resume her post in her beloved Japan alongside her students, whose numerous letters have made us aware how much they reciprocated this love she had for their country, its language and civilisation. It is scarcely ten days since she was convincing herself of the promise of remission through the radiotherapy; to have the assurance that she would return to her adopted country had transported her with joy. And her last joy, I can tell you, not without emotion, was that double letter you sent her – a priceless piece of paper – which allowed us, reading the French, to appreciate yet again your tenderness and kindness towards her, in the care you took to allay her fears as she had no choice but to face the prolongation of her leave of absence. As for the Japanese letter, that, slipped into her right hand, has accompanied her to her final resting place on earth; she was buried wearing the white and purple kimono presented to her by Mrs Ichihara, folded in accordance with the Japanese funeral rite (she explained this one day to my sister Geneviève). Her funeral was attended by Mr Mori, her oriental language teacher in Paris, and Miss Jacqueline Pigeot, who rallied round her when she was discharged from hospital last summer. The void in which she has left us is great: quiet and discreet, her presence was sweet to all of us. Her departure leaves us with the duty of trying to further, in whatever modest way we can, the life’s work she had scarcely begun. It is for that reason that we would wish that the money she might have bequeathed to Japan be allocated to a foundation bearing her name which would preserve her memory in student circles, because she had in reality ‘married’ the Japanese student world, giving it the best of her intelligence, her heart, and her strength, and there is no better way for us to remain faithfully united to her beyond her death. It is up to you, her revered Master, to determine the form that this last gift to her Japanese students should take. In this way, we will also be able to show you something of the enormous gratitude we feel for you and for Mrs Ichihara. In the hope of meeting you one day, and at present in our

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shared experience of grief, I ask you to accept, dear professor, this expression of my profound gratitude and of my greatest possible respect. Catherine Bruel The hope that Françoise had for the future of her teaching and other work in Japan was, alongside the support of her friends in Japan, the second factor supporting her in her final illness; it gave her undeniable courage and mental strength in her fight against terminal cancer, even though the real strength, consolation and comfort she lacked was from Endo. Sadly, her illness prevented her from attaining her goals and dreams in Japan, where she had found at least partial happiness in her career, despite enduring so long her unrequited love for Endo. Geneviève Pastre wrote to Mr Ichihara shortly after Françoise’s death and funeral: [7 April 1971]. I have some sad news to tell you: on Sunday the 4th, Françoise Pastre succumbed to her illness, it seems without suffering too much, and realising only at the very end that the outcome would be fatal. I had phoned her a few days beforehand; she was delighted at the thought of soon being cured and being able to fly back to Japan. Suddenly her illness got worse . . . Yesterday I was in Avignon for the funeral. I have seen the long and charming letter you had sent her. I thank you very much for the joy that it brought her, first in how it testified to your tenderness and friendship, then in allaying all her concerns about the University. It is a comfort to her sisters and to me to know that in Japan people such as you will keep her memory. In the small cemetery of Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, among the cypresses and under the Mediterranean sky, she is definitely a long way from your country, which she liked so much and to which she wanted to return as soon as possible. . . . Your last letter overwhelmed Françoise with joy, and gave her hope almost till the end that she would return to Japan. And it was I who wrote down her reply last Thursday: she was already finding it very hard to speak, but she wanted to thank

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you for your friendship and for your efforts to keep her at the University. Did she still believe in the possibility of recovery? I am not sure. She suffered a lot during the last month, but never complained, and the last week has been very difficult. She died on Sunday at about 1.30pm. You can imagine our inexpressible pain. I must tell you what sympathy my elder sister and I feel for you, who played for her the role of the family, who offered her your tireless support and showed her a friendship of such high quality. If you come to France, you will be welcome in our family; my elder sister, who like me is a French language and literature teacher, and my brother-in-law, who is a composer and interpreter, are very keen to get to know you. Please believe, dear sir, that we often talk about you with admiration and emotion. Soon, you will receive some souvenirs of Françoise and the poem I promised you. I remember the few hours we spent together, which were one of Françoise’s last real joys. Even though he never came to meet and console Françoise in her final illness in France, Endo some time later sent Geneviève a long letter of condolence – which she discarded without reading. She told me that she was too angry and upset to read it. It might be significant to know whether Françoise was ‘being urged to be silent’ about her relationship with Endo in 1970, a year before her death: she wrote ‘I know I have the right to speak.’ Geneviève Pastre writes: ‘Her discretion was such and her lack of egoism so total that I was fooled about the extreme distress in to which she had fallen, which she was hiding perfectly from the rest of the world. But the truth must out.’18 Finally, as an epilogue to this sad relationship, Geneviève Pastre, as one of beloved Françoise’s elder sisters, desires first that her memory should be treasured, and second that her influence on Endo’s work should be recognised, thus publicly securing her place in literary history.

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Geneviève Pastre’s Article about Her Sister Françoise: Original French Text

Françoise Pastre (1930–1971) En manière d’introduction Tout écrivain mineur ou d’envergure, et c’est bien le cas de Paul Endô, de réputation mondiale, a une part d’ombre ou de non dit, réservée, que l’on ne découvre qu’après sa mort, mais qui est sous-jacente dans son œuvre. La publication du journal de France, ‘La Colline de Rouen’ d’Endô nous en révèle un aspect nouveau dans le dernier chapitre, intitulé ‘Françoise’. Même s’il ne s’agissait que d’un bref amour de jeunesse dans un pays lointain, il y aurait déjà matière à quelques indications biographiques pour restituer son identité à une personne mentionnée sous un simple prénom, pour satisfaire aussi la curiosité du lecteur ou du chercheur attachés à l’oeuvre, donc à l’écrivain en tant qu’en homme. Mais aussi par respect pour cette personne, qui mérite de sortir de cet anonymat si réducteur: un simple prénom! Il est intéressant de savoir de quelle personnalité il s’était épris et de confronter son récit à d’autres témoignages, et tout particulièrement à celui de cette femme. Le romancier en effet puise dans ses observations et son expérience pour créer des personnages, et il n’est pas sans intérêt de voir si cette ‘Françoise’ a pu lui inspirer certains éléments, situations ou types féminins, et sous quels déguisements inconscients ou implicites, il a pu dépeindre les étapes de sa relation, et, en outre, comment dans son propre journal, il a pu modifier la perspective au point de la déformer, et alors pourquoi. Mais si la relation a duré jusqu’à la mort de la jeune fille, pendant près de vingt ans et si elle a eu des conséquences capitales sur sa vie 133 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Appendix 1

et sa mort, et si elle a eu une dimension intellectuelle et littéraire de première importance, il devient impératif de ne pas ignorer leur influence réciproque, et en particulier, pour un lecteur japonais, de tenter de préciser quelle influence la jeune fille a pu avoir directement sur l’écrivain et sur son oeuvre. Enfin, la question peut-être la plus importante est de savoir qui était Françoise. Une jeune fille ‘typiquement française’, mais ce concept a-t-il un sens? Quelle personnalité fut-elle, quel portrait peuton faire d’elle? Dans un essai de proportions modestes, il ne s’agit que de donner des pistes. Car je peux répondre, tout au moins partiellement, à certaines de ces questions. Pour clore cette introduction, je voudrais dire ici toute ma gratitude à madame Junko Endô d’avoir autorisé la publication de cette dernière partie du journal intitulé La Colline de Rouen et d’en faire un commmentaire plein de tact qu’on ne peut lire qu’avec émotion. Elle a su faire preuve, dans une situation délicate, d’une hauteur de vue et d’un respect de soi et d’autrui très rares. Sans elle je n’aurais sans doute pas eu la possibilité de remplir ce devoir sacré et imprescriptible à l’égard de la mémoire de Françoise, que je ne savais comment remplir: relater ce que je sais d’elle, afin que les lecteurs japonais puissent s’en faire une idée fidèle, proche et précise, digne d’elle. Madame Endô a, dans son commentaire, fourni quelques indications, mais assez succinctes. Je me dois de les compléter, et le cas échéant de les corriger, quand elle a pu manquer d’informations. Il est vrai que Shusaku Endô et Françoise Pastre sont restés très discrets, chacun pour des raisons différentes, mais il y a des vérités qu’on ne peut ignorer si l’on a le respect de l’homme, ce qui était un élément fondamental de la philosophie de Françoise. C’est aussi à elle que s’applique cette règle. C’est dans cet esprit que je donne ce témoignage. Le lecteur l’aura compris, il n’est pas question, ici, de parler de cette longue histoire comme d’un fait divers tragique. Comme on le verra, il s’agit de tout autre chose. Postface Il y aurait toute une recherche à faire sur les personnages et les thèmes d’Endô sous cet angle-là, car il y aurait beaucoup à découvrir. Le propre du romancier est sans doute d’utiliser la vie comme un matériau pour la fiction, mais aussi de faire, sous la forme de la

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fiction, une confession, un aveu qu’il n’ose ou n’a pas la force de faire dans la vie réelle. Un article du Figaro Littéraire met ce problème au centre de l’œuvre d’Endô, à l’occasion du Salon du Livre de 1997 où une salle lui était consacrée. Pour ce qui est de Françoise Pastre, j’ai essayé modestement de faire son portrait, même sachant combien il est difficile de connaître totalement autrui, le plus près possible de ce que je sais de sa vie et de sa personnalité. Il faudra sûrement des études plus fouillées; je m’y employerai. Et d’autres aussi, je l’espère. GP Paris, le 6 02 1999 1. Les Origines Françoise Pastre est née le 23 mars 1930 à Thionville, ville de garnison, en Lorraine, d’un père officier de carrière et d’une mère issue d’une famille de notables, gantiers et corroyeurs, à Millau, dans l’Aveyron. Notre père était lui-même d’une ancienne famille de forgerons, installée à St Geniez de Bertrand, au pied du Larzac, depuis le 17ème siècle. Après une petite enfance choyée, auprès et de ses parents et de ses deux soeurs aînées, assombrie cependant par les bruits de guerre incessants dans cette région frontalière, et par la perspective de voir notre père partir pour le front d’une façon imprévisible et imminente, elle passe les années de guerre à Paris qu’elle ne quittera que pour son départ au Japon. Notre père est prisonnier de guerre, et notre mère vit dans l’inquiétude et les soucis: elle a la charge de trois filles, dans une capitale difficile, sans approvisionnement, sans chauffage, et bombardée. Elle veille à notre éducation et veut nous faire faire des études supérieures, pour assurer notre indépendance, et c’est bien ce que nous ferons toutes les trois, des études supérieures, de lettres pour les deux aînées, de philosophie et de japonais pour la plus jeune. Notre mère est féministe, à sa manière, avant la lettre, elle ne nous bridera donc jamais: les études et le métier, pour le mariage on verra bien. On n’en parle pas. Françoise vit ces difficultés plongée dans une situation qui la dépasse plus encore que ma sœur aînée et moi. 2. Les Etudes Elève au lycée Hélène Boucher, elle passe le baccalauréat en 1948, et commence des études littéraires (elle obtient un certificat d’études

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littéraires générales en 1950), mais elle préfère la philosophie pour laquelle elle montre de grandes dispositions. Elle choisit donc des études de philosophie à la Sorbonne. Elle finit sa licence en 1955. Elle obtient son diplôme d’études supérieures en 1956, sous la conduite de Monsieur Schuhl (le sujet en était ‘le verbe être (einai) dans Platon’). Elle passe un certificat d’ethnologie et de sociologie (nécessaire à l’agrégation), où elle travaille sous l’autorité d’Halbwachs et de Leroi-Gourhan. Elle se présente au CAPES en 1957. Sans succès: elle est déjà ailleurs. Parallèlement elle a commencé à travailler comme professeur dans l’enseignement secondaire, dans des établissements privés puis dans des lycées dans la région parisienne, enfin à Paris même au Lycée Edouard Pailleron. Elle a d’abord enseigné la philosophie, puis, devenue titulaire, elle enseigne les lettres. Nous nous voyons très souvent, même lorsque dans les années 50/55 où j’habite sur les bords de la Loire. Mais dès septembre 1955 je suis de retour dans Paris, nous reprenons nos relations très étroites et nous n’ignorons rien l’une de l’autre. Nous avons de longues discussions sur tous les sujets. 3. La Rencontre C’est ainsi que j’apprends, aussitôt, sa rencontre avec Paul Endô que nous appellerons toujours toutes les deux Paul et que je ne peux appeler autrement encore aujourd’hui (bien qu’elle m’ait dit son autre prénom Shusaku, que je n’ai jamais pu oublier). J’avais déjà été amenée, sur ses prières, à rencontrer un certain J. L. qui la poursuivait de ses assiduités et à lui dire assez fermement que ma sœur n’était pas amoureuse de lui et qu’il cesse de l’importuner. Accompagnant des amis de Paul, elle le rencontre donc à l’hôpital de la Cité universitaire et ils se font tout de suite une impression ineffaçable. Je trouve en effet ma soeur transformée, détendue, confiante, paisible, en un mot heureuse. Je ne l’ai jamais vue ainsi. En effet, comme je l’ai dit, son enfance a été marquée par la guerre, dans la dure vie de la capitale, puis son adolescence dans une après-guerre difficile. D’une extrême sensibilité, mais non introvertie et sans rien d’égoïste, elle réfléchissait beaucoup et était à l’écoute des autres. Son extrême finesse et sa réceptivité, qui la rendait vulnérable quand elle se trouvait dans un entourage médiocre, terre à terre, ou pire intéressé, s’accompagnait d’une force intérieure exceptionnelle. La philosophie

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convenait à la profondeur de son caractère, et lui a permis de déployer la force de sa pensée. Mais il ne faut pas du tout imaginer ‘une intellectuelle’ au sens péjoratif que l’on donne encore parfois à ce terme quand il s’agit d’une femme. A sa grande intelligence et à sa culture, qu’elle acquérait avec une extrême aisance, à un esprit critique en éveil (elle pensait tout le temps au sens où Beauvoir le dit de Sartre), une curiosité inlassable, et le sens des idées générales et des synthèses, elle allie un sens et une culture artistique très riche: elle goûtait les arts et nous fréquentions assidûment les concerts, les théâtres et les expositions de peinture. Elle fit aussi des voyages en Grèce, en Espagne, et en Italie. Elle est enfin toujours restée d’une extrême simplicité, elle aimait la vie, la nature (les Causses, et surtout la mer, deux passions fondamentales chez elle), le silence. Elle préféra toujours la solitude aux mondanités, dont elle mesurait la vanité. Brillante, mais sans aucune affectation, exigeante pour elle-même d’abord, mais sans arrogance ni esprit de caste, ni aucun mépris. C’est au début de ses études universitaires qu’elle rencontre Paul, elle aime, elle est aimée. Cela a été immédiat, réciproque et simple. Et grave, car le bonheur rend grave. A l’heure où j’écris, je ressens encore le calme physique et moral qui a émané d’elle d’un seul coup. Il a 29 ans, il est donc son aîné de sept ans, ils ont la vie devant eux. Elle me montre des photos de lui. Elle a trouvé quelqu’un à sa mesure. Ils se considèrent comme fiancés. Mais il y a une ombre sur cette joie et ce bonheur: c’est à l’hôpital qu’ils se sont vus, Paul est malade; il est atteint de tuberculose aux poumons, maladie redoutée de tous à cette époque. Françoise craint une opposition totale de nos parents à leur mariage, et pour ne pas les effrayer, risquer un refus, nous décidons de temporiser afin d’aviser quand le moment sera venu. Dans la famille, je suis seule au courant. La situation s’aggrave. Paul doit être opéré et les médecins lui ont conseillé de rentrer au Japon, car l’air natal sera le seul convenable pour sa convalescence. Il doit rester deux ans là-bas. Les choses se précipitent: il doit donc prendre le bateau à Marseille et Françoise l’accompagne. Il est entendu qu’il donnera des nouvelles tout de suite, et qu’il reviendra dès que possible ou fera venir Françoise. Elle est au désespoir devant la gravité de la maladie, plus encore que devant cette séparation inéluctable et brutale, dans des circonstances si graves, mais fait face. Je lui donne des encourage-

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ments. Nous obtenons des renseignements sur cette opération qui n’est pas l’opération du dernier recours et donne de bons résultats. Elle m’a fait confidence de ce que furent les derniers moments et leur voyage à Marseille. Ce n’est pas le lieu ici de commenter en détail la version de Paul; au regard de celle de Françoise le récit est assez exact, mais j’y sens une mise en scène assez esthétisante, à la manière de Kawabata et une mise en perspective avec ses ombres, ses précautions, ses interprétations. Il suffit de savoir qu’il a vraiment demandé Françoise en mariage, qu’ils ont fait des projets d’avenir. Paul ne souhaite pas vivre au Japon avec Françoise. Il a sans doute compris toutes les difficultés que rencontrerait une relation comme la leur dans une société encore très fermée et aussi l’impossibilité pour Françoise de se conformer au modèle de l’épouse japonaise. Elle a suffisamment surpris à Sapporo quand, aux questions des journalistes, elle répond en souriant que, si elle se marie, elle continuera à travailler. Elle rendra justice plus tard à Paul, écrivait dans son journal que ‘ce n’était pas seulement par lâcheté qu’il ne souhaitait pas que je vienne vivre au Japon’. Ils voudraient soit vivre en France soit voyager en Europe, ou ailleurs, comme font déjà d’ailleurs quelques écrivains et artistes japonais comme plusieurs de leurs amis. 4. Les Langues O. – Le Silence 1952–1965 La découverte de la langue et de la culture japonaise et ‘le silence’. Il est difficile à partir de cette date de dissocier la vie personnelle de Françoise et sa vie amoureuse, elles sont étroitement imbriquées surtout au début, dans la mesure où Françoise, au lieu de se présenter au concours de l’agrégation, décide d’étudier le japonais, et y réussit pleinement. Néanmoins son intérêt pour l’art et la littérature du Japon correspond, indépendamment de son amour, à ses goûts esthétiques profonds. Je prie donc le lecteur de bien vouloir me pardonner si je mêle les deux dans mon récit. Des amis, qui ignorèrent tout de sa vie affective sa vie durant, avaient bien remarqué que son attachement à cette culture n’avait rien d’anecdotique ni d’uniquement sentimental. Elle reçoit des lettres du bateau, dont l’une de l’Océan Indien. Puis plus rien, le silence complet. Pendant un mois ou deux? non, pendant des années, qui s’écouleront jour après jour, heure après

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heure, dans le lent supplice de l’attente. Il faut bien comprendre que l’angoisse ne vient pas que de la séparation, mais des circonstances dramatiques de ce départ précipité, des promesses faites et d’un silence inexpliqué. Toutes les suppositions sont possibles, mais au bout de quelques années, il n’y en a qu’une: Paul est peut-être condamné, il est peut-être mort. L’angoisse ne s’est pas installée tout de suite, puisqu’il y avait les promesses et Françoise a pris en mains son destin. Elle a décidé d’apprendre le japonais et, sans la moindre hésitation, elle s’est inscrite à ‘l’Ecole nationale des langues orientales vivantes’, où il n’y a à l’époque que trois étudiants. Elle y fait des rencontres, elle sait se faire aimer par son intelligence, sa droiture, sa grâce naturelle et sa générosité de cœur alliées à une grande discrétion. Elle gardera toujours des liens avec ses professeurs, dont elle sera dix ans plus tard une collègue et souvent une amie. C’est là ainsi qu’à la Sorbonne elle a pour maîtres, entre autres, René Sieffert, et Mori Arimasa. C’est lui, le spécialiste de Pascal, qui, devenu un ami, la nommait en souriant: ‘la Janséniste des temps modernes’. Cependant, en l’absence de toute nouvelle, qui se prolonge intolérablement, elle a beaucoup maigri, sa santé s’est gravement altérée; au Japon il y aura d’abord une amélioration, puis une rechute: elle ne guérira jamais. Je la conduis chez des médecins, elle est entre des main compétentes, mais le mal a une source morale et ne cèdera pas. Elle endure une souffrance morale si insupportable que je suggère d’écrire à Paul moi-même, mais cette proposition n’a pas de suite, Françoise veut et doit régler son problème par elle-même. Je le comprends. Il est tellement délicat d’intervenir dans les problèmes personnels d’autrui. Toute indiscrétion peut être une blessure, en tout cas une maladresse. Mais elle me tient au courant. En tout cas ils avaient envisagé son départ pour Tokyo: je lui écris: ton voyage doit avoir lieu quand? As-tu besoin d’argent pour partir? dis-nous tout cela. Il paraît qu’on va intensifier les relations culturelles entre le Japon et la France. Veux-tu te mettre en contact avec Esprit, Domenach ou Marrou . . . mais peut-être es-tu déjà ‘pistonnée’ par Paul . . . Je crois qu’il vaudrait mieux connaître d’autres gens là-bas et savoir ce qu’il ne dit pas. C’est stupide, connaître son toubib, son frère ou ses amis, sans quoi c’est trop difficile pour toi.

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Original French Text 139

Je ne sais plus comment elle fait la connaissance du peintre Taté Keïichi et de Kato Chuichi, qui ont eux-mêmes des amis qu’elle côtoie. Ils nouent des liens d’amitié, et ont de nombreux échanges d’idées. C’est son seul soutien, mais combien important. Il faut attendre plusieurs années (57?) pour que Taté prenne l’initiative de rompre le silence et lui apprenne la vérité: Paul s’est marié en 55 sans l’en avertir. C’est un choc terrible. 5. La deuxième rencontre (1959) Elle n’interrompt pas pour autant ses études aux langues O. Je ne me rappelle plus qui est entré en contact épistolaire le premier de Paul ou d’elle. Mais je sais qu’elle l’a revu pendant son deuxième voyage de novembre 1959, (La jeune fille que j’ai abandonnée a paru en 1959). J’ai pu lire une carte griffonnée en français du port de Marseille, où il écrit, début janvier 1960: ‘me voici à Marseille comme l’hiver de 1953, exactement au même endroit, mais tout seul, en regardant la mer, les bateaux et les êtres humains’. Le sujet est si douloureux que j’évite de lui en parler de moi-même. Si j’ai bien compris, il dit qu’il ne peut pas divorcer à cause de son fils. Mais qu’il le désire. Bref, la situation semble ouverte. L’espoir peut-il renaître? 6. Le premier voyage (1965) Depuis ce voyage où ils se sont revus, ils écrivent régulièrement. En 1964 elle obtient son diplôme et se prépare à partir enseigner au Japon. Elle fera un premier voyage, avec un groupe, en 1965. Elle en revient enthousiaste, émerveillée, elle a visité Kyoto. C’est plus qu’une découverte, c’est un choc, une révélation: cette civilisation, cette culture la séduisent totalement, pour elles-mêmes. Bien sûr elle est en relation avec des Japonais tout à fait cultivés, pleins de raffinement, spécialistes de la culture française la plus classique. Elle se sent tout à fait en symbiose avec cet art minimal, dépouillé, si pur, sans ornement mais d’une telle dimension humaine, qu’elle a découvert avec une joie profonde et qui va exactement dans son sens à l’encontre des excès formels et des facilités aimables de tous les baroques. Mais aussi elle découvere les cultes shinto, bouddhistes, qui font grande impression sur sa sensibilité mais aussi sur sa pensée philosophique, qui s’ouvre à d’autres perspectives, tout à fait neuves pour elle.

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Original French Text 141

L’enseignement, la traduction, les voyages au cœur du Japon: Kyushu, Izu, etc. Il lui faudra pourtant franchir bien des obstacles, dont elle ne s’expliquera pas toujours l’origine et la cause, avant d’obtenir un poste de lectrice – non payée par le gouvernement français – à l’université de Sapporo, en 1966, pour deux ans; ce qui lui permet, grâce à sa propre ténacité et aux appuis de quelques uns de ses anciens professeurs et nouveaux amis, d’obtenir enfin un poste à l’université Dokkyo, à Tokyo. Elle vit donc et enseigne à Sapporo de 66 à 68 et à Tokyo de 68 à 70. Elle ne quittera pour la France qu’en août 70. Au cours de ces quatre années, elle évoluera. Elle ne changera jamais d’avis bien entendu sur l’élite qu’elle fréquente, aussi bien du côté des étudiants que des professeurs. Mais elle a beaucoup appris. Par exemple sur ce que l’on peut appeler la mentalité quotidienne qu’elle côtoie: on ne vit pas tous les jours dans la littérature ni dans la beauté zen: l’appartement d’où elle entend, à travers la cloison trop mince, le voisin se râcler la gorge et cracher dans le lavabo, après s’être lavé les dents, ou le bruit infernal et la pollution dûs à l’autoroute passant quasiment au dessus de l’appartement, et les métros, le matin, quand les pousseurs aident la foule à se tasser dans la rame archibondée, ou encore les étudiants qui manifestent en rang presque comme des soldats la font rire, mais aussi réfléchir. La médiocrité morale de certains, elle, lui fait plus horreur que les conditions matérielles du quotidien dont on peut s’accommoder, même si elles reflêtent une évolution regrettable ou les contradiction d’une civilisation. Mais elle découvre des êtres attachants et des coutumes nouvelles. Elle est pleine de projets, songe à prendre des leçons de conduite aussi bien que de shodo et de nô. Sa situation est enfin assurée. Elle est titulaire. Elle qui, avant de partir pour le Japon, avait prévu de rester un an à Sapporo et un an à Tokyô, elle sait enfin, que, quoi qu’il arrive, sa place, par goût et choix délibéré, est au Japon. Les échanges ne se passent qu’à un haut niveau culturel. Elle me dit préférer à présent la littérature et les arts à la philosophie. Mais elle reste profondément imprégnée de la philosophie occidentale. Elle s’intéresse à la traduction, elle a pensé au Nô, puis à des romanciers, tombant ‘consciemment ou inconsciemment’, sur le

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7. Sapporo et Tokyô 1966–1968/1968–1970

roman d’Endô, Chinmoku, qui vient de paraître; sur la proposition de ce dernier, elle en entreprend la traduction. C’est la maladie et la mort huit mois après son retour en France dans l’été 1970 qui l’empêcheront de finir cette traduction qui est bien avancée (j’en possède une ébauche manuscrite). Elle est également co-auteur du dictionnaire Standard japonais– français édité chez Taishukan en 1970, qui est bien connu de tous les Japonais. Elle a suivi en même temps des cours de perfectionnement à Waseda et participe, en tant qu’enseignante, à un stage à Karuizawa, et en 69, à celui de Shigokôgen. Ces quatre années, elle dispense un enseignement de qualité, elle écrit aussi des commentaires personnels sur quelques philosophes (en particulier sur Camus), elle rencontre de nombreuses personnalités du monde universitaire ou des artistes, ou créateurs japonais et français qui font son éloge. Jeanne Sigée, poète et dramaturge, qui a longtemps vécu à Tokyo eut des relations amicales tout au long de ces années. Elle qui ignorait tout de sa vie amoureuse avait été touchée par ce double aspect de sa personnalité, ‘inhabituel chez un philosophe, une intelligence brillante jointe à une grande générosité de cœur’. On peut donc dire qu’elle a participé pleinement à la vie culturelle japonaise et qu’elle a œuvré infatigablement et intelligemment pour la rapprochement des cultures française et japonaise. J’ai encore dans les oreilles des coups de fils passionnés au sujet de tel ou tel article du Standard, ou tel problème de langue et de traduction. C’était alors un contexte alors [sic] très favorable à la culture française. En tout cas, en 1968, c’est pour elle une immense satisfaction d’être à Tokyo et pour longtemps. Elle m’écrit le 11 octobre 1968: ‘autant le dire, je suis parfaitement heureuse puisque je me trouve enfin dans les conditions où je pourrai aller au bout de moi-même’.

8. La Réalisation de soi, la traduction du Chinmoku Sa conception de l’amour: ‘Cette relation qui n’a de nom dans aucune langue’, m’écrit-elle dans une de ses nombreuses lettres. J’en viens, à présent, à ce qui est sans doute un des aspects essentiels de cette relation qui, pour tourmentée qu’elle fût, dura dixhuit ans. Je veux parler de leurs relations ‘de conscience à con-

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142 Appendix 1

science’, et qui trouva son point de tension maximum avec le Chinmoku. Elle écrira d’ailleurs à Paul en 70: ‘ce n’est pas pour toi que je suis venue au Japon’. Il faut comprendre cette phrase: sa conception de l’amour est trop élevée pour qu’on imagine une amoureuse éperdue ne traversant les continents que pour retrouver Paul à quelque prix que ce fût. Ce serait une erreur majeure. Sa conduite n’est pas romantique ni sentimentale. Les critères qui permettent de juger la situation, de son point de vue sont autres, et ne sont pas dûs seulement à des différences de culture entraînant une incompréhension. Elle est déchirée, parce qu’elle fait crédit à Paul, vu l’envergure exceptionnelle de l’homme, et aussi, il faut bien le dire, parce qu’il s’affirme chrétien. Son amour est fondé sur l’estime, même si elle est ‘amoureuse’, l’amour étant par nature irrationnel. C’est ce conflit qui la pousse à aller jusqu’au bout, à risquer sa vie, à faire ‘le pari’. Mais jamais, au grand jamais, elle n’aurait plié ni intellectuellement, ni moralement, en suivant les critères sociaux usuels de l’infériorité du statut de la femme par rapport à l’homme. Ce sont deux libertés qui se rencontrent et il ne peut y avoir de compromission, de calcul intéressé, de ruses, c’est ce qu’elle appelle ‘l’amour absolu’. La traduction de Chinmoku est décidée d’un commun accord. Françoise y travaille. Journal de Sapporo: mardi 14 novembre. Il a neigé. Soleil pâle d’hiver. Bruit de pluie quand je me suis réveillée: le dégel. Préparer le texte de Claudel: 2e ode . . . salut donc, ô monde nouveau à mes yeux . . . écrire à Geneviève et à Paul . . . mercredi. Bugaku-bu assez bien travaillé . . . mais mesuré mes difficultés, une fois de plus pour parler. Claudel j’admire, mais . . . En finir avec le permis, le plus tôt possible, d’abord. Ensuite Chinmoku . . . et . . . Dimanche: ça va mieux. Commencé la traduction de Chinmoku. C’est difficile! Début avril, elle m’écrit:

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Original French Text 143

Depuis mon retour de Tokyô je me suis mise sérieusement à la traduction du dernier roman de Paul – il me l’avait proposé depuis l’été dernier. J’ai tergiversé, puis décidé envers et contre tous. Il s’agit de la traduction du roman de Paul. J’y ai déjà beaucoup travaillé, mais je ne sais pas si je vais continuer . . . Ce roman est un document, à mon avis unique sur le Japonais et ses rapports avec l’Occident (et vice-versa, en particulier avec le christianisme). On y trouve là-dessus des vérités premières qu’on n’apprend qu’en vivant ici; mais le style est, dans la ligne du thème – étrangement a-japonais, clair jusqu’à la monotonie, jusqu’à la banalité, sans relâchement pour autant. C’est comme si chez Paul, toute la fameuse sensibilité japonaise si délicieusement obscure à l’occidental, avait été déracinée, parce qu’il se pose les problèmes en Occidental. En ce sens ce style n’est pas beau. Paul écrit très bien en français, mieux que moi (avec plus de force), Mori même serait en ce sens plus banal. [Il faut rappeler qu’à son arrivée à Sapporo un journaliste avait interviewé Françoise; il écrit: ‘pour elle le japonais est ‘propre à l’expression des émotions, des impressions, des sentiments, sans articulation . . . les mots échappent, fusent entre les doigts, sont insaisissables’, dit avec esprit cette Parisienne’.] Le pire, c’est lorsque, heurtant ce problème, je lui en ai parlé franchement (à notre façon à toutes les deux!); j’ai déterminé un drame: il a été blessé dans son orgueil (et ça, on peut dire que l’orgueil est, chez lui, une verrue monumentale à la japonaise, à la Fellini japonaise, c’est à dire avec de moins tendres nuances). Son milieu, sa femme, ses amis, incapables de le juger, ni de l’aider sainement, l’ont entretenu dans une constante adoration de soimême. Ses disciples lui sont dévoués à la féodale. Alors tu imagines, moi qui arrive [original French text spelling ‘arrives’] là-dessus! Je me demande d’ailleurs si j’ai le droit de troubler une sûreté aussi inébranlable. A quoi bon? Mais me taire serait le mépriser. Quelque soit le nom qu’on puisse mettre sur les rapports qui existent entre nous (et je pense qu’aucune langue n’en donnerait un satisfaisant), s’il n’est pas possible de nous mettre en question mutuellement totalement, ça n’a pas de sens. Je me

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Original French Text 145

Lettre à Paul: J’ai été très tentée par le Nô. C’est un fief qui appartient à Sieffert, je ne veux pas empiéter. Voilà j’ai beaucoup réfléchi, je voudrais vraiment traduire ton bouquin – il a été une révélation pour moi . . . il vaut la peine d’être transmis – parce que ça me fait plaisir (barré), puis n’est-ce pas . . . Mais si tu ne veux pas . . . De toute façon je suis occupée jusqu’au début septembre, mais alors il faudrait absolument que je décide ou toi . . . ou Natsume Soseki. 1970: Je me suis remise à la fameuse traduction (tout en me disant que c’était sans doute illusoire de vouloir changer quelque chose au processus d’embourgeoisement et d’autojustification de l’auteur, processus par trop avancé). Mais je me sens responsable et comme je ne suis pas une fille à me nourrir de remords, j’attaque. A Paul: Si ton livre a fait scandale au Japon, il ne fera pas scandale en France: sinon aux yeux d’une bourgeoisie de plus en plus réduite et de plus Mauriac sans doute et encore! sera-t-il touché par ta conclusion? Quant au problème lui-même, tu n’apportes rien, tu montres bien son ampleur, mais la valeur de ton bouquin tient de tout autre chose, ce que j’appelle tonalité et vie. [et encore:] Je pense que ton livre vaut par sa vie, ce que j’ai appelé ‘tonalité’, mais ta façon de penser (barré), d’articuler n’est pas si lointaine de la façon occidentale.

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révolte toujours à l’idée de ne pas traiter quelqu’un en homme. Ne t’en fais pas. Je t’écrirai ce que j’aurai décidé, ce qui ne saurait tarder: Avant le 20, car alors Paul part en Amérique . . .

Plusieurs lettres montrent à quel point elle a été déconcertée que Endô ait vraiment été piqué au vif par un jugement sincère et qu’il ait réagi brutalement, d’une façon cassante, évitant le dialogue sur le fond et l’accusant d’orgueil et de manque de respect. Cette réaction semble cacher un malentendu sérieux (plus qu’une simple blessure d’amour-propre?) chez Paul, et provoque entre eux une crise grave qu’elle tente de surmonter. Paul fait semblant d’interpréter comme un manque de politesse et de respect (?) la vivacité des propos et du ton, la colère même devant son refus de comprendre le sens de ses remarques, et d’y voir comme une marque d’orgueil; en fait, il n’accepte pas un regard ‘critique’ de son oeuvre sur le plan littéraire, humain et religieux, et peut-être surtout venant de Françoise. Or, pour Françoise l’amour ne se conçoit pas sans le véritable échange, ‘conscience à conscience’. . . . je m’en fous d’être vaincue, si je me suis trompée, je reconnais toujours . . . je ne suis pas têtue, mais je ne suis absolument pas opportuniste et par nature et par conviction; je suis infiniment prudente. S’il faut renier, je renie. J’en crèverai sans doute, mais je préfère. Il y a assez de lâchetés dans ce monde et de compromissions pour ne rien ajouter. Si tu appelles cela de l’orgueil, je suis parfaitement orgueilleuse. [8.1] Rodriguès Françoise soulève un autre point de discussion tout aussi important. C’est le choix et le caractère même du héros Rodriguès et la conception du catholicisme développé par l’auteur à travers lui. Le brouillon de lettre daté du 29 mars marque bien. les méandres pas ordinaires par lesquelles [elle est] passée: je renonce à traduire le roman de Paul . . . Son roman est un document unique, à mon avis, parce qu’il illustre parfaitement la déformation que subit le christianisme dans la vision d’un Japonais, et l’écartèlement où vit un Japonais qui a pressenti la dimension verticale du christianisme et de toute la civilisation occidentale, alors que, Oriental, il ne peut vivre qu’en latéralité . . . en ce sens ce roman est passionnant, mais le style est, dans la ligne de ce problème, écartelé, ni japonais ni français.

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Original French Text 147

Oui ton héros me met en colère . . . Les choses me touchent trop fortement. Je suis infiniment vulnérable et fatigable à cause de cela: excuse-moi. Mais je sais en même temps le pourquoi de ma colère . . . je ne peux pas apprendre à ne pas réagir. Je ne peux pas apprendre à jouer au valet, comme ton ami journaliste . . . Et c’est pour cela que ton héros Rodriguès m’a dégoûtée vraiment. Persuadé de la mission qui lui est confiée, il ne fait pas un geste quand les paysans sont sacrifiés à sa place et se contente de regarder du haut de son observatoire et d’en appeler à Dieu. Quel salaud! Est-ce que le Christ aurait laissé 1 homme mourir à sa place? sous prétexte d’une mission à accomplir? Ton héros est préoccupé de lui et pas des autres. C’est un solitaire. Encore heureux qu’à la fin il ne s’entête pas, mais lorsqu’il insiste sur ses propres souffrances, je le trouve odieux. Les souffrances, les difficultés, un chrétien soucieux des hommes les tait. Rodriguès est une femmelette. Lorsque tout au long de la discussion, il dit que Inoué a raison, ce sont toutes ses souffrances qui perdent leur sens. Qu’est-ce que ça peut foutre, c’est le destin de l’homme de voir sa vie . . . Plus tard, à l’automne 69, elle m’écrit: J’ai passé un été un peu fou, je suis restée à Tokyô, mais j’ai nagé à la mer, avec une force que je n’ai jamais connue. C’était si excessif que j’étais au 7ème ciel. J’aime beaucoup ça. Je suis très excessive comme tu sais . . . finalement, ouf, je traduis le bouquin de Paul en ce moment. Beaucoup de problèmes existent, les mêmes, mais tu sais comme je suis. Tu as très bien écrit: ‘sois toi-même’. Je ne peux pas être moi-même sans faire ça. C’est impossible. Mais tout ce que j’ai dit de lui est confirmé. Mais je tiens à lui comme à la prunelle de mes yeux. Tout ce que peux faire, je ferai. Un point. Ils continuent à discuter de religion, du faible et du fort, du sens du salut personnel, de la différence des usages et des signes de politesse entre le Japon et la France, du conformisme, de l’apport du livre au

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Et ailleurs:

148 Appendix 1

[8.2] Le Vocabulaire User du vocabulaire reçu d’une façon reçue, c’est obéir à un ordre conventionnel superficiel des choses. Je suis trop abstraite, mais je sais ce que je veux dire, toi aussi d’ailleurs. Voilà pourquoi j’aime assez Sarraute, beaucoup Le Clézio (comme toi). Au fond il ne faut écrire que ce que l’on doit absolument écrire et le bavardage est plein de bavures et d’inutilités qui m’irritent. Voilà pourquoi je suis muette . . . et j’aime beaucoup le silence. Je trouve ton écriture, ton style assez actifs, tes coupures de phrases brutales me plaisent. Ce que ta secrétaire appelle une dimension rétrécie. Tu ne sors pas de l’habitude. Il faut plus de patience acharnée pour parvenir, autrement dit aider les autres à cet élargissement d’euxmêmes, à chercher eux aussi leur vérité, c’est à dire leur propres expériences. Je crois à la valeur du comment dire. [8.3] Une Ethique Elle développe ensuite une éthique générale: C’est à l’homme qu’il faut revenir, à l’homme, aux hommes. Je pense que ton hypersensibilité morale te fait passer à côté du fond des choses, du souci de la réalité des choses. Il y a dans tes descriptions une sorte de vision stéréotypée, déformée du monde, qui fait que tu es plus préoccupé de toi-même, de ton salut, que de dire les choses comme une quête passionnée où tu t’oublierais toimême. Tu restes prisonnier de toi-même . . . il n’y a pas de péché contre Dieu, mais seulement contre l’homme. Elle ne cesse de s’élever contre le souci du ‘salut personnel’. Qu’est ce qui peut servir à l’homme dans ce que tu dis? C’est ça l’important. Qu’est-ce qui peut faire avancer l’humanité dans ce que tu dis? A écouter Dieu, on vole les hommes de ce qui leur est dû. Je pense ainsi. Il faut penser en termes réels. 1o s’accepter soi-même. C’est le plus difficile, avec ses redites, avec ses défauts.

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public japonais et français et de l’écriture. Pour ne donner qu’un exemple:

2o dépasser soi et s’occuper des autres et pas de son petit bonheur et de son salut à soi. Ne pas chercher son salut. Le christianisme pour moi, une compagnie d’assurances? moi je m’en fous. Je veux chercher l’amour absolu, la vie ici absolue. Si l’amour permet une fois de penser: Ah! je voudrais [feuillet manquant] . . . Elle écrit quelques pages sur leurs cheminements respectifs; pour elle ‘Si Dieu est, Dieu se tait bien’; pour lui, Chinmoku. A Paul: ‘Tu me dis: on m’a mis un vêtement occidental et moi, je suis japonais, donc je voudrais un vêtement japonais. Mais parce que c’est ma mère qui est morte, qui a été malheureuse, qui m’a donné ce vêtement, je le porterai toute ma vie’. [On se rappelle le passage de l’Homme de quarante ans, où Nosé évoque son enfance et son baptême et ajoute: ‘et depuis ce temps-là je sais bien que je ne puis me défaire de cet habit que mes parents ont choisi pour moi sans le mettre à ma taille’.] Mais moi, mes parents m’avaient mis ce vêtement et je l’ai porté jusqu’au moment où il m’a fallu, où il a été absolument nécessaire de décider si j’accepterais de continuer à le porter, si j’assumais moi-même de continuer à le porter. Car l’homme naît nu, je crois. Se poser la question, c’était déjà prendre le risque de sortir de la foi pour l’examiner. Pour être franche, je dois dire que cela me parut, quand je décidai de le faire, absolument effrayant. J’éprouvais un sentiment de culpabilité ou plutôt le sentiment du péché par excellence. Dieu était encore présent. Toute ma famille était croyante, ma soeur surtout, celle que je préfère; je me suis sentie dans une solitude effrayante. Mais dans cette chambre de l’appartement désert, sur cette table de bridge inconfortable (héxagonale) où je travaillais, au centre de mes 19 ans, je lisais et relisais les Méditations de Descartes et ce mouvement si magnifique par lequel il aboutit au doute ou plutôt à la nécessité du doute total avant de rien affirmer. J’étais à ce moment-là en année de propédeutique; nous avions un professeur thomiste (il préparait une thèse sur l’hylémorphisme), ne jurait que par St Thomas ou plutôt Aristote et ressemblait, plutôt, le pauvre à un homme d’affaires, voué à une publicité unique, et s’y dévouant avec clarté, avec une trop grande convic-

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tion, force et simplisme pour tout dire. Pauvre Sandoz. Il avait une ribambelle de filles et un seul fils qui se fit dominicain. Que dire de mon investigation du thomisme? Dieu n’est pas une vérité à démontrer. Les preuves de l’existence de Dieu reposent toutes sur un sophisme, et n’atteignent pas en tout cas jamais un dieu de la Foi. Quant au Dieu de la Foi, je ne le trouvai pas dans l’Evangile, ou plutôt il se passa cette chose étrange: que le Christ me parut une des plus belles figures (de l’Occident [barré]) humaines, une splendide et profonde projection que l’homme fit de son destin, de lui-même. Mais ce n’était pour moi qu’un mythe poétique, et je pensais que si l’homme était allé loin dans ce mythe, il était encore entaché de la situation historique dans laquelle il avait pris naissance. Par exemple la condition de la femme . . . Rien d’autre que l’homme et sa volonté de dépassement pour moi et sa naïveté et ses maladresses. Allons: si Dieu est, Dieu se tait bien. Et Dieu est bien déformé par tous ces magnifiques et en même temps pitoyables efforts humains de l’homme. Alors j’ai préféré mettre ce Dieu entre parenthèses et opter de vivre sans mettre un nom d’emprunt à ce à quoi je peux aspirer. L’homme est là; je sais ce que je lui dois. J’ai pris le parti de vivre pour l’homme. Sans me raconter d’histoires. Je crois qu’il faudrait vivre dans un sacré-profane si j’ose dire.

[8.4] Point de vue philosophique Pourquoi suis-je moi? Le vrai scandale pour moi fut celui-là: comment l’homme individuel, à un moment de l’histoire, dans sa petite vie, peut atteindre à l’universalité (Montaigne et Pascal) . . . j’ai pensé avec angoisse à ce problème juste avant la philo. Ce qui m’avait frappée, c’était déjà l’espace d’énorme banalité des consciences environnantes et de la [illisible], la déperdition des consciences – énorme. Or, si l’homme était, il devait être absolu sinon tout était raté. Je puis dire que ce problème me hante encore. Plus je cherchai l’unique en tout, plus je trouvai injuste le sort de l’homme. L’homme naît nu, en situation, à un moment de l’Histoire, dans un certain milieu, mais il naît peu à peu à la conscience. Je me

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souviens quand j’étais enfant. Comme tous les enfants, je me demandais, dans ce jardin de Thionville, avec angoisse, pourquoi j’étais moi et pas quelqu’un d’autre. C’était dé jà, je pense, un décalage entre l’exister pur et à une vie supérieure, faite d’interrogations. C’était déjà le sens très aigu de toute l’individualité humaine. Chaque homme, je le sentais comme une sorte d’absolu, indépendant, mystérieux. Ils discutent aussi du faible et du fort (thème récurrent chez Endô), et à plusieurs reprises: ‘Je pense que l’être faible est le plus touchant, le plus vrai; celui qui se croit fort est faible en réalité’. Elle insiste aussi sur sa propre faiblesse: Vu[es] du point de vue de la perfection la force et la faiblesse se valent. Je te parais forte parce que je te cache tout mon désespoir, par amour-propre, pour ne pas te blesser et par amour tout court . . . dans mon enfance jusqu’à ce que je te rencontre, j’étais désespérée de moi-même, de mes faiblesses, sans les nourrir pour autant. Tout défaut a sa qualité; je me suis attachée à sa qualité . . . [8.5] Une Esthétique Pour moi, le Nô est si beau que ma vie entière est sauvée, comme par un tableau de Taté [le peintre japonais qui l’aida à survivre durant le long silence d’Endô]. Mais je voudrais pour toi la force de Taté et que tu t’oublies au moins dans tes oeuvres. Tu tiens trop à toi. L’important ce n’est pas de dire: soi, est-ce que je suis faible, est-ce que je suis . . . L’important c’est de créer l’éternel à partir de soi, de sa vie, sans tenir compte des autres. Platon avait raison: le beau c’est le bien – et le bien est le beau. Noté sur son journal: le mardi 14 avril 70 je l’ai vu à Shibuya. Il part après demain, mais revient à la fin du mois. Tant de choses à dire. Il est 10h25. Comme toujours je pense à toi. Le doute m’a repris aujourd’hui, mais à peine . . . mais je ne comprends pas pourquoi tu m’as paru si proche hier, comme si,

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Original French Text 151

malgré tout, à travers tout, nous devenions de plus en plus unis, reliés, essentiellement, au delà de la distance, de la souffrance de cette distance, du sentiment même, et de ses orages et de notre maladresse. Je te connais comme tu me connais . . . exactement, gravement, au travers de l’ironie. J’ai besoin de toi comme tu as besoin de moi. Je t’aiderai, tu comprends . . . L’arbre. Les arbres. Le Causse et le mouvement fuyant de la route qui va se perdre à Millau . . . et ailleurs: L’air du Causse, ses plantes à ras de terre, œillets sauvages rares, touffes drues et solitaires, le vent. la solitude. les nuages. J’aime tes yeux, ton front, tes mains, mais je n’ai pas le temps de te voir, de te retenir, de t’apprendre par cœur. Je ne te sais pas par cœur. Le front. oui, j’ai le même mouvement au-dessus des sourcils . . . pour la première fois tu as signé de ton prénom japonais, tu sais comme c’est important pour moi. 9. La Crise Mais la crise éclate, quand elle voit Paul dans une émission de TV dont il ne lui a pas parlé, une de ces émissions médiocres où on demande à l’invité et à sa famille de parler de tout et n’importe quoi. De le voir ‘faire le Jocrisse [sic]’, c’est plus qu’elle n’en peut supporter. Elle sait que le climat des médias est ici à l’américaine, précédant la France, mais elle reçoit un choc en plein cœur, ‘en plein ventre’. Elle m’écrit: Je ne lui en veux pas de ne pas être métaphysicien, [elle avait noté dans son journal: ‘Le Japonais est amétaphysique. Je suis Antigone d’Anouilh comme jamais’] ça non, mais à ras de terre [de vouloir] un bonheur à ras de terre. C’est à cause de cela que je voudrais aider Paul qui est un homme en crise entre deux civilisations. Je pense que pour l’instant, je pourrais tenir le coup, si j’avais quelques moyens sans lesquels je vais devenir à mon tour déracinée, car ce qui est occidental ici est une imitation bouffonne de l’occidental et le reste . . . lire des bouquins japonais des temps à

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m’écrit-elle. (Elle me demande des livres et des revues.) Journal: Paul est extraordinaire comme type, mais je trouve que tout ici laisse un goût amer, triste . . . je sens une amère tristesse . . . je me dis donc provisoirement traduisons son bouquin et aidons Paul le plus possible, après je verrai. Mais elle lui écrit: Non, il n’y a rien de sacré ici, rien, l’amour absolu n’existe pas ou n’existe que pour moi . . . tu es sans parole, sans volonté. Je pense que tu n’as pas compris. Tu parles de bonheur, mais tu as fait délibérément, parce que j’étais loin, mon malheur, et tu cherches le bonheur confortable de ceux qui ne te mettent pas en question, qui t’aiment trop peu, d’une façon enfantine, pour euxmêmes et toi tu joues au Père qui protège ses enfants. Mais la femme n’est pas un enfant, non. J’ai pensé toute la journée à adopter un enfant ou ce qui serait beaucoup mieux avoir un enfant de toi? Or par hasard ce soir j’ai lu Le Soleil Couchant de Ozamu Dazai. Drôle de coincidence. Je pense que sans toi je pourrai très bien élever un enfant. Sans mari. Je ne suis pas de ces femmes emmerdeuses qui s’accrochent. Je saurai rendre un enfant intelligent et heureux. Mais il y a la Société. L’Université acceptera-t-elle? Il me faudrait un an . . . Pourquoi serais-je la seule sacrifiée dans cette histoire? . . . tu es responsable de tout.

10. La Maladie, les deux opérations Elle tombe si sérieusement malade au printemps de 1970 qu’elle en fait confidence à une collègue de Dokkyô, qui était une amie proche. Il faut qu’elle consulte. Elle doit être opérée d’urgence, mais c’est trop tard, on l’opère donc une deuxième fois. Il n’y a plus rien à faire. Sur l’appel d’une amie française, qui enseignait à Tokyô, je vins de

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venir, tu parles. Je suis trop vivante pour tenir le coup comme ça. Donc aide-moi.

toute urgence au Japon, juste après ses deux opérations. Or alors qu’il était évident que non seulement toute la communauté culturelle franco-japonaise était au courant de sa maladie (le consul lui avait envoyé des fleurs à l’hôpital) mais que beaucoup connaissaient sa vie affective, et sans doute un certain nombre qu’il s’agissait d’Endô, ce dernier ne vint jamais ni à l’hôpital ni chez cette amie, ni à l’aéroport il ne chercha pas à revoir Françoise quand elle fut en France chez moi à Paris ou chez ma soeur qui la soignera ainsi que sa famille avec un dévouement admirable. Il laissa Françoise mourir, sans se manifester. On sait qu’on est capable de tout et même de soulever des montagnes quand on a la foi (ici amoureuse) pour retrouver quelqu’un qu’on aime: or au moment de la douleur, à l’heure suprême, il l’abandonna. ‘Moi aussi j’ai un secret, et dont je ne parlerai sans doute à personne jusqu’à ma mort’, et ‘les kakuré sont les descendants de parjures’, ces paroles prêtées par lui au narrateur dans Mater Dolorosa, paru en 1959, paraissent cruellement des tentatives d’aveu, à lui-même autant qu’au public, voilant tout en dévoilant. La conscience de sa faiblesse, d’un secret, mais aussi de la faute, est reconnue comme une constante dans son œuvre. Elle a peut-être plusieurs sources, mais il ne faut pas négliger celle-là. Il faut conclure. Il est évident que, dans ce court essai, il est impossible de donner plus qu’un aperçu sur une personnalité d’exception, liée et confrontée à un homme brillant, exceptionnel lui aussi, dans la parole duquel elle avait cru, dont la première faute fut de la trahir, mais la deuxième, sans doute la plus grave, de ne pas avoir le courage de lui faire l’aveu aussitôt, la libérant, elle, lui permettant de vivre, de faire son deuil de cet amour, de prendre ses responsabilités, d’aller de l’avant, de créer sa propre vie. Tu as fait deux parts dans ta vie: le Japon et le reste du monde et tu as pensé profiter des deux. Mais la nationalité te définit-elle tout entier? ma nationalité me définit-elle tout entière? tu n’as pas le respect de l’homme. Tu prétends être catholique: le catholicisme c’est d’abord l’universalisme. Or tu vis à la japonaise, sans penser en termes d’humanité générale. Tu n’es pas catholique au sens fondamental; tu ne comprends pas que tu renies ton pays, ce qui fait que pratiquement tu vis comme un Japonais. Pas de respect essentiel de l’esprit de ta femme, pas de recherche d’un dialogue avec elle. Alors que moi, je voudrais que tu sois mon juge, celui

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qui peut m’aider, dont j’accepte l’aide de toute ma vie. Pour gagner de l’argent, tu avilis ta pensée. . . . je l’aime comme une mère aime son enfant, désespéré, dans ses manques, en toute lucidité, responsable de lui . . . j’ai cru sa vie pure, intacte. Je veux sa vie pure, intacte . . . Ce coup de téléphone, ce matin, fut pour moi un vrai coup de poignard; savoir qu’il m’a aimée et le reste qui fut-il? qu’est-il? la continuation d’une situation. C’est ça le mariage, le sort de la plupart des mariages. Mais je sais que j’ai le droit de parler. J’ai payé, de ma vie, j’ai payé.

11. La Fin Elle rentra en France, contre sa volonté, mais le chirurgien, un homme d’une grande valeur morale, qui était parent d’un ami proche de ma sœur, m’avait dit qu’elle était perdue, qu’elle avait à vivre au maximum 8 mois, qu’elle aurait besoin de soins intensifs, et qu’il fallait à tout prix la faire revenir. Mais on lui avait caché son état, et dans une telle situation, épuisée comme elle l’était, je ne pouvais prendre l’initiative de parler contre les médecins. La mort dans l’âme, je partis la première pour l’entraîner à me suivre, ce qu’elle fit quinze jours plus tard; c’était la première fois que je lui mentais. Et je suis toujours restée dans le doute sur le bien fondé de ce choix, car on lui vola ainsi ces mois précieux pour elle, mais par ailleurs on lui adoucit ces jours qu’elle vécut à Paris et à Villeneuve lès Avignon, avec l’espoir de rentrer rapidement à Tokyô. Mais je sentis bien que quelque chose s’était brisé entre nous, comment faire autrement? Etait-ce la trahir? Je ne le sais pas encore aujourd’hui. Cela me torture toujours. Du jardin je la vis dans son lit qui pleurait doucement. Elle mourut lucide. A sa mort, l’Université de Dokkyô lui consacra, en hommage, une brochure. Nous donnâmes toute sa collection de livres à l’université et il fut créé une Fondation Françoise Pastre avec ces livres et la donation de l’argent qu’elle avait à Tokyô que nous fîmes également à Dokkyô, tant les témoignages d’amitié et d’admiration affluaient du monde universitaire: elle avait gagné le cœur et l’estime de tous, aussi bien étudiants que professeurs. Cette fondation existe toujours. M. Ichihara Toyota, doyen de la faculté des langues étrangères de Dokkyô, écrit le 16 avril 1971 au Consul de France, Monsieur

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Dufourcq: ‘Nous la regrettons beaucoup à cause du service admirable qu’elle a rendu à notre école et de la sympathie qu’elle nous inspirait’. Cette sympathie ne s’est pas démentie au bout de 25 ans. Ma soeur et son mari, Catherine et Yves-Marie Bruel (elle, a été professeur de lettres au lycée d’Avignon et lui, professeur au Conservatoire d’Avignon, est pianiste, interprète remarquable et compositeur estimé, il jouit d’une grande réputation tout particulièrement en Allemagne) et moi-même, sont restés en relation avec des collègues et des élèves. Sa tombe a été longtemps fleurie, à Villeneuve lès Avignon, tous les anniversaires de son décès (survenu le 4 avril 1971) par les soins d’amis japonais. Nous avons pu comprendre les délicatesses de l’âme japonaise par ces amis qu’elle nous a, en quelque sorte, donnés. Nous sommes bien loin des clichés. Il est impossible de les citer ici, la liste serait trop longue. Se serait-elle dégagée, une fois qu’elle aurait admis que Paul ne correspondait pas (ou plus) à l’homme qu’elle avait connu en France, qu’elle avait aimé, le ‘Paul possible’? Elle était trop intelligente pour ne pas faire une analyse lucide, et en tirer les conclusions qui s’imposaient. Elle avait une personnalité très forte et n’avait jamais été aliénée par cet amour hors du commun. Elle aurait trouvé une voie pour se réaliser sans lui. Quelle que soit la cruauté du passage obligé par la rupture, elle avait assez de caractère, assez d’amis véritables, pour sortir de cette crise terrible causée à la fois par la lâcheté d’un homme et son indécision, sa faiblesse et pour couronner le tout, sa dureté, mais aussi par une différence de civilisations, compliquée encore par leurs deux cheminements. Quelles solutions aurait-elle trouvées? Elle n’était pas femme ‘à se marier avec n’importe qui’ au Japon ou ailleurs. Comme on l’a vu, elle aurait certainement fait une carrière, peut-être élevé un enfant, sans doute écrit elle-même. Des notes et des ébauches le suggèrent. Sa situation affective et morale ne fut-elle tragique que parce que la maladie la foudroya à ce moment-là, ou les désillusions accumulées furent-elle la cause de la dégradation brutale de sa santé et du développement inexorable de la maladie? On se souvient qu’elle avait déjà eu de sérieux ennuis de santé en France, d’origine hormonale, à la suite de l’inexplicable silence d’Endô. Ce cancer du sein, aurait-elle pu en réchapper? On pense dans les milieux médicaux qu’avec les traitements actuels (sans ou malgré l’erreur de diagnostic du premier médecin japonais traitant), on l’aurait sauvée. Cette sit-

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uation de détresse est terrible, dans un pays étranger, où, avant tout, elle est seule, malgré les amis dévoués qui l’entourent. Les derniers mois, en France, voire les derniers jours, cependant, au sein d’une famille aimante, se manifeste une volonté de vivre, de repartir au plus tôt: ses lettres au Japon montrent à l’envi sa volonté, son choix réfléchi de rentrer chez elle, à Tokyô. Ignorant qu’elle était condamnée, elle prouva qu’elle était assez forte pour repartir. Quelques lettres montrent qu’elle avait fait le point. La 16 10 70, elle écrit à Kyoko, une amie à qui elle avait confié son studio: Le moral est bon. L’amitié de tous, la vôtre surtout, la gentillesse de Mr Ichihara, la pensée que tout le monde m’attend au Japon, ça me donne toute la patience nécessaire pour ces dernières . . . tribulations. Dites aux étudiants combien je suis fâchée d’être retenue ici et combien je bous d’impatience de revenir, de les faire travailler et de travailler avec eux. Une fois revenue, je compte bien me rattraper! De nombreuses lettres à M. Ichihara expriment le même désir. Il y a assez souvent dans l’oeuvre d’Endô des personnages où semblent affleurer des profondeurs des vérités enfouies, très loin derrière les événements ou les pensées de la surface, qu’ils crèvent comme un visage sous la glace surgit, plonge et réapparait. Ainsi à cette réflexion terrible, dans Unzen, attribuée à Nosé–Endô (à propos de lui et d’un ami): ‘[il était] conscient du décalage irrémédiable qui les séparait’, et, ‘il était bien placé pour savoir combien il était mou, lâche et faible’, phrase d’une lucidité cruelle, fait écho celle de Françoise: ‘J’ai appris ses défauts: sa vulgarité, son laisser aller, sa vanité, mais d’autre part je l’aime.’ Je voudrais conclure ainsi provisoirement cette modeste tentative pour faire connaître la vérité sur ‘Françoise’, pas seulement celle du dernier chapitre de ‘La Colline de Rouen’, mais sur ‘Françoise Pastre’, dont la vie fut interrompue brutalement, en plein essor, le 3 avril 1971: elle venait d’avoir 41 ans. J’avais une dette à son égard, à elle qui ne m’a jamais manqué. Je devais aller la voir les premières années de son séjour là-bas, elle a dû repousser ma venue, puis c’est moi qui ai été empêchée, mais quand j’ai compris l’urgence que signifiaient ses appels pressants du printemps 70, je m’en voudrai toujours de n’avoir pas tout laissé immédiatement pour voler à son secours. Tout

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crie en moi ce regret. Sa délicatesse était telle et son absence d’égoïsme si totale qu’ils m’ont trompée sur l’extrême détresse dans laquelle elle se trouvait, et qu’elle cachait parfaitement à tout le monde. Mais il faut que la vérité soit faite. Je lui ai laissé le plus possible la parole: ‘je sais que j’ai le droit de parler’ a-t-elle écrit, en 70, alors qu’on cherchait à la faire taire. J’ai en tout cas senti sa présence auprès de moi toutes ces heures et tous ces jours où j’ai essayé, non pas de raconter sa vie privée, ce qu’elle aurait détesté, mais de lui donner toute la place qu’elle doit garder dans nos mémoires et dans l’histoire littéraire. Geneviève Pastre Note de l’auteur 1. Les textes se répartissent en trois groupes, des extraits de lettres qui me sont adressées, des brouillons de lettres à Paul, et des notes personnelles. 2. Les parenthèses indiquent des coupures dans un même texte, les points de suspension des textes inachevées ou des feuillets manquants. Il n’a pas été possible de tenir compte dans ce cadre de son usage tout à fait personnel des miniscules et majuscules, ainsi que des blancs ou de la disposition sur la page.

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Geneviève Pastre’s article about Her sister Françoise: English Translation

Françoise Pastre (1930–1971) By way of introduction Any writer, whether minor or, as in the case of the world-renowned Paul Endo, of great breadth, has some part of himself that remains shadowy or unspoken, reserved, that one discovers only after his death but which underlies his work. The publication in the Journal de France of Endo’s La Colline de Rouen (The Hill at Rouen) reveals him in a new light in its last chapter, entitled Françoise. Even if this were only a matter of a fleeting youthful love-affair in a far-off country, there would already be enough biographical material to permit the reconstruction of the identity of this person, mentioned only by her first name, and to satisfy the curiosity of the reader or researcher interested in the work, and indeed in the writer as a man; but also out of respect for this person, who deserves to emerge from the reductive anonymity of this mere first name! It is interesting to learn what sort of personality he had fallen for, and to confront his account with the testimony of others, most especially that of this woman herself. The novelist in fact draws on his observations and experiences in order to create characters, and it is not without interest to see if this ‘Françoise’ managed to inspire some elements of his situations or female types, and under what unconscious or implicit disguises he was able to depict the stages of his relationship, and furthermore to what extent in his own journal he managed to alter the perspective to the point of distortion, and indeed why. But in a case where the relationship lasted until the young 159 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Appendix 2

woman’s death, over a period of nearly twenty years, and where it was of ultimate consequence in her life and death, and had an intellectual and literary dimension of the utmost importance, it becomes imperative to find out about their reciprocal influence, and in particular, for a Japanese reader, to attempt to specify the direct influence the young woman might have had on the writer and his work. In the end, the most important thing is probably to get to know Françoise – a ‘typically French’ young woman. But what does this concept mean? What kind of person was she; how can one picture her? An essay of modest proportions can only concern itself with indicating a few tracks, as I can respond at least in part to some of these questions. In closing this introduction, I would like to express my gratitude to Mme Junko Endo for having authorised the publication of this last section of the journal, The Hill at Rouen, and having written a commentary on it which is full of feeling and which one cannot read without emotion. In a delicate situation, she has managed to display a great high-mindedness, and a self-respect and regard for others that are extraordinary. Without her, I would undoubtedly not have been able to fulfil this sacred and inalienable duty to provide a memorial to Françoise. I did not know how to go about this: to recount what I knew about her, in order to give Japanese readers a faithful image of her, true to life and accurate, and worthy of her. Mme Endo in her commentary has provided a number of pointers, if rather sketchily. It has fallen to me to flesh them out, and where necessary to correct them, where she seems to be missing some detail. It is true that Shusaku Endo and Françoise Pastre remained very circumspect, each for different reasons, but there are certain facts that one cannot ignore if one has respect for humanity, which was a fundamental element in Françoise’s philosophy. That rule also applies to her. It is in that spirit that I bear my witness. The reader will come to understand that there is no question in this of speaking about their long history as some kind of tragic ‘news item’; as one will see, it’s a different thing altogether. Postscript A considerable amount of research could be done on Endo’s characters and themes from this point of view, and there would be much

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to discover. It is doubtless a characteristic of the novelist to make use of life as material for fiction, but also to use the medium of fiction as a confessional, acknowledging things he has neither the daring nor the strength to acknowledge in real life. An article in Figaro Littéraire placed this issue at the heart of Endo’s work, on the occasion of the ‘Salon du Livre’ in 1997, where a room was dedicated to him. As far as Françoise Pastre is concerned, I have tried in a modest way to pen a portrait of her as close as possible to what I know of her life and personality, realising full well how difficult it is to know someone else completely. More probing studies are certainly necessary; I will go to work – and so too, I hope, will others. GP 6 February 1999 1. Her origins Françoise Pastre was born on 23 March 1930 at Thionville, a garrison town in Lorraine, to a father who was a career officer, and a mother coming from a leading family of glovers and curriers in Millau in the Aveyron region. Our father came from a long line of blacksmiths, established in St Geniez de Bertrand at the foot of the Larzac since the seventeenth century. Her early childhood, though pampered at home with her parents and two older sisters, was overshadowed by the incessant spectre of warfare in this frontline region, and the unpredictable but everpresent prospect of seeing our father leave for the front. She spent the war years in Paris, not moving from there until her departure for Japan. Our father was taken prisoner, and our mother lived a life of anxiety and worry. She had responsibility for three daughters in the difficult circumstances of the capital, low on food supplies, without heating, and under attack. She took care of our education, and wanted us to go on into higher education to make sure of our independence. So that is what all three of us did, higher education in the humanities for the two eldest, philosophy and Japanese for the youngest. Our mother was a feminist in her own way, before the term was coined, and so would never rein us in: education and employment; marriage could be seen to later – that wasn’t mentioned. Françoise lived through the depths of these difficult times, but they were too much for her, more so than for my elder sister and myself.

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Françoise was a pupil at the Lycée Hélène Boucher, and passed her baccalauréat in 1948. She embarked on literary studies, achieving a certificate of general literary studies in 1950; but her preference was for philosophy, for which she showed a great aptitude. She therefore chose the philosophy course at the Sorbonne, finishing her ‘licence’ in 1955, and achieving her higher education diploma in 1956, under the tutelage of M. Schuhl. Her subject was ‘the use of the verb to be (einai) in Plato’. She gained a certificate in ethnology and sociology, required for admission as a university staff member, her work being supervised by Halbwachs and Leroi-Gourhan. She sat for the CAPES examination in 1957, though without success – her thoughts had already begun to wander. At the same time she had started work as a secondary school teacher, first in private institutions then in the lycées of the Paris region, ending up in Paris itself at the Lycée Edouard Pailleron. She started out teaching philosophy, but once she had an established appointment, she taught the humanities. We met often, even in 1950–1955 when I was living on the banks of the Loire. But from September 1955 I was back in Paris, and we resumed our close relationship; we knew everything about one another. We talked at length together on every topic. 3. The meeting It was thus that I learned immediately of her meeting with Paul Endo. Both of us always called him ‘Paul’, and I can’t call him anything else, even today, despite the fact that Françoise told me his other name, Shusaku, which I can never forget either. I had already been caused, at her request, to meet a certain J. L., who was pursuing her assiduously, and tell him rather firmly that my sister was not in love with him and that he should cease to pester her. In the company of some of Paul’s friends, she met him at the University Hospital, and they immediately made an indelible impression on one another. Indeed, I found my sister transformed, relaxed, self-confident, at peace – in a word, happy. I had never seen her like that. In fact, as I said, her childhood had been marked by the war, the rigours of life in the capital, followed by an adolescence in the difficult conditions after the war. She was of great sensibility, but not introverted, and with no hint of egotism; she used to think a lot and listen to others.

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Her extreme delicacy and her receptivity made her vulnerable when she found herself in mediocre company – earthy or even worse – but she had an inner strength which was exceptional. Philosophy suited the depth of her temperament, and allowed her to deploy the full strength of her thinking. But one must in no way imagine her as ‘an intellectual’ in the pejorative sense that term has when applied to a woman. Of great intelligence and highly cultured, qualities she acquired in her stride, she was a fine critical mind in the making – she used to ‘think’ all the time, in the sense in which Beauvoir said this of Sartre. She had an unflagging inquisitiveness, and a grasp of general ideas and syntheses, allied to a richly developed artistic taste and culture. She had a taste for the arts, and we went assiduously to concerts, plays and art exhibitions. She travelled as well, to Greece, Spain and Italy. In all, she always retained a great simplicity, she loved life, nature (the Causse hills, and above all the seaside, were two of her fundamental passions), and silence. She always preferred solitude to social events, considering them a vanity. Brilliant, but without affectation, she was very demanding, in the first place of herself, but was in no way arrogant or factional or contemptuous. It was at the beginning of her university course that she met Paul; she fell in love with him, and he with her. This was immediate, reciprocal and straightforward. And serious, in the way that happiness makes you serious. At this moment, as I write, I am reliving the sense of physical and moral calm that suddenly emanated from her. He was 29, so seven years older than she was; they had their whole lives in front of them. She showed me photos of him. She had found someone who was her equal. They considered themselves engaged. But there was a shadow over this joy and happiness: it was at the hospital that they had set eyes on each other – Paul was unwell, suffering from pulmonary tuberculosis, an illness feared by everyone at that time. Françoise was afraid that our parents would be totally opposed to their marrying, and in order not to alarm them, and so as not to run the risk of a refusal, we decided to procrastinate, so we could decide when the right moment had arrived. In the family, I was the only one in the know. The situation worsened. Paul needed an operation and the doctors advised him to return to Japan, because the air of his native land was the only air conducive to his convalescence. He would need to stay there for a couple of years. Things

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English Translation

moved swiftly: he had to sail from Marseille, and Françoise accompanied him that far. It was understood that he would send news immediately, and that he would come back as soon as possible, or send for Françoise. She was in despair on account of the gravity of his illness even more than because of the inescapable brutality of their separation in such serious circumstances, but she coped well with the situation. I encouraged her. We got some information about the operation in question, which was not a treatment of last resort, and should have a good outcome. She confided in me about those last moments and about their journey to Marseille. This is not the place to comment in detail on Paul’s version; comparing it with that of Françoise, his account is fairly accurate. But I detect in it a kind of stage-setting, something of an aesthetic reworking à la Kawabata, an addition of perspectives full of shadows, precautions and interpretations. Suffice it to say that he really did ask Françoise to marry him, and that they made plans for the future. Paul did not hope to live in Japan with Françoise. He was doubtless aware of all the difficulties they would encounter in a relationship like theirs in a society that was still very closed, and that it would be impossible for Françoise to conform to the model of the Japanese housewife. She created enough of a stir at Sapporo when, in response to the journalists’ questions, she said with a smile that, were she to marry, she would continue to work. On a later occasion she did justice to Paul, writing in her journal that ‘it wasn’t only cowardice that made him want me not to come and live in Japan’. They wanted either to live in France or to travel in Europe, or elsewhere, as some of the Japanese writers and artists were already doing, as indeed were some of their friends. 4. Oriental languages; and the silence 1952–1965 – Her discovery of the language and culture of Japan; and ‘the silence’. It is difficult from that date on to dissociate Françoise’s personal life and her love life. They overlap so tightly, especially to begin with, in so far as Françoise, instead of sitting for the university staff membership competition, decided to study Japanese, in which she succeeded admirably. None the less, her interest in the art and literature of Japan corresponded, independently of her love, with her deepest aesthetic tastes. But I will have to ask the reader to forgive me if the

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two aspects merge in what I write. Friends who knew nothing about her emotional life during her lifetime have in fact remarked that her fondness for the culture was in no way anecdotal or sentimental. She received letters [from Endo] from the ship, one of which was from the Indian Ocean. Then nothing. Total silence. For a couple of months? No, for years. Time went by, day after day, hour after hour, a slow torture of waiting. It is important to make clear that the anxiety did not stem just from the separation, but from the dramatic circumstances of the precipitous departure, the promises made, and then the unexplained silence. All sorts of suppositions were possible, but by the time several years had passed, only one remained – that Paul’s case had perhaps become terminal, and perhaps he was dead. This anxiety did not set in immediately, in view of the promises that had been made. Françoise took charge of her fate. She decided to learn Japanese and, without the least hesitation, enrolled at the ‘Ecole nationale des langues orientales vivantes’, where at that time there were only three students. There she made contacts, and became well liked for her combination of intelligence, integrity, natural charm, generosity of spirit and great discretion. She maintained her links with her teachers; ten years later she was to be their colleague and frequently their friend. There, as at the Sorbonne, her teachers included René Sieffert and Mori Arimasa. It was he, the Pascal expert, who became a friend of hers, and called her with a smile ‘the latterday Jansenist’. Meanwhile, in the absence of news, which was dragging on intolerably, she had become much thinner, and her health had gravely deteriorated. When she went to Japan, it improved to start with, but then relapsed. She never recovered. I took her to see doctors, and she was in competent hands, but the illness had a spiritual source and would not remit. She endured spiritual suffering so unbearable that I suggested that I myself should write to Paul, but that proposal wasn’t taken up. Françoise wanted – and needed – to deal with her problem herself, which I could understand. It is a such a delicate matter, intervening in someone else’s personal problems. The slightest indiscretion is likely to be hurtful, and will in any case be clumsy. But she kept me in the picture. They had in any case envisaged that she would leave for Tokyo; I wrote to her:

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When will your voyage be? Have you got enough money for it? Tell us, whatever. It seems that cultural relations between France and Japan are to be strengthened. Do you want to get in touch with Esprit, Domenach or Marrou . . . but maybe Paul is already backing you up. I think it would be worth getting to know various other people there, and finding out what it is he’s not saying. It’s silly, get to know his medic, his brother, his friends, or things will be too hard for you. I no longer remember how she made the acquaintance of the painter Keiichi Tate and of Shuichi Kato, who themselves had friends that were part of her circle. They forged bonds of friendship, and had numerous intellectual exchanges. This was her only support, and was therefore immensely important. But it took several years ([19]57?), before Tate took the initiative and broke the silence, telling Françoise the truth: Paul had married in [19]55 without letting her know. It was a terrible shock. 5. The second meeting (1959) Even so, Françoise did not interrupt her oriental language course. I don’t remember now which of them made the first contact by letter, she or Paul, but I do know that she saw him again during his second trip, in November 1959. (La jeune fille que j’ai abandonnée [The Young Woman I Abandoned] came out in 1959.) I got to read a postcard scribbled in French sent from the port at Marseille, in which he wrote at the beginning of January 1960: ‘Here I am in Marseille, just like in the winter of 1953, at exactly the same spot, but all alone, looking at the sea, the ships and the human beings.’ The subject was so painful for her that I avoided bringing it up. If I understood things correctly, he told her he couldn’t get divorced because he had a son, but that he wanted to. In short, the situation seemed open. Could hope spring again? 6. Her first voyage (1965) From the time of this voyage after they had seen each other again, they wrote to each other regularly. In 1964, Françoise got her diploma, and prepared to leave to teach in Japan. She made her first voyage there with a group in 1965.

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She came back enthusiastic, even awestruck; she had visited Kyoto. It was more than a discovery, it was stunning, a revelation: this civilisation and culture had seduced her completely, in its own right. Of course she had been in the company of thoroughly cultured Japanese people, very refined, who were experts in the most classical French culture. She felt that she was in complete symbiosis with this minimal, unadorned art, of such purity and absence of ornamentation, but of such a human dimension. She had discovered with profound joy that it was fully at one with her in her opposition to formal excess and the easy pleasantness of the baroque. But she also discovered the cults of Shintoism and Buddhism, which made a great impression on her, not only on her sensibility but also on her philosophical thought, which was opening up to fresh perspectives wholly new to her.

7. Sapporo and Tokyo 1966–1968/1968–1970 Teaching, translating, travelling to the heart of Japan: Kyushu, Izu, etc. There were, however, many obstacles she had to overcome, the nature and cause of which she didn’t always explain, before she obtained a two-year teaching post – not paid for by the French government – at the University of Sapporo in 1966. This eventually allowed her, thanks to her personal tenacity and also to pressure applied by some of her former teachers and newfound friends, to obtain a post at the Dokkyo University in Tokyo. Thus she lived and taught in Sapporo from 1966 to 1968, and in Tokyo from 1968 to 1970. She only left for France in August 1970. Over the course of those four years, she underwent an evolution. She would never, of course, alter her view of the elite whose company she kept, at the level of either students or professors. But she had learnt a great deal: for example, in relation to what one might call the ‘spirit of the day-to-day activities’ surrounding her. One does not spend the whole time immersed in literature or the beauties of Zen. She was able to laugh at the sound of the occupant of the flat next door gargling and spitting into the washbasin after cleaning his teeth, clearly audible through the excessively thin party wall, or at the infernal racket and pollution caused by the highway that ran almost directly above the flat, and at the underground trains

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English Translation

each morning when platform staff shove the crowds to squeeze them into compartments already bursting at the seams. But these things were also thought-provoking. The moral mediocrity of certain people caused her more horror than the material conditions of everyday life – one can get used to those, even if they represent regrettable developments or contradictions in a civilisation. But she also discovered attractive human beings and novel customs. She was full of plans, and dreamed of learning to drive, and of taking lessons in shodo and No. Her situation was at last secure. She had an established post. Before leaving for Japan, she had anticipated staying one year in Sapporo and another in Tokyo; but now she realised that, come what may, the right place for her, by taste and deliberate choice, was Japan. Exchange only took place at a high cultural level. She told me she now preferred literature and the arts to philosophy. But she remained profoundly immersed in Western philosophy. She became interested in translation. She envisaged No, and then novelists, coming ‘consciously or subconsciously’ across Endo’s novel Chinmoku, which had just come out; and at his instigation, she undertook to translate it. Illness and death eight months after her return to France in summer 1970 were what prevented her completing this translation – though it was well on the way (I have a rough manuscript draft of it). She was similarly co-author of the Standard Japanese–French Dictionary, edited by Taishukan in 1970, which is well known among the Japanese. At the same time, she was taking finishing courses at Waseda, and took part as a teacher in a session at Karuizawa, and in 1969 at Shigakogen. During these four years, she provided teaching of high quality, wrote personal commentaries on a number of philosophers (in particular Camus), and met numerous personalities of the academic, artistic and creative worlds, both French and Japanese, who sang her praises. Jeanne Sigée, a poet and playwright long resident in Tokyo, had a friendly relationship with her throughout this period. She knew nothing of her love-life, but had been impressed by a double aspect to her personality, ‘rare in a philosopher, a brilliant intellect married to a great generosity of heart’. One can thus say that she par-

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ticipated fully in Japanese cultural life, and that she worked tirelessly to draw the French and Japanese cultures closer together. Passionate phonecalls about some entry in the Standard, or some problem of language or translation, still ring in my ears. It was a context in many ways favourable to French culture. In any case, it was greatly pleasing to her to be in Tokyo from 1968, indefinitely. She wrote to me on 11 October 1968: ‘You could say that my happiness is perfect, now that I am at last in a situation in which I can fulfil myself to the limit’.

8. Self-realisation; the translation of Chinmoku Her concept of love: ‘The relationship that is nameless in all languages’, as she put it in one of her many letters to me. This brings me now to what is undoubtedly one of the most basic aspects of her relationship, which, however tormented it was, lasted eighteen years. This is the issue of their relationship ‘as one whole conscious being to another’, which came to a head in the great tensions over Chinmoku. She would, moreover, write to Paul in 1970: ‘it wasn’t for you that I came to Japan’. This sentence needs to be understood: her concept of love was too elevated for one to imagine her as the distraught lover crossing whole continents to regain Paul, whatever the cost. That would be a major error. Her conduct was neither romantic nor sentimental. The criteria by which we can assess the situation from her point of view are other than that, and not only shaped by cultural differences resulting in a misunderstanding. She was in torment because she believed in Paul, in view of the exceptional breadth of the man, and also it must be said because he declared himself a Christian. Her love was based on esteem, even though she was ‘the lover’, love being by its nature irrational. It was this conflict which pushed her to the limit, to risk her life, and take this gamble. But never, never for one moment, did she make intellectual or moral concessions by going along with the customary social criterion of the inferior status of the woman to that of the man. They were two free agents encountering each other, and there was no room for compromise, for calculations of self-interest, or for ruses; this was what is called ‘absolute love’.

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English Translation

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Tuesday 14 November. It has been snowing. Pale winter sunshine. I heard it raining when I woke up: the thaw. Must prepare a Claudel text: the Second Ode . . . Greetings, then, o world new to my eyes . . . Must write to Geneviève and to Paul . . . Wednesday. Bungaku-bu Worked well enough . . . but weighed up my problems again so we can talk them over. Claudel I admire, but . . . Must get this permit business over with, as soon as possible. Then Chinmoku . . . and . . . Sunday: things are going better. Started the translation of Chinmoku. It’s tough! In early April, she wrote to me: Since coming back from Tokyo I have embarked for real on the translation of Paul’s latest novel, something he suggested to me last summer. I procrastinated, then decided on it come what may. What’s at stake is the translation of Paul’s novel. I’ve already done a lot on it, but I don’t know if I’m going to carry on . . . this novel is in my view a unique document about the Japanese and their relationship with the West (and vice versa, and in particular with Christianity). In it one finds various basic relevant truths that one can only learn from living here; but the style, the linear narrative, is curiously non-Japanese, clear-cut to the point of monotony or banality, relentlessly so. It’s as if for Paul all that famous Japanese sensibility, that delightful inscrutability in Western eyes, has been rooted out, because he poses his problems in a Western way. In that sense the style is unattractive. Paul writes very well in French, better than I do (more forcefully); even Mori would be banal by that standard. We must recall that on her arrival in Sapporo, a journalist had interviewed Françoise; he wrote ‘for her, Japanese is “suited to the expres-

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The translation of Chinmoku was decided on by common agreement. Françoise set to work; from her Sapporo diary:

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The worst of it is that when grappling with this problem I talked about it to him frankly (in the way we had between ourselves). I caused quite a drama: his pride was wounded (and in fact one can say in him, pride has become a monumental Japanese-style wart; he’s a kind of Japanese Fellini, in other words with the least of tender nuances). His circle, his wife and his friends are incapable of judging him, or of assisting him sanely, and have maintained him in a constant state of self-adoration. His disciples are devoted to him to a positively feudal degree. Now imagine what happens when I land in the middle of all this! I am wondering, furthermore, if I have the right to disturb such an unshakeable self-assurance. What would be the point? But to stay silent would be to look down on him. Whatever term should be used to describe the relationship between us (and I think that no language could produce a satisfactory one), if it is impossible for us to challenge each other mutually and totally, then the relationship is going nowhere. I always revolt against the idea of not treating someone as my fellow man. But don’t concern yourself about this. I’ll write when I’ve made up my mind, which won’t be long: before the 20th, which is when Paul leaves for America . . .

From a letter to Paul:

I was very taken by the No. It’s Sieffert’s fiefdom, and I wouldn’t want to trespass. Well now, I’ve been thinking things over. I really would like to translate your book. It was a revelation for me . . . it’s worth a wider audience – and that would please me [crossed out], then of course . . . But if you’d rather not . . . In any case I’m busy till the end of September, but it’s still absolutely necessary for me or you to decide . . . or Soseki Natsume.

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sion of emotions, impressions and feelings without articulation . . . words escape, slip through the fingers, and are impossible to capture”, said this Parisienne with verve’.

172 Appendix 2

I’ve embarked again on the famous translation (even though I’m telling myself that it’s undoubtedly an illusion to expect to change anything in the process of the gentrification and self-justification of the author, things have gone too far for that). But I have a sense of responsibility, and as I’m not the kind of lass who feeds on remorse, I shall go for it. She wrote to Paul: If your book scandalised Japan, it won’t scandalise France – except in the eyes of a bourgeoisie in continuing decline, and then undoubtedly Mauriac – and yet! might he be moved by your conclusion? As for the problem itself, you bring nothing new to it; for sure you show the scale of it, but the value of your book comes from something quite different, what I call ‘tonality’ and ‘life’. and again: I think the value of your book lies in its life, what I have called its ‘tonality’; but your mode of thought [crossed out] of expression is not so far from the Western mode. Several letters show the extent to which she was disconcerted by how Endo had been genuinely cut to the quick by her sincere judgment, and how brutal and shattering his reaction had been, avoiding dialogue on anything fundamental and accusing her of arrogance and a lack of respect. This reaction seems to hide a serious misunderstanding on Paul’s part, more than just straightforward injured pride; it provoked a grave crisis between them, that Françoise struggled to overcome. Paul made a show of interpreting the acuteness of her propositions and her tone as a lack of respect and politeness, and even anger at his refusal to understand the import of her remarks, and seemed to see this as a mark of arrogance. In effect, he could not accept a view that criticised his work at a literary, human or religious level, perhaps

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1970:

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I don’t care about being defeated, if I’m wrong, I always acknowledge it. I am not headstrong, but I am in no way an opportunist, either by nature or by conviction; I am infinitely prudent. If I must concede, I will concede. It would do me in, no doubt, but it would be preferable. There’s too much cowardice in this world already, and too much compromise, to go adding to it. If you call that arrogance, then I’m arrogant to a ‘T’. [8.1] Rodrigues Françoise brought up another matter for discussion which was equally important. This was Paul’s choice and indeed characterisation of his hero ‘Rodrigues’, and the concept of Catholicism he developed through that figure. The rough draft of a letter dated 29 March shows clearly the ‘unusual twists and turns’ she had been through: I am renouncing the translation of Paul’s novel . . . His novel is a unique document, in my view, because it illustrates perfectly the distortion that Christianity undergoes from the viewpoint of a Japanese, and the dismemberment he experiences after ascertaining the vertical dimension of Christianity and of the whole of Western civilisation, whereas the Oriental can only live in a horizontal society . . . in that sense the novel is exciting, but the style, in keeping with the problem itself, is dismembered, neither Japanese nor French. And elsewhere: Yes, your hero made me angry . . . Things affect me too strongly. I am infinitely vulnerable and jaded as a result: please forgive me. But at the same time I know what the cause of my anger is . . . I cannot learn not to react. I cannot learn to play the humble servant, like your journalist friend . . . And it’s for this reason that I was truly repelled by your hero Rodrigues. Convinced as to the mission that has been entrusted

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especially because [the criticism] came from Françoise. But for Françoise, love was not conceivable without a genuine exchange, as between ‘one whole conscious being and another’:

to him, he none the less fails to lift a finger while the countryfolk are sacrificed in his stead, contents himself with looking on from his lofty vantage point, and then making an appeal to God about his situation. What a bastard. Would Christ have let a single person die in his place? Under the pretext of having a mission to fulfil? Your hero is preoccupied with himself and not with others. He’s a solipsist. It’s just a happy coincidence that in the end he is not so self-infatuated, but when he makes an issue of his personal sufferings, I find him odious. Sufferings and difficulties are things that a Christian who ‘takes thought for others’ keeps quiet about. Rodrigues is a real ‘girl’s blouse’. Throughout the discussion he says that Inoue is right, but that makes all his sufferings lose their meaning. Who gives a shit? It’s man’s destiny to see the reality of his life. Later, in autumn 1969, she wrote to me: I’ve spent a rather deranged summer, staying in Tokyo, though I did get to swim in the sea, with a strength I didn’t know I had. It was so over the top I was in seventh heaven. Which was wonderful. I am rather over the top, as you know. To cap it all, I’m now translating Paul’s book again. There are lots of problems, the same as before, but you know how I am. Your ‘be yourself’ was very well put. I can’t be myself without doing it. It’s impossible. But everything I said about him is confirmed. But I’m attached to him like he’s the apple of my eye. I will do everything I can. Full stop. They continued to discuss religion, strength and weakness, the sense of personal salvation, the differences between Japan and France in customs and marks of politeness, conformism, the contribution made by books to the public in Japan and France, and the art of writing. To give but one example: [8.2] Vocabulary To use the received vocabulary in the received manner is to kowtow to the superficial conventional order of things. I am too abstract, but I know what I mean; moreover, so do you. That’s why I quite like Sarraute, and greatly like Le Clézio, just like you.

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Fundamentally, one need write only what one absolutely must write, and verbosity is full of disjointed and useless stuff that I find irritating. That’s why I am taciturn, and like silence so much. I find your writing and your style energetic enough, and your incisively brutal phraseology is pleasing – what your secretary calls your ‘kuse’ – but the vocabulary you use is ready-made. Man’s dimensions are cramped by that. You don’t rise above common practice. It takes a fierce kind of patience to achieve this, in other words to help others to broaden their horizons, so they too can seek their own truth – that is to say, their own experience. I believe in the value of having one’s own means of expression. [8.3] An ethic In addition she developed a general ethic: It is to humanity that one must always return, to humanity and to people. I think your moral hypersensitivity makes you skirt the fundamentals of things, and concern for their reality. There is in your descriptions a sort of stereotyped vision, a distortion of the world, which shows that you are more preoccupied with yourself and your salvation than with expressing things as part of a passionate quest in which you would lose yourself. You are still imprisoning yourself. There is no such thing as a sin against God, only against humanity. She never ceased to challenge this concern for ‘personal salvation’: In what way is what you say of use to humanity? That’s the important question. In what way can the things you say take humanity forward? In listening to God, one short-changes people. That’s what I think. One has to think in real terms. 1 Self-acceptance. That’s the hardest thing, with one’s faults and inadequacies. 2 Surpassing oneself, concerning oneself with others and not with one’s own petty happiness or personal salvation. One must not seek one’s own salvation. For me, is Christianity a kind of insurance company? I couldn’t care less. I am trying to

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176 Appendix 2

She wrote several pages on their respective approaches; for her, ‘If God exists, he keeps very quiet’; for him, Chinmoku. From a letter to Paul: You said to me: I’ve been given Western clothing, but I am in fact Japanese, and want Japanese clothing. But because it’s my mother, who is dead and was unhappy, who gave me this clothing, I shall wear it all my life. (One is reminded of the passage in the Forty-year-old Man, where Nose evokes his childhood and his baptism, and adds: ‘and from that very moment, I knew that I could never shake off this clothing that my parents had chosen for me without checking that it fitted’.) But in my case, my parents put me in certain clothes, and I wore them for as long as I had to, until it became imperative to decide whether I agreed to continue to wear them, whether I was going to take it upon myself to continue to wear them. Because man is born naked, in my belief. To ask the question was already to take the risk of leaving the faith in order to examine it. To be honest, I have to say that when I decided to do that, the prospect was absolutely terrifying. I experienced such guilt-feelings, or better such feelings of sinfulness. God was still present. All the members of my family were believers, especially my favourite sister; I felt terrifyingly alone. But in that room in the empty flat, at the uncomfortable six-sided bridge table on which I used to work, there, in the fullness of my 19 years, I read and reread Descartes’ Meditations, and that magnificent progression by which he arrives at doubt, or rather at the total scepticism that must logically precede the affirmation of anything. I was at that time in my fresher year. We had a Thomist for a professor, who was preparing a thesis on ‘hylemorphism’, and would swear only by St. Thomas or rather Aristotle, and looked really like a sort of poor man’s business executive. He had sworn

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find absolute love, the absolute life of the here and now. Could love ever allow the thought: ah! sex is dirty, or ah! if I had to live for ever, would I want [page missing]

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himself to only one kind of public expression, and indeed devoted himself to that with perspicuity, but with too much by way of certitude, intensity and oversimplification to be able to say what he had to say. Poor Sandoz. He had a vast swarm of daughters, and only one son, and he became a Dominican. What is there to say about my investigation of Thomism? God is not a fact to be demonstrated. The proofs of the existence of God all rest on sophistry, and in any case could never arrive at the God of Faith. As for the God of Faith, I couldn’t find him in the Gospels; or to put it better something strange happened: that Christ seemed to me to be one of the finest human figures (of the West [crossed out]), a superb and profound projection made by humanity of its destiny, of itself. But for me that was nothing more than a poetic myth, and I thought that if humanity had advanced some distance within that myth, it was still tainted by the historical circumstances in which it had been born; for example, the condition of women. For me there was nothing other than humanity and its desire to surpass itself, both its naivety and its clumsiness. Come on, if God exists, he keeps very quiet. And God is well distorted by all those magnificent but at the same time pitiful human exertions. So I preferred to put God in brackets, and to opt for a life in which I wouldn’t put a borrowed name on whatever I could aspire to. Humanity is there; I know what I owe it. I took the side of living for humanity. Without telling myself stories. I believe one ought to live in a profane holiness, if I may put it like that. [8.4] Philosophical outlook Why am I me? That was the true scandal for me: how an individual person, at a point in history, in the smallness of their life, can attain to universality (Montaigne and Pascal). I was thinking anxiously about this problem just before the start of the philosophy course. What had already struck me was the extent of the atrocious banality of consciousness all around, and the [illegible], the waste of consciousness – atrocious. If humanity were to exist, it ought to exist absolutely, or all would be lost. I can say that this problem continues to haunt me. The more I looked for the uniqueness in all things, the more unjust I found the fate of humanity.

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English Translation

Man is born naked, into a circumstance, at a given historical moment, into a certain circle; but he awakens gradually into consciousness. I remember when I was a child. Like all children, I wondered, in the garden at Thionville, with anxiety, why I was me and not someone else. There was, I think, already an offset between ‘pure’ and ‘concrete’ existence. Thus I believe that man, spontaneously alive, reaches up to a higher life, itself composed of questions. There was already the very acute sense of the whole of human individuality. I was aware of each person as a sort of absolute, independent and mysterious. They also discussed strength and weakness, one of Endo’s recurrent themes, to which they returned a number of times: ‘I think that the weak being is the most moving, the most genuine; anyone who thinks they are strong is in reality weak.’ She also insisted on her own weakness: Seen from the point of view of perfection, strength and weakness are equivalent. To you I seem strong because I hide from you all my despair, out of self-respect, in order not to hurt you, and in short out of love. From my childhood onwards till I met you, I was in despair about myself and my weaknesses, though I didn’t nurture them. Every defect has its quality; I attached myself to that quality. [8.5] An aesthetic For me the No is so beautiful that it makes my whole life worthwhile, as does a one of Tate’s pictures. [Tate is the Japanese painter who helped Françoise survive Endo’s long silence.] But I wish you had Tate’s strength, and could forget yourself, at least in your works. You are too attached to yourself. The important thing is not to say: self, am I weak or am I . . . The important thing is to start from the self and one’s life and create the eternal, without taking others into consideration. Plato was right: the beautiful is the good – and the good is the beautiful. She noted in her diary: Tuesday 14 April 1970 I saw him at Shibuya. He leaves the day after tomorrow, but is returning at the end of the month.

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So much to say. It is 10.25. As always I am thinking of you. Doubts resurfaced yesterday, though not really . . . But I don’t understand why you seemed so close yesterday, as if, in spite of everything and through it all, we were becoming more closely united and bonded, in our essence, over and above the distance between us, the strain of that distance and of feeling itself and its tumults and our clumsiness. I knew you just as you knew me – accurately, seriously, and beyond all irony. I need you just as you need me. I will help you, you realise . . . The tree. The trees. The Causse and the receding undulations of the road which eventually disappears at Millau . . . and elsewhere: The air of the Causse, its ground-hugging plants, the rare wild carnations, the stiff and solitary clumps, the wind, the solitude, the clouds. I love your eyes, your forehead, your hands, but I have no time to really see you, to capture you, to get to know you heart-to-heart. I don’t know you heart-to-heart. The forehead, yes; I can make the same movement above the eyebrows. . . . this is the first time you have signed using your Japanese first name; you know the importance that has for me. 9. The crisis But a crisis erupted when she saw Paul on a television programme he hadn’t told her about, one of those mediocre programmes where the guest and his family are asked to talk about everything and anything. To see him ‘playing the fool’ was more than she could stand. She knew that the atmosphere of the media in Japan had become Americanised, earlier there than in France, but the event shocked her to the core, hitting her ‘right in the stomach’. She wrote to me: I don’t hold it against him that he isn’t a metaphysician [she had written in her diary: ‘The Japanese are anti-metaphysical, I am Anouilh’s Antigone as ever’]. Not for that, but for this ground level stuff, [for wanting] happiness at ground level. That’s

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English Translation

the reason I want to help Paul, who is a man in crisis between two civilisations. I think that for the time being, I could hold things together, given only the wherewithal, without which I am going to be uprooted in my turn; for what counts as Western here is nothing but imitative buffoonery, and for the rest . . . can you imagine reading the Japanese books of the future? I am too much alive to be able to hold things together like that. So I need help, she wrote to me. She asked for some books and reviews. In her diary, she wrote: ‘Paul is an extraordinary guy, but I find that everything here leaves a bitter, sad taste in the mouth . . . I sense a bitter sadness . . . I am though saying to myself provisionally, let’s translate his book and help Paul as much as possible; after that I’ll see’. But to Paul she wrote: No, there is nothing sacred here, nothing; absolute love doesn’t exist, or at least if so, then only for me . . . You can’t be trusted, and have no willpower. I think you haven’t understood. You talk about happiness, but you deliberately caused me unhappiness because I was far away; and you seek a comfortable happiness from people who aren’t challenging, who love you too little and too childishly, in their own interest; and you yourself play at being the Father protecting his children. But a woman is not a child, indeed not. I’ve been thinking all day long about adopting a child, or what would be much better, having a child by you? Quite by chance I was reading Osamu Dazai’s The Setting Sun this evening – what a funny coincidence. I think I’d be well capable of bringing up a child without you. Without a husband. I’m not one of those crappy, clinging women. I’d be able to provide a child with intelligence and happiness. But there is Society. Would the University accept the situation? I’d need a year off . . . Why should I be the only sacrificial victim in this story? You are responsible for everything.

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181

Françoise fell so seriously ill in spring 1970 that she confided in a colleague at Dokkyo, who was a close friend. She needed to be seen by a consultant. She needed an emergency operation, but it was already too late, and she had to have a second one; there was no more that could be done. Alerted by a French friend who was teaching in Tokyo, I rushed to Japan, just after her two operations. Now, while it was evident not only that the whole Franco-Japanese cultural community was in the know about her illness (the consul had sent flowers to the hospital), but also that many people knew about her emotional life, and undoubtedly a certain number knew that it concerned Endo, he never once came to see her, not to the hospital, nor when she was staying at her friend’s, nor at the airport, nor did he try to come and see her again when she was in France staying with me in Paris or being looked after by my sister, and indeed her family, with wonderful devotion. He let Françoise die without once putting in an appearance. One knows that people can do anything, move mountains even, when they have the faith (in this case a loving faith) to meet up again with a loved-one. But at the moment of her greatest woe, the last hours of her life, he abandoned her. ‘I too have a secret, and one I will certainly not share with anyone till the day I die’ and ‘The kakure are the descendants of perjurers’ – words he gives to the Narrator in Mater Dolorosa, which appeared in 1959 – sound cruelly like attempts at an acknowledgment, to himself as much as to the public, which shrouds as much as it discloses. Consciousness of weakness, and of secrets, but also of flaws, is a constant presence in his work. It probably has several sources, but this one mustn’t be overlooked. I must bring things to a close. It is evident that in this short essay it is impossible to provide more than a glimpse of her exceptional personality, bound up and in confrontation with a brilliant man, himself exceptional as well, in whose word she had believed, and whose first failing was to betray her, but whose second and undoubtedly more serious failing was not to have found the courage to tell her at once, thus liberating her so she could live, grieve for this lost love, take responsibility for herself, and move on, in the creation of her own life.

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10. The illness; the two operations

You have established two parts in your life: Japan and the rest of the world, and you thought you would benefit from them both. But does your nationality entirely define you? Does mine? You have no respect for humanity. You claim to be a Catholic; Catholicism is first and foremost universalist. But you live as a Japanese, without thinking in terms of humanity in general. You are not a Catholic in the fundamental sense; you don’t understand that you are renouncing your country, which is what establishes that in practice you live as a Japanese. You have no essential respect for the mind of your wife, you aren’t looking for a dialogue with her. Whereas I would want you to be my judge, someone who could help me, whose help I would accept with my whole life. For the sake of earning money, you are debasing your thought. I love him as a mother loves her child, despairing at his deficiencies in complete lucidity, taking responsibility for him . . . I believed in his life, as something pure and whole, which is exactly how I wanted it to be. That telephone call this morning was for me a real stab in the back: to learn that he did love me – and as for all the rest of it, who was he?, what’s been going on? the inevitability of an ongoing situation. It is just like a marriage, like the fate of most marriages. But I know I have the right to speak out. I paid for it all right, I paid with my life.

11. The end Françoise returned to France, against her will. However, the surgeon, a man of great moral integrity, who was the parent of a close friend of my sister’s, had told me that all was lost, she had at most eight months to live, she was going to need intensive care, and it was essential at all costs to get her back to France. However, her condition had been concealed from her, and given that situation and also how exhausted she was, I could not take the initiative and speak out against the advice of the doctors. With death in my soul, I set out first, in order to win her over to following me home, which she did a fortnight later. It was the first time I had lied to her. I have always been doubtful about whether that decision was well founded, because we were thereby robbing her of those precious last months, but on the other hand we thereby mitigated the days she spent living

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in Paris and at Villeneuve lès Avignon with the hope of a swift return to Tokyo. But I was painfully aware that something had broken between us. Could things have been handled differently? Was this a betrayal? To this day I don’t know. It torments me constantly. From the garden I could see her in bed, crying softly. She died fully conscious. After her death, Dokkyo University dedicated a memorial brochure to her. We donated her entire collection of books to the university, and they created a Françoise Pastre Foundation on the basis of those books and the donation of the money she had in Tokyo, which we made over equally to Dokkyo. Testimonies of friendship and admiration poured in from the academic world: she had captured the hearts and the esteem of everyone, students as well as professors. The Foundation survives to this day. Mr Toyota Ichihara, dean of the foreign languages faculty at Dokkyo, wrote on 16 April 1971 to the French consul, M. Dufourcq: ‘we miss her greatly because of the wonderful service she gave to our School and because of the warmth she inspired among us’. Even after 25 years that warmth has not dissipated. My sister and her husband, Catherine and Yves-Marie Bruel (she was once a humanities teacher at the Lycée in Avignon, he a professor at the Avignon Conservatoire and a pianist, noted interpreter and renowned composer with a great reputation, especially in Germany) and myself have kept in touch with her colleagues and pupils. Her tomb at Villeneuve lès Avignon was decorated with flowers for many years on the anniversary of her death (which took place on 4 April 1971), thanks to the efforts of her Japanese friends. We have been able to comprehend the tenderness of the Japanese soul through these friends that she in a certain sense gave us. We are not talking in clichés here. It would be impossible to cite these friends here; the list would be too long. What if she had extricated herself, once she had acknowledged that Paul did not correspond (or at least no longer corresponded) to the man she had known in France, with whom she had fallen in love, the ‘potential Paul’? She was too intelligent not to have undertaken a lucid analysis and drawn the conclusions this thrust upon her. She had a very strong personality, and had never become deranged by this love relationship, which was so out of the ordinary. She would have found a pathway to self-realisation without him. However cruel

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English Translation

the transition was that was forced on her by the separation, she had enough strength of character, and enough genuine friends, to come through the terrible crisis caused in part by the cowardice, indecisiveness, weakness and to cap it all, hard-heartedness of this man, but also by a difference of civilisations, complicated yet further by their different approaches. What solutions might she have found? She was not the kind of woman ‘to marry just anyone’, whether in Japan or elsewhere. As she saw it, she would certainly have established a career, perhaps brought up a child, and undoubtedly become a writer herself. Various notes and rough drafts bear this out. Was her emotional and moral situation tragic only because illness struck her down at that particular moment, or did the accumulation of disillusionment cause the brutal deterioration in her health and the inexorable advance of her disease? One recalls that she had already had serious health worries in France, hormonal in origin, in the wake of Endo’s inexplicable silence. Could she have recovered from the breast cancer? The view in medical circles is that with the treatments available today (with or without the original error in diagnosis made by the Japanese doctor who was treating her), she would have pulled through. A distressing situation like hers was dreadful in a foreign country, where she was primarily alone, despite being surrounded by devoted friends. However, during the last months of her life in France, even the very last days, in the bosom of a loving family, her will to live showed in her desire to leave as soon as possible: her letters to Japan vie with each other in revealing that will, her considered choice to go back home to Tokyo. Not knowing that her condition was terminal, she gave evidence that she felt strong enough to set off again. Several letters reveal that she had set her compass. On 16 October 1970 she wrote to Kyoko, a friend to whom she had entrusted her studio: I’m in good spirits. The friendship of you all, yours especially, the kindness of Mr Ichihara, the thought that everybody is waiting for me in Japan, all that gives me the patience required in these latest . . . tribulations. Tell the students how aggravated I am at being detained here, and how I am boiling with impatience to get back, to set them work and to work with them. Once I’m back, I’m counting on catching up!

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Numerous letters to Mr Ichihara express the same desire. There are often in Endo’s work characters in whom outcrops from the depths of buried truth appear, from way behind the events or thoughts of the surface, through which they burst in the way that a face below the ice can rise and fall and reappear; one such case is the terrible thought, in Unzen, attributed to Nose–Endo, and relating to him and a friend: ‘[he was] conscious of an irreparable “phase shift” separating them’, and ‘he was in a good position to realise the extent of his flabbiness, his cowardice, and his weakness’, phrases of cruel insight, echoing one of Françoise’s: ‘I had learnt all his inadequacies: his vulgarity, his complacency, and his vanity, but on the other hand, I do love him.’ And so I would like to bring to a provisional end this modest attempt to make known the truth about ‘Françoise’, not just that of the last chapter of The Hill at Rouen, but the truth about ‘Françoise Pastre’, whose life was cut short so savagely on 3 April 1971 when it was in full flight. She had just turned 41. I have to acknowledge a debt to her, who had always been there for me. I was to have gone to see her during the first years of her stay in Japan; once she had to put me off, then I myself was prevented. But when I understood the emergency implied in her urgent appeal in spring 1970, I will always castigate myself for not having dropped everything straightaway and rushed to help her. My whole being cries out with remorse. Her discretion was such and her lack of egoism so total that I was fooled about the extreme distress into which she had fallen, which she was hiding perfectly from the rest of the world. But the truth must out. I have told the tale as much as possible in her own words: ‘I know I have the right to speak’, as she wrote in 1970 when we were trying to keep her silent. I have in any case felt her presence near me throughout these hours and days that I have been trying, not to relate her private life, which she would have detested, but to give her her rightful place in our memories and in literary history. Geneviève Pastre Author’s Notes 1. There are three groups of texts: extracts of letters addressed to me; drafts of letters to Paul; and personal notes. 2. Parentheses indicate parts left out in each text, and suspension

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English Translation

points indicate unfinished texts or missing pages. It has not been possible within this framework to take into account the organisation of the page, or the very personal usage of small and capital letters and of blank spaces.

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186 Appendix 2

Having spent some time assessing six Japanese writers, their search for individualism, and Japanese groupism, I have come to see that one fundamental, characteristic difference between these social forms is the saturation of the Japanese mindset by the concept of giri, in contrast to the concept of being true and genuine to one’s mind and feelings. The Japanese contrast between honne and tatemae is also clearly relevant here. In Japanese-style ‘groupism’ one relies and depends on senior bosses or teachers, and seeks to be protected by their power and influence. On the other hand, in the Western approach, the significant components are a sense of community, solidarity, and mutual help and support, rather than dependency. There is also a strong and clear sense of personal rights, which in Japan still constitute a very vague concept, and only a few are well aware of and acquainted with this issue. Considering these clear differences between Western and Japanese styles of group orientation, the writers discussed in this book show a great tendency to be immersed in Japanese dependency, although as creative writers they all to some degree cherish the aim of being different from others, and in that sense individualistic. Let us therefore review the way in which this book shows how deeply and widely the sense of giri and group dependency permeates the Japanese mind; but also, in contrast, how the examples of Hiroshi and Akiko Yosano demonstrate that a genuine individualism could well survive even in Japan. In chapter 1, for example, the most important relationship in the novel Kokoro, that between the Sensei and the narrator, is based on the sense of giri, though this is neither investigated nor clearly explained by Soseki. My evidence for this notion is that there is no trace of any expression by the Sensei of affection or fondness for the narrator; he, on the other hand, shows much respect and affection for the Sensei. Even the latter’s motivation for entrusting to the narrator the confessions of his clandestine past may consist partly in a reciprocation of the narrator’s dutiful loyalty and faithfulness – in 187 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Epilogue

other words, an obligation of giri to the young student who had approached him. In Mishima’s case, described in Chapter 3, the foundation of the protagonist’s idiosyncratic obsession with the beauty of the Golden Pavilion, and its desirability as enhanced by its unattainability, by which the protagonist is overwhelmed, has its roots in the desire for dependency, or amae. This reflects Mishima’s deep wish to be protected and overwhelmed by some supreme power and authority, which also helps to explain his great desire and delight in immersing himself in idealist dreams as well as in the security of the group. It is only with the Yosanos, considered in Chapter 2, that we can see evidence that individualism could prosper, in both their work and their lives. Hiroshi’s affair with Akiko while he was still married, and their eventual marriage itself, were themselves courageous acts in defiance of prevailing social conventions. The public’s reaction to the bold publication of Akiko’s sensuous yet truthful love poems in Midaregami showed that some conservative critics and readers were shocked; however, in the main, the public’s hidden yearning for beauty and truth, freedom and emancipation, was shaken into wakefulness, and inspired and encouraged many writers and artists, both young and old, during the gloomy era of the rise of militarism. Haruki Murakami appears, at first sight, to stand apart and independent of the snares of the dependency syndrome. His protagonist, Toru, did not seek refuge in his parents’ help and support during his critical breakdown after the suicide of his lover, Naoko. However, even he felt the pull of the Japanese sense of giri when vivacious Midori’s father was hospitalised, and Toru undertook the obligation of looking after him for several days. Murakami’s distance from the circles of other established writers in Japan may also indicate his reluctance to succumb to any conventional groupism. In the final chapters, the strained relationship between Shusaku Endo and Françoise Pastre clearly reveals some differences in the Western and Japanese concepts of individualism. It is most interesting that Françoise declared in a letter to her sister Geneviève that it was her duty to be honest about Endo’s work The Silence, even if she had to reveal candidly some highly critical responses. It was her obligation as a friend, as she says. This is a totally different concept of obligation from the Japanese group-dependent giri; it is not a Japanese-style obligation, but honest concern for a friend, backed

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188 Epilogue

by the strong Western sense of the social responsibilities of the individual. Thus we see in this brief survey how most of the six Japanese writers represent in one way or another a characteristic inclination towards the cosiness of the group; as Françoise Pastre pointed out to Endo, this may so easily corrupt into a non-critical ‘mutual admiration society’, which can in turn readily stifle the enhanced nurturing of talent that a more competitive environment can offer. We could even say, with hindsight, that Endo lost a rare and great opportunity to expose himself to the deepest challenge in his life by not marrying Françoise Pastre – a circumstance which would almost undoubtedly have changed the whole quality of his life and work. Yet in Japan, ‘groupism’ is still a fertile ground from which many artistic, literary, cultural, and even social and political structures can spring. It was most fortunate for me to have been able to complete this trilogy concerning Anglo-Japanese and Western–Japanese cultural and literary studies. The first book, the title of which is Edmund Blunden and Japan, materialized after my chance meeting with Mrs Claire Blunden, widow of the poet, Edmund Blunden. She invited me to tea at her cosy terraced house in Cambridge almost twenty years ago, and showed me 1400 unpublished letters from her husband to his clandestine secretary-mistress, Aki Hayashi, spanning thirty-eight years from their first meeting in 1924. Their close relationship was unique at the time in Japan; but much more so in England, where Aki spent half her life as an amanuensis and research assistant, working most of the time at the British Library. Their relationship also showed up clear cultural differences between Aki Hayashi and Edmund Blunden in their personalities, ways of thinking, and emotional responses. Aki behaved like any Japanese woman would do towards her beloved man – she was loyal, uncomplaining and obedient. Blunden, on the other hand, returned Aki’s love and devotion with concern and warmth and moderate consideration. None the less, he never failed to pursue his individualistic purposes and desires in the conduct of his own life, as a result of which he married twice, even after promising to marry Aki, circumstances which caused her great distress and disappointment. The first book was originally researched and prepared as a thesis for the English Department at Cambridge University. It was written

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Epilogue 189

under the most inspiring supervision of Professor John Bayley who kindly wrote a foreword for my previous two books. Having been published by Macmillan Press in 1988, it was reviewed in the Times Literary Supplement (TLS) by Dr Carmen Blacker with sympathy and understanding.1 The book was also translated into Japanese as Blunden no aino tegami in 1995 by Heibonsha in Tokyo. Thanks to this translation and various favourable reviews, the book received wider attention in both Japan and Britain. One of the most rewarding experiences resulting from this process was that the script writer, Hugh Whitemore, whose work includes 84 Charing Cross Road, showed interest in making a film out of the book. This unfortunately did not materialize, because of objections by Mrs Blunden. I continue to think that the life and work of Aki Hayashi ought to be known much more widely, both in Japan and in England. Western Writers in Japan, the second volume of the trilogy, was reviewed by Anthony Thwaite in the TLS, and by Pico Iyer under the interesting title ‘The Inscrutable West’ in the Times Higher Education Supplement (THES).2 It was also reviewed briefly in America. To my great pleasure, there has recently been a proposal for its translation into Japanese, as a result of which I hope the book may reach a wider readership in Japan. The current book, the last in the trilogy, was suggested by Mr Tim Farmiloe, a former director of Macmillan Press, and concerns Japanese writers and their relationship with the West, thus acting as a kind of mirror to the second book. Of the authors considered, only Haruki Murakami is still alive at the time of writing. In the course of my research, it was revealing to realise that the strained relationship between Endo and Françoise Pastre underlines the incompatibility between his groupist thought patterns and her individualistic and independent concepts. It was also significant and rewarding to come to the realisation that one of the obstacles blocking the successful development of Christian missionary work in Japan might be the depth to which the Japanese psyche is imbued with that particular sense of social obligation called giri, which impedes its receptiveness to the concept of an ‘unconditional love’, as represented by the Christian God. In thus completing the trilogy, I still think that it is possible to understand and relish different cultures, and to make friends with people from dissimilar backgrounds. This interaction forms the

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190 Epilogue

foundation of world peace. I hope my work in this trilogy can make some contribution towards that, and towards efforts to comprehend the nature of Japan and its people, in the belief that they are no longer ‘inscrutable’ in the eyes of the world.

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Epilogue 191

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1 ‘Failed individualism’ observed in Japan: the novels of Soseki Natsume (1867–1916). 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

Soseki (1998), p. 144. Ibid. (my translation). Ibid., pp. 147–8. Ibid., p. 152. Ibid., p. 153. Soseki (1968), p. 495. Ibid., p. 493. Ibid., p. 427. Ibid., p. 496. Ibid., p. 399. Ibid., pp. 379–80. Ibid., p. 398. Ibid. Ibid., p. 344. Ibid., p. 352. Ibid., p. 346. Ibid., p. 436.

2 The visit by Hiroshi Yosano (1873–1935) and Akiko Yosano (1878–1942) to French and England 1912 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

See Maloney and Oshiro (1987) – a book without page numbers. Yosano (‘Tekkan’) (1913), pp. 108–9 (my translation). Ibid., p. 109. Ibid., p. 133. Ibid., p. 133. Ibid., p. 252. Ibid., p. 256. Ibid. Ibid., p. 258. Ibid., p. 266. 193 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Notes

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

Ibid., p. 428. Ibid., p. 429. Maloney and Oshiro (1987) (no page numbers). Bownas and Thwaite ([1964] 1998), p. 151. Maloney’s translation. Bownas and Thwaite, p. 157. Maloney’s translation. Bownas and Thwaite, pp. 151–2. Maloney’s translation. Maloney’s translation. Bownas and Thwaite, p. 151. Maloney’s translation of these three poems. Maloney’s translation. Tanabe (1991), p. 128 (translations mine). Ibid. Ibid., p. 21. Shomakyo contained malignant attacks on Hiroshi for his supposed womanising, and criticisms of his liberalism, by anonymous literary veterans.

3 Yukio Mishima (1925–70): his love of idiosyncrasy and of ‘failed groupism’, in parallel with his romantic escape into the freedom of the sea, observed in his work The Temple of the Golden Pavilion 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Vidal (1971), pp. 450–60; see also Vidal (1994). Vidal (1971), pp. 455, 456. Mishima (1994), p. 74. Ibid., p. 76. Ibid., pp. 119–20 (emphasis mine). Ibid., p. 122. Ibid., pp. 148–9. Ibid., p. 186. Ibid., p. 187. Ibid., pp. 190–1. Ibid., p. 185 (emphasis mine). Ibid., p. 189. Ibid., p. 153. Ibid., p. 220. Ibid., pp. 228–9. Ibid., p. 240. 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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194 Notes

Notes 195

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Murakami (2000), p. 16. Ibid., pp. 169–70. Ibid., p. 130. Weldon (2000), p. 142. Murakami (2000), p. 78 (my emphases). Ibid., p. 66. Ibid., p. 103. Ibid., p. 60. Ibid. Ibid., p. 53. Ibid., p. 186. Ibid. Ibid., p. 141. Ibid., p. 362. Ibid.

5 Shusaku Endo (1923–96): his Japanese context and its importance in the analysis of his relationship with Françoise Pastre (1930–71) 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Greene (1977), p. 63. Ibid., p. 65. Endo (1977), p. 47. Appendix, p. 180. Pastre, Françoise, diary. Endo (1999), p. 69 (my translation). Ibid., pp. 36, 57 and 77. Ibid., esp. p. 44. Ibid., p. 64. Ibid., p. 72. Ibid., p. 79. Ibid., p. 88. The Bible: Luke 22: 31–34; Matthew 26: 31–35; Mark 14: 27–31; John 13: 36–38. 14. The Bible: Luke, 22: 61. 15. Yasuoka, and Inoue (1999), p. 171. 16. Ibid., p. 134. 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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4 Traces of a different sort of ‘groupism’ in Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami (b. 1949)

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

Ibid., p. 137. cf. Ibid., pp. 79–83. Endo (2001), pp. 97–8. Yasuoka and Inoue (1999), p. 126. Ibid., p. 125. Ibid. Ibid., p. 126. Ibid., p. 221. Ibid., p. 217. Oe–Sontag correspondence (1999).

6 Geneviève Pastre’s article about her sister, Françoise 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

Appendix, p. 162. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., p. 163. Ibid., p. 178. Ibid., p. 163. Ibid., p. 164. Ibid. Ibid., pp. 165, 166. Ibid., pp. 170–1. Ibid., p. 171. Ibid. Ibid., p. 172. Ibid. Endo–Pastre correspondence. Appendix, p. 182. Ichihara–Pastre correspondence (these letters, now in printed form, were made available to me by Professor Julia Serisawa, emeritus professor of French at Dokkyo University). 18. Appendix, p. 185.

Epilogue 1. Blacker (1988, 1989). 2. Thwaite (1999); Iyer (1999).

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196 Notes

amae aoi Bakufu bon odori daihen danka deshiiri suru en erai hito fumie

fundoshi gaijin Gion matsuri giri giri-choco hachimaki haiku honne hyakuman ben kakure kirishitan Kanbun -karazuya kimochi

dependency syndrome blue the Japanese government during the Tokugawa Shogunate a midsummer dancing festival answering for an absent pupil at rollcall householders contributing monthly tribute to Buddhist temples; ‘parishioners’ entering into discipleship karma, bonds between people either from earlier associations or from previous life a ‘grandee’ or person of elevated social rank the practice of forcing people to step on religious images, as a test of faith during the persecution of Christians in the seventeenth century; also the term used for the images themselves loincloth foreigner a festival held in July in Kyoto indebtedness and obligation gifts when exchanged as an obligation on Valentine’s Day headband Japanese poem having lines of 5–7–5 syllables a person’s true thought and feeling, in contrast to tatemae achieving a ‘million’ visits to one’s local Buddhist temple; also a place name in Kyoto clandestine Christians classical Chinese writing as used in Japan suffix indicating an interrogative form in oldstyle Japanese state of feeling 197

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Glossary of Japanese Terms

kimono Kiza

kokoro kudasai kuse kyukyo matsuri mikoshi Myojo nenbutsu nimono ninjo

No nori on oyabun sabishii sake sama san sensei Shinkyo Shinshisha Shirakaba Shirakaba-ha Shodo Shugiin sushi

traditional Japanese dress theatre-group in Tokyo, founded by Endo; the term means both ‘theatre of the tree’ and ‘dandy and showy’ mind/heart, considered as a unitary concept word used to request an object incisiveness of expression ‘old religion’ festival small religious shrines carried during a festival dawn star (used as the name of a magazine) traditional Buddhist chanted prayers home-cooked vegetables with soy sauce, sugar and rice wine human emotion and compassion for fellow human beings, based on the sense of duty and obligation form of theatre dried seaweed, which is used in making rolled sushi debt of gratitude protector, helper and boss lonely rice wine polite suffix for personal names, more formal than san polite suffix for personal names honorific term including the meaning ‘teacher’ ‘new’ religious sect New Poetry Society, a group of tanka poets centred around the Yosanos white birch tree; used as the title of a literary movement and magazine led by Naoyo Shiga the White Birch literary school calligraphy Upper House of the Japanese Parliament traditional Japanese food, made of sliced tuna, prawn, salmon or other seafood, on top of pressed boiled rice

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198 Glossary of Japanese Terms

tabi tanka Tanondayo Tate no kai tatemae Teishukanpaku tofu umi wa watashi Yogaku

sock-like footwear Japanese poem having lines of 5–7–5–7–7 syllables ‘I leave all to you and your good judgment’ ‘Group of Shields’ – Mishima’s private faction formal public expression, in contrast honne ‘Lord Husband’ Soya bean curd the sea (used as the title of a periodical) harmony, especially in the social context ‘I’; for example, as denoting the narrator in Soseki’s novel Kokoro Western studies

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Glossary of Japanese Terms 199

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Akimoto, Ai, Hanako’s Neck, (Tokyo: Kondoshoten, 2000). Barthes, Roland, The Empire of Signs, trans. Richard Howard (London: Cape, 1983). Benedict, Ruth, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Patterns of Japanese Culture (London: Secker and Warburg, 1947). Blacker, Carmen, ‘[Review of Okada]’, The Times Literary Supplement, 30 December 1988 and 5 January 1989. Bownas, Geoffrey and Thwaite, Anthony ‘The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse, trans. and with introductions Thwaite (Harmondsworth: Penguin, [1964] 1998). Christopher, Robert C., The Japanese Mind: The Goliath Explained (London: Pan, 1984). Dazai, Osamu, The Setting Sun, trans. Donald Keene (Norfolk, Conn.: James Laughlin, 1956). Dostoyevski, Fedor Mikhailovich, Crime and Punishment, trans. Constance Garnett (Toronto and London: Bantam, 1958). Endo, Junko, Homework Left by My Late Husband (Otto no shukudai) (Tokyo: PHP Ken Kyusho, 1998). Endo, Shusaku, The Sea and the Poison (Umi to Dokuyaku), trans. Michael Gallagher (London: Owen, 1972). Endo, Shusaku, Wonderful Fool (Obakasan), trans. Francis Mathy (London: Owen, 1974). Endo, Shusaku, Can the Japanese Believe in Christianity? (Nihonjin wa kirisutokyo o Shinjirarerula) (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1977). Endo, Shusaku, The Silence (Chinmoku), trans. William Johnston (London: Quartet Books, 1978). Endo, Shusaku, ‘Double-minded Activist’ (Nijyu Seikatsusha), Umi (The Sea), September 1983. Endo, Shusaku, The Deep River (Fukai Kawa), trans. Van C. Gessel (London: Owen, 1994a). Endo, Shusaku, The Woman I Abandoned (Watashi ga suteta onna), trans. as The Girl I Left Behind by Mark Williams (London: Owen, 1994b). 201 10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Bibliography

Endo, Shusaku, The Hill at Rouen (La Colline de Rouen; Rouen no oka) (Tokyo: PHP Kenkyujo, 1998). Endo, Shusaku, Blue and Small Grapes (Aoi chiisana Budo), Collected Works, Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Shinchosha, 1999). Endo, Shusaku, ‘What Is God for Me’, (Watashi ni totte Kamitowa) Collected Works, Vol. 14 (Tokyo: Shinchosha, 2001). Endo, Shusaku, Iron Shackles (Tetsu no ashikase), Collected Works, Vol. 10 (Tokyo: Shinchosha, 2002). Fukushima, Jiro, Mishima Yukio: tsurugi to kanbeni (Sword and Cold Crimson) (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju, 1998). Greene, Graham, The Power and the Glory (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1977). Grimm, Jacob, Fairy Tales, trans. Jack Zipes (Toronto and London: Bantam, 1987). Hesse, Herman, The Prodigy (Unterm Rad), trans. W. J. Strachan (London: Owen, 1957). Iyer, Pico, ‘The Inscrutable West’, The Times Higher Education Supplement, 14 May 1999. James, Henry, The Beast in the Jungle (London: M. Secker, 1915). Mishima, Yukio, The Sound of Waves (Shiosai), trans. Meredith Weatherby (London: Secker and Warburg, 1957). Mishima, Yukio, After the Banquet (utage no Atode), trans. Donald Keene (London: Secker and Warburg, 1963). Mishima, Yukio, Forbidden Colours (Kinjiki), trans. Alfred H. Marks (London: Secker and Warburg, 1968). Mishima, Yukio, Thirst for Love (Aino Kawaki) trans. Alfred H. Marks (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978). Mishima, Yukio, The Confessions of a Mask (Kamen no Kokuhaku), trans. Meredith Weatherby (London: Flamingo, 1993 (c1958)). Mishima, Yukio, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (Kinkakuji), trans. Ivan Morris (Rutland, Vermont and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1977 (c1959)). Mishima, Yukio, Roses and Pirates (Bara to Kaizoku), (Tokyo, 1958). Mitchell, Margaret, Gone with the Wind (New York: Limited Editions Club, 1968). Murakami, Haruki, Norwegian Wood (Norway no mori), (trans. by Jay Rubin) (London: The Harvill Press, 2000). Myojo (Dawn Star), a poetry periodical edited by Tekkan Yosano. Founded in 1900 ending in 1908, it became the centre for the

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202 Bibliography

Romantic movement. Main contributors were Akiko Yosano, Takuboku Ishikawa, & Hakushu Kitahara. Nakane, Chie, Japanese Society (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1970). Nathan, John, Mishima: a biography (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1975). Oe–Sontag correspondence, Asahi Shinbun (newspaper), 23 June 1999. Okada, Sumie, Edmund Blunden and Japan: The History of a Relationship (London: Macmillan, 1988). Okada, Sumie, Blunden no aino tegami (Tokyo: Heikonsha, 1995). Okada, Sumie, Western Writers in Japan (London: Macmillan, 1999). Okada, Sumie, ‘Sotome and Lyon – The Background of Endo’s Novels’, Minami Nihon Newspaper, 2 February 2000. Okada, Sumie, ‘Interview with Geneviève Pastre’, Minami Nihon Newspaper, 11 November 2000. Pastre, Françoise (ed.), Standard French–Japanese Dictionary (Tokyo: Taishukan, 1970). Pastre, Geneviève, ‘[Article concerning her sister Françoise Pastre]’ Mitabungaku, Vol. 59, Autumn 1999. Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de, The Little Prince, trans. Katherine Woods (London: Heinemann, 1944). Shakespeare, William, plays mentioned: Macbeth, King Lear, Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and Juliet. Shirabaka (White Birch), A journal lasting from 1910–1923. The most influential literary journal before the Second World War. Saneatsu Masha no Koji, Naoya Shiga, Takeo Arishima, and Soetsu Yanagi were main contributors. They advocated liberalism and were rather against the establishment behind the literary world. Even Bernard Leach joined it. Soseki, Natsume, Kokoro, trans. Edwin McClellan (London: Owen, 1968). Soseki, Natsume, I Am a Cat (Wagahai wa Neko dearu), trans. Katsue Shibata and Motonari Kai (London: Owen, 1971). Soseki, Natsume, My Individualism (Watashi no kojinshugi) (Tokyo: Kodansha Gakujutsu Binko, 1998). Takayama, Tetsuo, ‘The Matter of Françoise’, Shincho, June 2000, pp. 199–202.

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Taketori monogatari (The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter) (trad. story) (Tokyo: Waseda Daigaku Shuppanbu, 1987). Tanabe, Seiko et al., Yosano Akiko (Tokyo: Kawadeshoboshinsha, 1991) (Shinbungei Dokuhon). Thwaite, Anthony, ‘[Review of Okada]’, The Times Literary Supplement, 29 January 1999. Vidal, Gore, ‘The Death of Mishima’, New York Review of Books, 17 June 1971, pp. 450–60. Vidal, Gore, United States: Essays 1952–1992 (London: Abacus, 1994). Weldon, Fay, The Bulgari Connection (London: Harper Collins, 2000). Whitemore, Hugh, 84 Charing Cross Road (Film script from novel by Helene Hanff) (London: Futuro, 1976). Yasuoka, Shotaro and Inoue, Yoji, Why Did We Become Christian? (Ware naze Kirisuto Kyoto to narishika?) (Tokyo: Kobunsha, 1999). Yosano, Akiko (in collaboration with Hiroshi Yosano), ‘First Impressions of France’ (France no Daiichi Insho), From Paris (Paris yori), (Tokyo: Kanao Bunendo, 1913). Yosano, Akiko, Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari, trans. from classical into modern Japanese) (Tokyo: Hibonkaku 1936–8). Yosano, Akiko, Midaregami, trans. Dennis Maloney and Hide Oshiro as Tangled Hair: Love Poems of Yosano Akiko (New York: White Pine Press, 1987). Yosano, Hiroshi, ‘Tekkan’, From Paris (Paris yori) (Tokyo: Kanao Bunendo, 1913).

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204 Bibliography

academic(s) 3, 84, 115, 126, 127, 142, 155, 168, 183 acting, actor(s), actress(es) see theatre(s) action, individualistic 12, 28, 67, 97 Adam and Eve 103 aesthetic(s) 42, 77, 112, 138, 151, 164, 178 Africans 9 Akimoto: Hanako’s Neck 35 amae (dependency) 2, 24, 28, 32, 87, 113, 118, 122, 187, 188 ambiguity, as Japanese cultural trait 17, 23, 68, 78, 86, 102, 117, 120 America, American(s) 1, 2, 5, 27, 39, 51, 53, 54, 66, 84, 89, 91, 106, 145, 152, 171, 179, 190 Amida 104 Amis, Martin 73 Anouilh, Jean 152, 179 Antigone 152, 179 anti-individualism 53 anti-war sentiment 32 Arabs 1 architect(s), architecture 37, 39, 86 Arimasa, Mori 139, 165 Arishima, Takeo 36 aristocracy 6, 7, 36 Aristotle 149, 176 Arizona 127 arts, artist(s) 25, 29, 31, 32, 35, 52, 58, 77, 86, 119, 124, 137, 138, 140–2, 147, 163, 164, 167, 168, 174, 189 Asahi Shinbun (newspaper) 12 Ascot 38 Asian(s) 9 Athens 107

Atlanta 107 atonement 18, 27, 103 Austria 28, 96 Aveyron 135, 161 Avignon 128, 129, 131, 155, 156, 183 baccalauréat 135, 162 Bach 66 Bakufu government 85, 96, 97, 99–101, 104, 123 baptism 65, 82, 99, 108, 109, 149, 176 baroque 140, 167 Barthes, Roland 19, 102 Barthes: The Empire of Signs 19, 102 Basho 116, 117 Basho: haiku 116, 117 Bayley, John 190 BBC 9 Beatles 66 beauty 7, 28, 29, 34, 37, 38, 44, 53, 58, 68, 116, 117, 119, 124, 127, 141, 151, 167, 178 Beauvoir, Simone de 137, 163 belief, ideological/philosophical 52, 89, 99, 112, 113, 122, 123, 148–51, 175–8 belief, individualistic 4, 7, 28, 35, 56 belief, religious 72, 81, 82, 84, 86, 97, 99–105, 108, 113, 149, 176 betrayal 56, 77, 85, 86, 90, 98, 129, 154, 155, 181, 183 Bible 4, 45, 85, 87, 97, 102, 123 Bique, B. 40 Blacker, Carmen 190 Blacker: article in The Times Literary Supplement 190 205

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Index

blossom 34, 42, 44, 68, 118 Blunden, Claire 189, 190 Blunden, Edmund 3, 48, 75, 76, 90, 91, 189, 190 body-consciousness 6, 25, 35, 51, 52, 58, 59, 95 Bonaparte, Napoleon 88, 89 bonds, Japanese social 6, 12, 14, 16, 19, 21, 71, 72, 105 Bordeaux 116 bosses, Japanese 4, 81, 87, 118 Bourges 126 Bownas, Geoffrey 43 Britain, British 4–6, 10, 11, 16, 19, 22, 32, 35–9, 46, 48, 72, 106, 189, 190 British Library 189 Bronvergé 94 Bruel, Catherine 129, 131, 156, 183 Bruel, Yves-Marie 156, 183 Buddha, Buddhism, Buddhist(s) 14, 45, 53, 81, 82, 85, 86, 99, 100, 102, 104–6, 119, 140, 167 Bungaku-bu 143, 170 Bunka Gakuin College, Tokyo 48 calligraphy see shodo Cambridge 2, 72, 115, 189 Cameron, Euan 83 Camus, Albert 120, 142, 168 cancer, Françoise Pastre’s battle with 75, 80, 93, 126, 129, 131, 154–6, 181, 182, 184 Cape Nairu 57 Carmelite(s) 116 carnival(s), festival(s) 31, 33–5 Carthusian(s) 127 Catholic(s), Catholicism 3, 60, 64, 78, 79, 81–6, 96–9, 101, 105, 106, 108, 113, 120, 123, 126, 146, 154, 173, 182 Causse 137, 152, 163, 179 chance (as cause) 5, 13, 26, 90, 106 chanting 45, 102 chapel(s) 84, 100, 101

Chaplin, Charlie 88 Chernobyl 1 cherry, cherry blossom 34, 68, 118, 127 chess, Japanese 23 Chiba prefecture 80 Chikugo district 104 child, children, childhood 2, 4, 10, 11, 28, 31, 39, 40, 45, 46, 48, 52, 54, 57, 72, 76, 79, 85, 89, 90, 99, 110–12, 118, 124, 125, 135, 136, 149, 151, 153, 155, 156, 161, 162, 176, 178, 180, 182, 184 China, Chinese 10, 81, 94, 96, 126 choice, individual freedom of 19, 27, 28, 36, 40, 61, 67, 78, 81, 83, 98, 99, 105, 123, 130, 134, 141, 145, 146, 149, 157, 160, 168, 172, 173, 176, 184 Christ, Jesus 72, 85–8, 96–9, 101–4, 113, 123, 124, 147, 150, 174, 177 Christian(s), Christianity 2–4, 24, 28, 56, 58, 64, 65, 72, 77, 80, 82, 84, 85, 88, 90, 94, 98–106, 115, 116, 118, 119, 123, 124, 143, 144, 146, 147, 149, 169, 170, 173–5, 190 Christopher, Robert 118 Christopher: The Japanese Mind 118 church(es) 24, 28, 85, 101, 105 city/cities 37, 38, 63, 64, 102 civilisation(s) 2, 19, 130, 140, 141, 146, 152, 156, 167, 168, 173, 180, 184 ‘clandestine Christians’ see kakure kirishitan Clapham Common 9 classical culture 87, 140, 167 Claudel, Paul 143, 170 clothing as message or metaphor (used by Endo and others) 3, 101, 105, 116, 149, 176 commercialism 80, 100 communality 67, 69, 72

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206 Index

Communion 85 Communists 94 conformism, as feature of Japanese groupism 21, 22, 34, 71, 82, 84, 98, 138, 147, 164, 174 confrontation, Japanese avoidance of 61, 78, 83, 115, 121 Confucianism 99 convention, coventionality 42, 48, 49, 83, 148, 174, 188 conversion 65, 82, 101, 104 courage 7, 32, 42, 48, 58, 76, 86, 101, 107, 113, 115, 126, 128, 131, 154, 181 cowardice 123, 125, 138, 146, 156, 157, 164, 173, 184, 185 creativity 6, 10, 87, 133, 142, 151, 159, 168, 178, 187 Cross, crucifixion 80, 85, 100, 103 culture (comparisons between Britain and France) 37 culture (East–West comparisons and relations) 2–4, 8, 10, 12, 13, 16, 19, 27, 31, 32, 41, 63, 65, 75, 77, 78, 81, 85, 89, 92, 93, 95, 102, 106, 107, 109, 112, 114–16, 118, 119, 121, 124, 129, 137, 138, 140–3, 147, 154, 163–5, 167–70, 174, 181, 187–90 custom(s), Japanese social 4, 21, 84, 115, 120, 124, 141, 147, 168, 174 Cyprus 60 Daibutsu (statue of Buddha) 14 danka 100 Dazai, Osamu 90, 153, 180 Dazai: The Setting Sun 90, 153, 180 death 5–7, 13, 15, 18–21, 23–6, 51, 57, 62, 63, 70, 72, 79–81, 86, 100, 103, 104, 112, 147, 149, 155, 174, 176, 182, 183 debt(s) of gratitude see ‘on’ democracy 47, 106, 107 dependency see amae (dependency)

207

Descartes, René 149, 176 Descartes: Meditations 149, 176 deshiiri suru 14 difference(s), cultural 1, 3, 34, 36, 37, 54, 58, 68, 77, 78, 85, 89, 93, 95, 105, 106, 109, 112, 115, 119, 123, 124, 129, 143, 147, 156, 169, 174, 184, 187–90 difference(s), individual 5, 25, 55, 66–9, 72, 94, 105, 115 disability, handicap 5, 10, 25, 29, 55, 56, 58, 59 disciple, discipleship 14, 36, 65, 97, 122, 144, 171 doctrine, religious 53, 99, 100 Dokkyo University 76–8, 80, 119, 124–9, 131, 132, 141, 153, 155, 167, 181, 183, 196 Domenach 139, 166 Dostoyevski, Fedor Mikhailovich 87 Dostoyevski: Crime and Punishment 87 drunkenness 33, 34 duty 4, 5, 11, 12, 42, 52, 71, 72, 82, 84, 108, 123, 130, 134, 160 East, Eastern, Easterner(s) 1, 10, 35, 36, 89, 99, 106, 112, 130, 138–40, 146, 164–6, 173 education 11, 38, 39, 52, 57, 64, 65, 67, 71, 86, 87, 110, 113, 127, 135, 136, 161, 162 ego, egocentrism, egoism, egotism 5, 12, 14, 21, 22, 26, 78, 81, 87, 110, 136, 158, 162, 185 elitism 11, 14, 88, 107, 141, 167 emancipation, suffrage 19, 32, 38–41, 46–8, 188 emotion, emotionality 95, 99, 117, 118, 121, 144, 171 emperor(s) of Japan 5, 19–21, 32, 33, 51, 52, 84, 98, 104 Empress Michiko 64 Endo, Junko 76, 78, 81, 87, 90, 93, 113, 134, 160

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208 Index

exhibition(s) 31, 35, 36, 64, 137, 163 faction(s), factionalism 12, 20, 31, 36, 94, 137, 163 failed groupism 19, 51 failed individualism 6, 9, 18, 19, 24 Fairmount Hotel 128 faith 3, 19, 20, 28, 56, 72, 84–6, 96, 98, 99, 101, 102, 104, 105, 108, 113, 116, 118, 123, 126, 149, 150, 154, 176, 177, 181 family 1, 6–8, 10, 15, 21, 22, 24, 27, 28, 39, 42, 57, 63, 65, 67, 69, 76, 84, 92, 94, 98–100, 110, 113, 126, 129, 132, 135, 137, 149, 152, 154, 157, 161, 163, 176, 179, 181, 184, 188 Farmiloe, Tim 190 fascism 106 fate, fatalism 29, 65, 83, 84, 99, 125, 126, 139, 150, 155, 165, 177, 182 Fauré, Gabriel 127 Fellini 121, 144, 171 feminism 6, 32, 39, 41, 42, 46, 47, 106, 110, 112, 135, 161 Ferraira, Father 104 feudalism 12, 122, 144, 171 Figaro Littéraire 135, 161 financial (in)dependence 15, 21, 22, 27, 46 Fitzgerald, F. Scott 66 Flamingo Centres 80 ‘fool’, as literary figure 87–9, 95, 106 foreign, foreigner(s), gaijin 7, 9, 14, 39, 54, 80, 83, 89, 96, 105, 116, 126, 156, 184 forgiveness, Christian 97, 102, 103, 123 France 2, 3, 24, 31, 35, 39–41, 46, 47, 75–8, 84, 86, 88, 91–7, 110, 112, 116, 119, 122, 124, 126, 127, 132, 133, 138, 139, 141, 142, 145, 147, 148, 152, 154–7,

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Endo, Junko: Homework Left by My Late Husband 81 Endo, Shusaku (Paul) [mentions outside chs 5–6 and the appendixes] 2, 3, 24, 28, 57, 60, 61, 65, 66, 189, 190 (see also Pastre, Françoise) Endo: Blue and Small Grapes 94, 95 Endo: Can the Japanese Believe in Christianity? 195 Endo: Double-minded Activist 101 Endo: Iron Shackles 99 Endo: Mater Dolorosa 154, 181 Endo: The Deep River 3, 83, 86, 87, 88, 106 Endo: The Hill at Rouen 75, 76, 81, 90, 93, 112, 133, 159, 157, 184 Endo: The Sea and the Poison 84 Endo: The Silence 3, 60, 78, 79, 82, 83, 85, 87, 88, 91, 96, 102, 103, 106, 109, 116, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 142, 168, 142, 143, 149, 168–70, 143, 176 Endo: The Woman I Abandoned 86, 87, 114, 140, 166 Endo: Unzen 157, 184 Endo: Wonderful Fool 87, 88, 89, 95, 106 England 4, 9, 11, 12, 16, 22, 23, 31, 189, 190 English (language) 2, 3, 9, 10, 22, 42, 59, 60, 64, 75, 83, 88, 91, 109, 115, 120 English (people and society) 11, 22, 88 en (karma) 83, 99 equality 13, 38–41, 96, 104, 120, 124, 137, 163 erai hito 15 Esprit 139, 166 ethics 148, 175 Europe, European(s) 2, 5, 6, 27, 34, 37, 45, 46, 53, 83, 103, 108, 138, 164 evangelism 82, 84, 87 Eve see Adam and Eve

159, 164, 166–8, 172, 174, 179, 181–4 Françoise Pastre Foundation 130 Franco–Japanese cultural relations 41, 77, 95, 139, 142, 154, 166, 169, 181 freedom, individual 4, 5, 11–16, 18, 19, 24, 28, 35, 39, 53, 54, 56, 57, 63, 66, 68, 84, 143, 169 French government 141, 167 French (language) 3, 32, 75–8, 80, 88, 89, 109, 113–15, 119–21, 130, 132, 140, 142, 144, 146, 166, 168, 170, 173 French (people and society) 3, 31, 32, 35–7, 39–41, 67, 77, 78, 83, 88, 89, 92–4, 101, 108, 110, 134, 140, 142, 154, 155, 160, 167–9, 181, 183 French Resistance 94 Fukushima, Jiro 5, 52 Fukushima: Sword and Cold Crimson 51 fumie 85, 96, 123 fundamentalism 1, 103 Furumoto 127 gaijin 96, 105 Gakushuin (Peers’ School), Tokyo 52 Ganges 86 Geniez de Bertrand, St 135, 161 Genji see Tale of Genji German(s), Germany 66, 94, 156, 183 giri 4, 16, 48, 49, 71, 72, 116, 188, 190 giri-choco 4 God 4, 13, 19, 24, 28, 56, 58, 72, 77, 79, 86, 87, 95, 96, 99, 102–5, 113, 123, 147–50, 174–7, 190 gods 33, 98 ‘good’ versus ‘evil’ 14, 18, 54, 56, 58, 94, 151, 178 gospels 103, 150, 177 grace 4, 99

209

Greece 2, 53, 111, 115, 137, 163 Greene, Graham 79, 106 Greene: The Power and the Glory 79 Grimm: Fairy Tales 96 ‘Group of shields’ (Tate no kai) 5, 19, 51 group(s), groupism 1–8, 12, 13, 15–17, 19–24, 27–9, 31–6, 38, 42, 43, 51, 53, 55–8, 61, 62, 65, 67, 68, 71–3, 80, 81, 83, 84, 86, 92, 94, 98, 99, 102, 104–6, 109, 110, 112–15, 117–19, 121, 122, 124, 140, 166, 187–90 Hacker, Marilyn 91 haiku 102, 116, 117 Halbwachs 136, 162 Hanako (Rodin’s model) 35 Hani, Setsuko 48 happiness 11, 13, 15, 22, 35, 52, 58, 68, 89, 90, 93, 96, 99, 104, 110–12, 119, 125, 131, 136, 137, 142, 149, 152, 153, 162, 163, 169, 175, 176, 179, 180 harmony, as Japanese social trait, see ‘wa’ Hayashi, Aki 3, 75, 76, 90, 91, 189, 190 Haylock, John 59 heaven 96, 123, 147, 174 hell 103 Hesse, Herman 66 Hesse: Unterm Rad (The Prodigy) 66 Hibiya (district of Tokyo) 37, 83 Hideyoshi, Toyotomi 101 Hiratsuka, Raicho 46 Hokkaido 77, 78, 119 homosexual(s), homosexuality 5, 14, 25, 52, 53, 55, 91 honne 58, 187 honour 7, 43, 83 humanism 3, 26, 58, 83, 113, 122, 123 humanities 135, 136, 156, 161, 162, 183 humankind, humanity 18, 24, 69, 113, 122, 125, 133, 134, 143,

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145, 147–51, 154, 159, 160, 169, 171, 174–8, 182 hyakuman ben 102 Hyogo 70 Ichigaya (district of Tokyo) 51 Ichihara, Toyota 126–31, 155, 157, 183–5, 196 icon 85, 96, 97, 102, 123 India 86 Indian Ocean 37, 112, 138, 165 individual(s), individuality, individualism 1–16, 18–20, 22–4, 26–8, 31–3, 35, 36, 38, 41, 42, 48, 49, 53–8, 61, 63–9, 72, 73, 83, 94, 98, 99, 102, 104, 105, 109, 110, 112–15, 117–19, 122, 150, 151, 177, 178, 187–90 Inoue, Yoji 97–105, 116, 118, 123, 124 (see also Yasuoka and Inoue) inscrutability 10, 144, 170, 190, 191 insularity, isolation 10, 12, 14, 18, 24, 56, 62, 65, 68, 69 intellectual(s), intellectualism 10, 13, 14, 39, 86, 87, 104, 107, 134, 137, 140, 142, 143, 160, 163, 166, 168, 169 Ishiguro, Kazuo 73 Islam 1 Italy 27, 81, 111, 137, 163 Iyer, Pico 190 Iyer: ‘The Inscrutable West’, THES 190 Izu 119, 141, 167 James, Henry 5, 24, 26, 27 James: The Beast in the Jungle 5, 24, 26, 27 Jansenism 139, 165 Japan 1–4, 8–14, 19–21, 24, 31–7, 39–41, 43, 51, 52, 54, 57, 62, 64, 67, 75–8, 80, 82, 83, 85, 88, 89, 91–3, 95, 96, 98–102, 109–14, 116, 119, 120–8, 130, 131, 135, 137–41, 143, 145,

147, 148, 152, 154, 156, 157, 161, 163–9, 172, 174, 179, 181, 182, 184, 189–91 Japanese ‘centreless’ culture 12, 13, 19, 102, 105 Japanese embassy in Paris 32, 35 Japanese (language) 9, 22, 31, 36, 43, 52, 53, 58, 75, 77, 83, 88, 89, 91, 97, 105, 109, 114, 119–21, 130, 138, 139, 142, 144, 146, 164, 165, 168, 170, 173, 190 Japanese Parliament 14, 47 Japanese (people and society) 1–6, 9–13, 16, 17, 19, 23, 24, 27, 28, 32–6, 38, 41, 42, 44, 51–3, 55, 57–61, 63, 64, 67–9, 71–3, 75–92, 94–107, 109, 112–21, 123–7, 130, 134, 135, 138, 140, 142, 144, 146, 149, 151, 152, 154–6, 160, 161, 164, 167–71, 173, 176, 178, 179, 180, 182, 183, 184, 187–90 Japan-Town (in Paris) 35 Jesuit(s) 83, 85, 101 Jesus see Christ, Jesus Jew(s), Jewish 96 Jiyugakuen 48 Journal de France 133, 159 Judaea 126 Judas 85, 103 Kaga, Otohiko 81, 82 Kagoshima 97, 101 Kaguya, princess 89 kakure kirishitan (‘clandestine Christians’) 85, 105, 106, 154, 181 Kamakura 14 Kanbun 10 –karazuya 43 Karuizawa 142, 168 Kato, Shuichi 77, 140, 166 Kawabata 60, 112, 138, 164 Keene, Donald 59 Keio University 3, 75, 80, 113 kimochi 22, 71

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210 Index

kimono 36, 37, 102, 130 Kiza 81–3 Kobe 63 Kojo no tsuki (The moon [observed] at the ruined castle) 118 kokoro 22 Konishi, Yukinaga 101 kudasai 17 Kumamoto 9, 52 kuse 148, 175 Kyoto 31, 33, 36, 53, 62, 102, 140, 167 kyukyo 15 Kyushu 9, 52, 119, 141, 167 language(s) 2, 10, 25, 31, 40, 64, 77, 97, 114, 115, 119–22, 130, 132, 138–40, 142, 155, 164–6, 169, 183 Larzac 135, 161 Latin 118 Le Clézio 148, 174 Légion d’honneur 36 Leroi-Gourhan 136, 162 liberal(s), liberalism 6, 32, 38, 49, 83, 97, 107, 194 literary life 9, 12, 23, 26, 36, 75, 77, 81, 82, 106, 107, 132, 134–6, 146, 158, 160–2, 172, 185, 189, 194 literature 3, 9, 10, 16, 22, 35, 47, 52, 73, 75, 76, 80, 88, 89, 91, 105–7, 113, 132, 138, 141, 164, 167, 168, 189 Loire 136, 162 London 2, 9, 10, 13, 32, 37, 38, 53, 106 loneliness 9, 10, 12, 14, 15, 25, 39, 42, 43, 45, 46, 54, 58, 62, 68, 76 Lorraine 135, 161 Louvre 37 love 3–5, 7, 14, 16, 18–20, 24, 26, 27, 32, 42, 43, 48, 61, 63, 66–8, 70, 72, 75, 82, 87, 89, 90, 92–4, 102, 103, 109, 110, 119–21, 124–6, 129, 133, 137, 138, 142,

211

146, 149, 151, 153–7, 159, 163, 164, 169, 173, 175, 176, 178, 180–3, 185, 188 Luke’s gospel 97 Lyon 3, 86, 89, 90, 92, 108, 128 Madrid 107 Maizuru (sea) 57 male-centredness, domination 33, 34 Maloney, Dennis 42, 43 manliness/femininity 16, 34, 35, 37, 42, 52, 56, 58 marriage, as theme or concept 6–8, 14, 15, 17, 22, 27, 41, 63, 65, 85, 87, 100, 112, 125, 126, 135, 138, 155, 161, 164, 182 marriage, personal 27, 31, 43, 52, 65, 76–8, 81, 83, 84, 87, 90–3, 110, 112, 113, 115, 124, 126, 137, 138, 140, 156, 163, 164, 166, 184, 189 Marrou 139, 166 Marseille 41, 76, 92, 93, 110, 112–14, 137, 138, 140, 164, 166 martyr, martyrdom 103, 120, 123 matsuri see carnival(s), festival(s) Mauriac, François 145, 172 Mediterranean 131 Meiji era/emperor 5, 10, 20, 21, 32, 105 Mexico 79 mikoshi 33 militarism 96, 98, 188 Millau 135, 152, 161, 179 Mishima, Yoko 52 Mishima, Yukio 2, 5, 6, 19, 24–6, 28, 35, 51–61, 98, 188 Mishima: After the Banquet 60 Mishima: Forbidden Colours 60 Mishima: Roses and Pirates 55 Mishima: The Confessions of a Mask 59, 60 Mishima: The Sound of Waves 57, 58, 59 Mishima: The Temple of the Golden Pavilion 25, 52, 53, 55, 57, 60

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Mishima: Thirst for Love 60 missionaries 82, 85, 97, 101, 104, 105, 116, 123, 190 Mita (district of Tokyo) 75 Mitabungaku (periodical) 3, 75, 76, 109 Mitchell, Margaret 107 Mitchell: Gone with the Wind 107 Miura, Shumon 81 Miyake, Setsurei 12 Montaigne 150, 177 Montmartre 39, 40 Montparnasse 92 Montpellier 126 moon, as Japanese literary symbol 69, 70, 89, 116–18 Moors (in Othello) 6, 7 morality, moralism 43, 63, 105, 107, 114, 120, 137, 141, 143, 148, 155, 156, 163, 168, 169, 175, 182, 184 Mori, Arimasa 130, 139, 144, 165, 170 motherhood 6, 31, 41, 42, 45, 48, 84, 87, 108, 110, 118, 125, 135, 149, 153, 155, 161, 176, 180, 182 movements (social, literary, political or religious) 32, 36, 38–41, 46, 48, 66, 94, 100, 101, 116 Munich 46 Murakami, Haruki 2, 3, 5, 61–5, 72, 73, 188, 190 Murakami: Norwegian Wood 2, 61, 62, 63, 65, 66, 72 music 58, 61, 64–6, 70, 86, 127, 132, 156, 183 Myojo (periodical) 31, 44, 47 Nagasaki 82, 83, 85 Nakane, Chie 1 Nakane: Japanese Society 1 Nanking 96 Napoleon see Bonaparte, Napoleon Nathan, John 54 Nathan: Mishima 54 nationalism 12, 13, 52

Nazi(s), Nazism 94, 96 Nelson, Admiral 12 nenbutsu 102 Nero 104 New York 51, 107 nihilism 26, 53 ninjo 4, 71, 116 No see Noh theatre Nobel Prize for literature 60, 106, 107 Nogi, General 20 Noh theatre 59, 119, 141, 145, 151, 168, 171, 178 non-Christians 86 non-Japanese 144, 170 non-religious 84 non-violence 32 Norman, Sylva 91 Nose: Forty-Year-Old Man 149, 176 Notre Dame Cathedral 37 obligation 4, 5, 16, 72, 108, 190 Oe, Kenzaburo 106, 107, 109 Oe–Sontag correspondence 106 Ogura, Junko 76, 80 Ogura, Kyoko 77, 157, 184 Oide (friend of Endo) 93, 113 Okada, Sumie: article in Minami Nihon Newspaper 92 Okada: Blunden no aino tegami 190 Okada: Edmund Blunden and Japan 3 Okada: Western Writers in Japan 2, 3, 190 on 4, 13, 16, 71, 72 Oshiro, Hide 42 Otake, Toyohiko 82, 83 Owen, Peter 60, 106 oyabun 81 painter(s), painting 35, 52, 77, 86, 92, 140, 151, 166, 178 Paris 3, 31, 33–7, 39, 40, 77, 91–3, 109, 110, 128, 130, 135, 136, 154, 155, 161, 162, 181, 183 Parisians, Parisiennes 33–5, 37, 121, 144, 171

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212 Index

Pascal, Blaise 113, 139, 150, 165, 177 Pastre, Françoise, academic/literary relationship with Endo 76–80, 91, 108, 109, 113, 119–23, 133, 134, 137, 142, 145–7, 153, 159, 160, 163, 169, 171–4, 180, 190 Pastre, Françoise, personal relationship with Endo 3, 75, 76, 80, 83, 90, 93, 94, 109, 111–14, 119–26, 129, 131, 133, 137, 138, 140, 142–4, 147, 152–7, 159, 163, 164, 166, 169, 171, 174, 179, 180, 182, 184, 185, 188, 190 Pastre, Françoise’s death 75, 78, 90, 93, 110, 121, 125, 130, 131, 133, 142, 156, 160, 168, 183 Pastre, Françoise [other mentions outside chs 5–6 and the appendixes] 3, 24, 67, 189, 196 Pastre, Geneviève 3, 75, 76, 90–4, 102, 109, 110, 112–14, 121, 124–6, 128–33, 143, 158, 159, 170, 185, 188 patriotism 51, 52 Peers’ School see Gakushuin Penguin Book of Japanese Verse, The 42 persecution 78, 79, 83, 85, 97, 103, 104, 106, 120 Peter, St 96, 97, 98, 102, 123 Philistines 86 Phillips, Mrs (the Yosanos’ London hostess) 39 philosopher(s), philosophy 12, 14, 24, 75, 76, 78, 83, 84, 111, 115, 119, 124, 125, 134–6, 140–2, 150, 160–3, 167, 168, 177 Pigeot, Jacqueline 91, 128, 130 Plato 84, 136, 151, 162, 178 political dissent 32 Pope 81 Portugal 85, 101 prejudice 9

213

priest(s) 24, 53, 54, 79, 83, 86, 88, 97, 98, 100, 101, 104, 105, 121 Princeton 2, 62 Protestant(s), Protestantism 84, 105 Provence 127 psalms of David 45 psychology 17, 23, 82, 95, 102, 105, 114, 116–18 reading 103 relativism 12, 57, 77, 87, 119, 124 religion, religiousness 4, 20, 24, 45, 60, 64, 82, 84, 99–101, 105, 113, 119, 146, 147, 172, 174 religious orders 53, 54, 64, 86, 123 (see also priest(s)) Rhone 128 Ritz Hotel, London 106 Rodin, Auguste 35, 36 Roman(s) 60, 104 romanticism 32, 51–3, 57 RSPCA 81 Russia 1, 9, 32, 33 sabishikarazuya 43 Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de 89 Saint-Exupéry: The Little Prince 89 Sakai, near Kyoto 31 sake (rice wine) 33, 69, 70 salvation 18, 19, 24, 57, 58, 81, 83, 85, 96, 99, 100, 102, 104, 147, 148, 149, 174, 175 Samurai 101 Sandoz 150, 177 Sapporo 77, 78, 119, 121, 128, 138, 141, 143, 144, 164, 167, 168, 170 Sarraute 148, 174 Sartre, Jean-Paul 137, 163 Savage, Richard 72, 73 schools 14, 20, 24, 64, 136, 162 Schuhl (Françoise Pastre’s tutor) 136, 162 sea, as literary or philosophical symbol 25, 57 sect(s), sectarianism 44, 66, 105

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Index

Seine 35, 37 Self-Defence Forces 51 sensei 13, 14, 36, 66 Serisawa, Julia 196 Shakespeare, William 6, 7 Shakespeare: Hamlet 6, 8, 54 Shakespeare: King Lear 6, 7 Shakespeare: Macbeth 6, 7 Shakespeare: Othello 6, 7 Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet 7, 112 Sheldon, Jacqueline 91, 109 Shibuya 151, 178 Shigakogen 142, 168 Shinkyo 105 Shinshisha 31 Shinto 82, 100, 105, 119, 140, 167 Shirakaba-ha 36 shodo 119, 141, 168 Shomakyo 49, 194 Shosan (friend of the Yosanos) 35, 36 Sieffert, René 139, 145, 165, 171 Sigée, Jeanne 142, 168 sin 14, 18, 42, 44, 45, 83, 96, 100, 103, 125, 148, 175 Singapore 88 social class, classism, status 7, 21, 36, 38–41, 64, 100, 117 social responsibility 4, 5, 11, 24, 65, 67, 69, 73, 91, 106, 122, 187, 189 solipsism 69, 147, 174 solitude, solitariness 26, 54, 56, 58, 69, 70, 79, 110, 114, 117, 137, 140, 149, 152, 156, 163, 166, 176, 179, 184 Sontag, Susan 106, 107 Sontag–Oe correspondence 106 Sorbonne 136, 139, 162, 165 Soseki, Natsume 2, 4, 5, 9–14, 16, 18–20, 22–4, 26–8, 54, 56, 57, 61, 65, 66, 68, 115, 145, 171, 187 Soseki: And Then 13 Soseki: I Am a Cat 9, 10 Soseki: Kokoro 4, 13, 22, 26, 28, 65

Soseki: My Individualism 4, 11 Sotome 81 Soviet Union 1 Spain 111, 137, 163 spirit, spirituality 6, 20, 33, 35, 42, 57, 58, 81, 85, 86, 96, 97, 100, 113, 139, 165 Standard French–Japanese Dictionary 120, 142, 168, 169 suffering 17, 45, 56, 62, 69, 76, 77, 79, 85, 86, 90, 91, 97, 103, 104, 123, 125, 139, 142, 143, 147, 155, 165, 169, 174, 183 suicide 4–6, 13, 16–20, 23–7, 29, 51, 52, 58, 60, 62, 63, 66, 70, 188 sushi 70, 82, 83 sutra (scripture) 45 Taisho era 10 Takashimaya (department store) 63 Takayama, Tetsuo 75, 77, 78, 109 Takayama: ‘The Matter of Françoise’, in Shincho 77 Tale of Genji 31 Tanabe, Seiko 47 Tanabe: Yosano Akiko 47 tanka 6, 31, 32, 41–7, 49, 117 Tate no kai see ‘Group of shields’ Tate, Keiichi 77, 92, 93, 114, 140, 151, 166, 178 Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, The 89 tatemae 58, 187 Tayama, Katai 47 teacher(s), teaching 4, 10, 13, 14, 41–4, 48, 52, 64–6, 76–8, 119, 126, 130–2, 136, 139–42, 154, 156, 162, 165–8, 181, 183 Teidai (Tokyo) University 10, 65 Teigeki (theatre) 83 Teishukanpaku 81 Tekkan see Yosano, Hiroshi temple(s) 24, 25, 33, 53, 54, 60, 86, 99, 100, 102 Teresa, Mother 87 terrorism 1, 98 Testaments, New and Old 103

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214 Index

Index

Ueno Park, Tokyo 37 Umi (periodical) 101 United States 62 universalism, universality 104, 150, 154, 177, 182 Valentine’s Day 4 Vatican 81 Victoria, Queen 9 Vidal, Gore 51, 52 Vidal: ‘The Death of Mishima’, in New York Review of Books 51

Villeneuve-lès-Avignon 127, 131, 155, 156, 183 Virgin Mary 87 wa 7, 58, 77, 94, 104, 105, 119, 122 war 99 war crimes 84, 94, 96 war (Russo–Japanese) 9, 32, 33 war (Second World War) 19, 52, 54, 61, 72, 73, 80, 84, 88, 89, 94, 95, 96, 98, 101, 110, 135, 136, 161, 162 Waseda 142, 168 watashi 13 Weatherby, Meredith 59, 60 Weldon, Fay 63 Weldon: The Bulgari Connection 63 West, Western, Westerner(s) 1–10, 13, 19, 22–4, 28, 31, 34, 35, 37, 42, 43, 53, 55, 56, 58, 59, 63, 65–7, 69, 72, 77, 78, 80, 81, 83, 85, 88–90, 95, 96, 98, 99, 101, 102, 106, 107, 109, 112, 114–19, 121–4, 141, 144–6, 149, 150, 152, 168, 170, 172, 173, 176, 177, 180, 189, 190 westernisation 5, 53, 64, 68, 101, 116 white race 7, 89, 95, 96 Whitemore, Hugh 190 Whitemore: 84 Charing Cross Road 190 women’s social and political situation 2, 6, 17, 19, 20, 32–4, 36–42, 44, 48, 61, 81, 86, 87, 89, 90, 112, 134, 137, 143, 150, 153, 156, 160, 163, 169, 177, 180, 184, 189 Woolfson, Constance 27 Xavier, Francisco 101 Yakamochi, Otomo 117 Yakamochi: tanka 117 Yamashita, Tomiko 31 Yasuoka, Shotaro 82, 98, 99, 101

10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

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Thames 9, 37, 38 theatre(s), acting, actor(s), actress(es) 35, 59, 81–3, 93 Thionville 135, 151, 161, 178 Thomas, St 113, 149, 176 Thomism 149, 150, 176, 177 Thompson, Marilyn 72, 73 Thwaite, Anthony 43, 53, 83, 190 Thwaite: article in The Times Literary Supplement 190 time, Japanese concept of 96, 97 Times newspapers 190 tofu 70 Tokugawa Shogunate 106 Tokyo 1, 10, 14, 15, 35, 37, 48, 51, 52, 62, 64, 70, 75–8, 80, 82, 83, 119, 120, 123, 129, 139, 141, 142, 144, 147, 154, 155, 157, 165, 167–70, 174, 181, 183, 184, 190 torture 78, 79, 84, 86, 94, 96, 97, 104, 123 totalitarianism 1, 115 tradition, traditionalism 4, 11, 14, 42, 43, 53, 65, 68, 71, 72, 82, 84, 105, 112, 115, 116, 119, 123 transitoriness 68 Trocadéro, in Paris 37 Tsukiji (district of Tokyo) 80 tuberculosis 76, 83, 86, 92, 111, 137, 163 Tuscany 127

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Yasuoka and Inoue: Why Did We Become Christian? 98 Yogaku 10 Yosano, Akiko 2, 6, 31–3, 35–48, 61, 187, 188 Yosano, Akiko: ‘First Impressions of France’, in Paris yori 39 Yosano, Akiko: Tangled Hair 6, 42, 48

Yosano, Hiroshi (Tekkan) 2, 6, 31–44, 46–8, 61, 187, 188, 194 Yosano, Hiroshi: Paris yori 31, 36, 40 Yotsuya (district of Tokyo) 64 Zen 53, 99, 100, 141, 167 Zoshigaya cemetery 16, 27

10.1057/9780230596504 - Japanese Writers and the West, Sumie Okada

Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to Universitetsbiblioteket i Tromsoe - PalgraveConnect - 2011-03-11

216 Index