A Wild Sheep Chase

I finished A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami (b. 1949) this week. This is the second Murakami I have read.  The first was Kafka on the Shore (2002), which I very much disliked. I enjoyed reading this book, but I do not think much of it in terms of it being a novel. I, of course, briefly looked at reviews by other readers in a bunch of places online and I see very disparate reader responses. I got the feeling that most of what was said about the novel had to do with what readers themselves brought to their reading of it. The sentiment that I came across most often, and quite agree with, is that this book is “accessible.”  I take this to mean that one does not need any specialized knowledge or have to have a very advanced reading skill.  Accessible meaning – an easy reader, so to speak. The opposite of an easy reader would probably be something by William Gibson (e.g. Count Zero) or perhaps a China Miéville (e.g. Embassytown).

Perhaps this is the shining accomplishment of this work:  Murakami manages to write a ersatz novel; in fact in places I wondered if he was writing a novel-parody. Not, really, for political or ideological reasons, but just because of an uncommon want to go against novel standards.  What are novel standards? Oh, any English literature class could delineate them. The usual structure and elements that the average reader might expect to find in the construction of a novel. I would say most of those items are an illusion here.  The characters in this novel are all unnamed. Well, there are, I think, two or three names, but they are nicknames. The main character, who narrates the story, is unnamed.  I think this is significant because it keeps a rather strong human impulse to categorize, name, organize, just outside of the grasp of the reader. There are plenty of other books that do not use names, though.

There is no plot in this novel. I think there are efforts online wherein readers have sort of cobbled together what they think the plot could be. However, as a reader who has read a couple of books, if I think on the matter and am really honest, there is no plot. Things happen, the main character does things and things happen to and around him. However, this is probably the neatest thing about the book:  its the illusion that there is a plot.  In reality, the events of the novel are not really related, purposeful, or relevant. However, the reader gets the very strong impression that there is a plotline and there is a story and things are happening for a reason. That there is no such thing is very curious and indeed Murakami should be praised for such a slick, sleight-of-hand writing.

It is quite a remarkable novel because it seems to have all of those elements that make the best novels. Readers are entertained and convinced there is a storyline – we meet creepy strangers, interesting props that might have relevance to a story, there are possibilities for all sorts of symbolism – but similar to a true dream-state, none of the scenes have any meaning. Perhaps it is better to say, they do not have immediate, obvious meaning as installed by the author. Like a dream, items surface, with vague-connections to each other, and then fall under the waves again. Events occur that feel, at the time, meaningful and significant, but in reality are just ersatz scenes that are built from the most generic of pieces.

For example, readers are very “trained” to have certain expectations with novels.  Authors create scenarios and characters for a reason – typically in service to an overall plot. So, readers of this novel are turning the pages expecting all of the threads to come together for, maybe, an “ah-hah!” moment or a resolution or a big reveal.  This really does not occur. The fact that none of that happens is, I think, where most of the readers who disliked the book developed their discomfort and dislike for the novel. A frustration or a confusion as to how all of these seemingly significant pieces remain meaningless.

As in a dream, all of the pieces seem so very familiar – the girlfriend, the business partner, the mysterious rich guy, the chauffeur, the hotel, the train, the cat. However, just like in a dream the pieces do not have the detailed depth that, let us say, exists in waking reality. So, the characters open beer cans, read letters from friends that use real language – but have no purpose, smoke endless cigarettes in a nearly hypnotic automated manner, and seem to ruminate on mediocrity.  There are a whole lot of readers out there who, after having read this book, are asking themselves (and others) about the representations.  Many readers are trying to “make sense of” the book – just like persons who have dreams, they are isolating elements and trying to “figure them out.” I read in many places readers asking: “Well, what did this mean? What did this represent? What did that symbolize?” ….because there is a deep, underlying belief that there is a purpose/meaning to each element in this story. So, similar to those who engage in dream-interpretation, there is an effort to ferret out what things mean.  I am convinced this is not a good reading of the novel.

Anyway, the novel has been called magical realism. I really do not like that terminology. I do not think it makes sense, nor do I think that people who use it could define it and ground it if they were really put to the test to do so. Not to sound Leibnizian, but my world is quite magical and wondrous and surprising – what sort of awful worlds must people exist in wherein they think a little magic and wonder is outside of the norm? Murakami, in a number of interviews or writings or wherever, mentioned some of his influences in writing. Many critics/readers have compared his writing to other literary roadmarks, yet I did not see a comparison to the one author that I think this book most feels like:  Philip K. Dick.  And I have to take a minute to snort and giggle as I imagine a literary critic referring to PKD as “magical realism.” I really cannot think of another author who so successfully – and consistently – uses reader’s realities, dreams, and perspectives as a playground.

Overall, I have to say that I enjoyed this experience.  I had no idea whatsoever what to expect from this book. I was entertained and engaged – the pages flipped rapidly and I had whatever amount of interest in the characters/scenes/plot that I could develop.  There are occasional lines of wit that helped keep my interest. For example:

I lit up a cigarette and ordered another whiskey.  The second whiskey is always my favorite.  From the third on, it no longer has any taste.  It’s just something to pour into your stomach. – pg. 118, chapter 16.

Well, after reading two thirds of the book, the story starts to get very strange and surreal. I think the fact that it has been such an easy-reader and has had so many familiar, but indistinct elements lulls the reader into that same dream-state so that when the magically bizarre is introduced, it hardly seems strange at all. This is very much what I experience in dreams. Everything seems normal and then even the really strange seems, somehow, normal too. I think that most readers should be sure to read this book because it is an interesting experience and I would not want readers to avoid it because they fear some “magical realism” or some “Japanese zeitgeist” in writing. Now, I can imagine most readers not being as accepting as I was of this dream-like novel, some might be angry at the lack of rigid novel features. Still, the experience is probably worth the fast-turning pages.

3 stars

P.S. Shortly after I finished this novel, someone (who has not read this book, nor was aware of anything about this book) sent me a news link to this article: https://nypost.com/2022/11/17/sheep-filmed-walking-in-circle-for-12-days-straight-in-china/    I admit, I was a bit unnerved for a moment – but like I said, magic is all part of my reality. I do not live in a dull world.

The Master of Go

After decades have gone by, I have finally read The Master of Go by Yasunari Kawabata (1899 – 1972). It was first published in 1951 and then in English in 1972.  I think I have owned my copy since 1997 or so. In fact I think I have been wanting to read it forever. However, this is one of a few select books in the galaxy that I think a reader really has to wait with infinite, inexhaustible patience to read “at the right time.” When is the “right time”?  Only the specific reader knows, but if its not the right time, the novel will be frustrating and will go undigested. Hey, this was decades in my case….

Now that I have read the novel – and at the right time – I am very glad that I read it and waited to read it this very month, this very year.  It is very much unlike all of Kawabata’s other novels that I have read.  The difference is in the subject matter, for sure, but also Kawabata’s style here seems less dramatic or on show. In a sense, I feel this is the closest we readers get to a look at Kawabata’s natural, instinctual style of writing. In contrast, in Snow Country (1956) or Thousand Cranes (1958), Kawabata is nearly flamboyant with his wordsmithing as compared to this novel. In those novels Kawabata seems to write effortlessly and with flourishes and a subtle, but well-earned smugness.  Not so here.  In The Master of Go the writing is spare and unadorned. Of course the structure of the novel is entirely different as well.

The structure is somewhat a fictionalized account of a 1938 game of Go that Kawabata himself reported on. Kawabata reported on the game for two newspapers and it is remarkable to say such a thing in 2022, wherein I doubt any newspapers really matter any more and certainly would not be running segments on Go games. The novel is written in first person, as they say, from the perspective of the newspaper reporter named Uragami. How close is Uragami to Kawabata?  The novel is not one that contains the gross-level of character “personality/development” so common in fiction today. So, it really does not matter how similar Uragami is to the real Kawabata – as remembered by Kawabata years later.  After all, and this where it gets a bit sticky, it is difficult to locate this novel because it definitely does not read like Kawabata’s memoir, but it does read like Uragami’s. However, it hardly reads like some introspective rehashing. It feels “real time” as if we are in 1938 and awaiting the next move in the game.

Maybe this structure prevented Kawabata from being as artistic, let us say, with the work as he was in his other novels. To say this gives a different impression, though. It seems to imply that those other works are artistic and beautiful and this work is some piece of newspaper article. No, the distinction between the works is not as sharp as that.

Chapters 12 and 28 are the most important, in my mind, chapters in the book.  They are the ones wherein Kawabata does not simply report on the game, but actually touches upon the relevance of Go to Japanese culture, of the supposed clash between two shifting eras of culture, of people’s varying responses to Go and similar activities. These are not lengthy chapters full of discourse and meandering, though. Just brief interludes that open the door for Kawabata to consider all of these things while we wait for the next Go session.

Hon’inbō Shūsai (1874 – 1940) is the master in this novel. He was, of course, a real historical Go master as well. In some sense, however his character is described in this novel versus the more historical reports, it is something that Kawabata renders almost meaningless. The Shusai of the novel is the one Kawabata has remolded for humanity.  His opponent was Minoru Kitani (1909 – 1975). It seems that the character of the novel, Otake is similar in some respects to Minoru Kitani, but seems a bit more agitated and unsettled.  Otake’s unsettledness is contrasted with the relative busy-calmness of the Master.  Otake’s agitation also disturbs the reader. It can be a little difficult to remain neutral in this matchup because Otake seems to be such a difficult opponent – just in his bearing and nervous energy.

I think that many readers come to this novel with expectations and are annoyed when those expectations are not met.  It is not entirely their fault, the publisher and media lead readers to believe this is a novel about a game and we are going to get into the nitty-gritty details of things. I do not think any knowledge of Go is necessary to truly enjoy this novel and I do not think I had any difficulty at all with the technical Go aspects. Kawabata did not write an instruction manual or even a game commentary. The profundity and wisdom in this novel is not heavy-handed and there is not any moralizing about the context of the game. Kawabata ends the novel as it begins, dry and matter-of-fact.

The entire novel is Kawabata saying that one time, this significant game happened. It played out over months and months and he reported on it like a combat reporter. Some of it was dull, some he did not comprehend. At some points, though, it was too tense and he would leave the scene in order to get his thoughts together. It was significant to whom it was significant. It happened. It mattered. It might still matter, but that is not Kawabata’s role or argument.  I do think it was a key moment in Kawabata’s life – perhaps influencing him in a myriad of ways.

Minoru Kitani had a cerebral hemorrhage in 1954 and he died in 1975. The Master of Go was published in 1951 and I have no idea if he read Kawabata’s work or not. I would assume so and I would be curious as to his authentic – not second-hand – thoughts on the matter.

Readers need to read this at the right time, whenever that is for them.  I do not think it is true that because it is a novel about a game that it therefore would interest those interested in board games. This is not that sort of book. This book also demands a patient and steady reader. This book is just over 180 pages and could be read in an afternoon, but I do not think that one should. I think that literally goes against the months-long timeline of the novel. Gobbling this one would ruin it. Similarly, if a reader has any sort of shortened attention span, they probably, really, will struggle with this. Not just reading it, but understanding it, I suppose. I think it is probably among Kawabata’s best, but that does not mean we readers like it the best.

3 stars

The Voice and Other Stories

The Voice by Seicho Matsumoto (1909 – 1992) is a collection of six short crime stories.  This is the first I have read by him, but I absolutely would read everything by him based on how much I enjoyed this collection. I think the height of popularity for him was in the 1960s/1970s.  In 1952 he was the winner of the Akutagawa Prize.

This collection was just the sort of fiction that I enjoy.  One of the characteristics is that the writing is perfectly balanced – like a nice gravy. Yeah, that is an odd thing to use, I know, but hear me out.  Most gravies/sauces are too salty, too fatty, too pungent, too potent, too sweet! Every once in a while, though, you get the joy of a perfectly balanced sauce that is blended, vibrant, and balanced.  There is no one flavor or seasoning that is overpowering. The whole thing is complementary of whatever else is being eaten. In the case of these stories, I felt Matsumoto’s writing was utterly balanced:  he absolutely had the correct scaling between giving us a robust and well-formed story and not over-writing every aspect.  The writing was excellent for short stories.

The genre of crime fiction and noir stories really matches Matsumoto’s writing skills here. At the heart of each story is not some complicated situation with many actors and many victims and misdirects and red herrings. The stories here are from situations in everyday life.  Although there are a few points that rely on coincidence, most of these stories are so ordinary as to be rather boring – were it not for the skill in telling them.

• Kyohansha – 1965 – The Accomplice – 5 stars
• Kao – 1959 – The Face – 5 stars
• Chiho-shi o kau Onna – 1959 – The Serial – 5 stars
• Sosa Kengai no Joken – 1959 – Beyond All Suspicion – 5 stars
• Koe – 1959 – The Voice – 4 stars
• Kanto-ku no Onna – 1960 – The Woman Who Wrote Haiku – 4 stars

The first story, The Accomplice, was stressing me out as I read it. I am a silly, basic reader and I kept shaking my head as I read because the main character’s choices were digging him deeper into the scenario and it was all because of a choice he had made a long time ago that was haunting him and tormenting him.  Now, I am quite sure, many readers would scoff at my tension caused by this character.  But there is no defense, Matsumoto knew how to get his story to resonate with my reading style, I guess. Character Hikosuke was a man who created his own demise, but he made me worry about him and his errors. Without a doubt, I gave this story five stars because unlike so many stories I read, it engaged me quite a bit – and without using exaggerated writing tricks.

The Face has some similar elements to the first story – the main character is, again, the cause of his own struggles. The perspectives of characters and the skewed decisions based on such perspective drive both of these rather mundane storylines. In this story, there are some detectives that really bring the plot to life.  I like Matsumoto’s detectives, because they are not the superhuman Poirots and they are not the pompous Nero Wolfs.  There is a fantastic scene that takes place in a restaurant in Kyoto – an imobo (kind of a yam based dish…) restaurant – that caused my heart to palpitate.  It was so subtly written and yet so immersive.

The Serial started off with such an everyday and mundane beginning that I was sure that it was not going to meet the level of the previous stories. But I was wrong! First of all, I really enjoyed the brief thoughts about newspapers that used to print serial fiction. (Maybe, in a few years, I will simply be reminiscing about a thing called newspapers!) I enjoyed this one a lot because it also played on the characters’ assumptions and perspectives. I really liked the inclusion of some of the details and the way the plot built. The main character is trapped in a situation, so, of course, I pity the character.

Beyond All Suspicion was one of the longer stories, but it kept my interest the full length. Again, a character finds himself in an unfortunate situation and does not make the best choices. He chooses revenge and thinks he can outwit everyone. Poor, miserable character. As a revenge tale it works really well because it demonstrates a revenge that is long-in-coming and not some hot-headed slash-up.  It also contains a bunch of noir elements like nighttime bars, banks, taxi-cabs, and a silly song that becomes an integral part of the story.

The last two stories are the ones I gave only four stars.  I felt that The Voice started off very interesting and super noir.  However, the second part (there are two parts to this one) got a bit too convoluted, though the detective team involved really do keep the reader informed throughout the investigation. I just felt the resolution was a bit too complicated. Or, maybe “complicated” is not the most accurate word here. Perhaps I just did not like the way it all worked out. I think that is accurate.  I felt badly for the victim; she had a lot of nonsense in her life that it does not seem she deserved – plus, she was one of us:  a fellow reader!  Similarly with The Woman Who Wrote Haiku – wow, this was quite a sad story.  The crime was entirely imaginable, though. It was difficult to not feel sad for the poor woman we readers never actually met.  I supposed we ought to be somewhat glad that there were these interested parties (members of a Haiku magazine) who solved the crime.

Easily some of the best stories I have read in this year. The style of writing is exactly what I enjoy and the crime/noir was neither gross nor over-done.  Nothing was exaggerated, nothing was unnecessary. I do not re-read a lot of fiction, but I do think that I could re-read these stories.  I wish I could get my hands on all of the author’s fiction, because he has a lot of skill that makes reading his stuff an enjoyable experience.

5 stars

Of Dogs and Walls

Due to the temperature being 109° F, I have been indoors this past week more than I normally would be. I am outdoors a lot, but even I know better than to make myself so miserable in this heat. This has given me opportunity to read a lot more during the daytime than usual and I have a tbr mountain that makes me feel ashamed. Today I was able to read the tiny book in the Penguin Modern series Of Dogs and Walls, which contains two stories by Yuko Tsushima. The little book is only 65 pages and is the 43rd in the set of 50 similar books by Penguin. It was published in 2018, the whole set was finished being released by 2019, I think, and could be purchased in a box set. I am not exactly sure what the editors were going with for this particular set – blurbs on the Penguin site speak of “pioneering” modern writers, etc.

Yuko Tsushima is the penname of Satoko Tsushima (1947 – 2016).  She is the second daugher of the famous author Osamu Dazai (1909 – 1948). Dazai and his extra-marital interest committed drowning suicide in the Tamagawa Aqueduct.  

The first story in this book, The Watery Realm, was originally published in 1982.  It very much so is an exploration and coming-to-terms with her father’s death. The wildly creepy and unnerving fact that most readers might not be aware of is that in 1985, Tsushima’s young son drowned in a bathtub accidentally. This is the last paragraph of The Watery Realm:

Ah, that reminds me. I have to tell my five-year-old about the Dragon Palace – to tell him that, somewhere in the deep, the original of that underwater castle he’s so proud of surely exists.  There, as colorful fish tickle the tips of their noses, the folk we long to see again sleep the sleep in which a hundred days are a hundred years. – pg.30

I do not know exactly what to say about this paragraph and the future unhappy drowning. At best I can describe my face as having a suspicious and incredulous look on it, maybe with shades of “yikes!”   I really love this paragraph at the end of the story, though. I like the off-hand manner in which the narrator is thinking of the deep [pun intended] topic. 

Overall, I liked this first piece better of the two. But, since I have a strong connection to water, that makes sense. In both stories the author writes fluidly [heh!] and the edges blend. What edges? The clearly defined borders of characters, of time, of space. In some points it feels like a stream of consciousness. And that hazy fuzziness really works for this particular story in which family members seem sickeningly close and yet completely estranged.

I loved the last paragraph of the first story and I loved the usage of the umbrella. This is subtle and mysterious and skillful writing.

If it’s still raining when she starts for home again, she will take her umbrella. Sometimes it will have stopped and she’ll leave the umbrella with her daughter. That umbrella disturbs and frightens her daughter, while she herself is disturbed and frightened at having forgotten it. When it’s nothing, really. When it really doesn’t mean a thing. – pg. 12

I really also like this paragraph. Its in the middle of the story and its yet another voice, besides the mother or the daughter and it just resonated with me because things can be so aggravating and disturbing and yet meaningless. 

The second piece in this small text is the title entry, Of Dogs and Walls.  It was one of Tsushima’s later works, published in 2014 in the magazine Shincho. There are a lot of similarities between both of the stories, so I can definitely see how a Penguin Editor might have known they go together, though they were written so many decades apart.  The main one being the relationship and viewpoints of the female characters; mothers and daughters to be specific. The mothers in both stories seem incomprehensible, but also utterly transparent.  These are hardened women, not ones you would cross. They are left behind and “on their own.”  They are also maybe slightly mad because of this.  

Both stories are of a close radius. But I do not think I was able to get the resounding significance of the dog and the wall like I was able to internalize and comprehend the water and the umbrella. 

I think that Penguin liked selecting these stories – not solely because they are quite interesting works, but also because a female Japanese author was an excellent “diverse” pick for their collection. They are not wrong.  However, I think a lot of readers will zero in on the fact that Tsushima is largely writing about marginalized or forgotten women and then slap a “feminist” label on her and her works.  I am absolutely no expert in these matters, but I think to do so would be to really build a barrier (a wall?) around Tsushima and also her characters.  I would not want her stories to drown in the ogreish designs of insensitive readership.

One question I am very curious about is how deeply, frequently, and extensively Tsushima read or studied her father’s works. Did she have nothing much to do with them? Or were they often pawed through and wrestled with? Or maybe she was utterly indifferent to them? I think she has one daughter and that is who we would have to ask. Yes, it would probably be apropos to have to ask Tsushima’s daughter about Tsushima’s relationship with her father’s literary works.

Recommend for quite advanced readers and for those who enjoy dream-like streams of slice-of-life. I would like to give the first story 4 stars and the second 2 stars; so here we end at 3 stars.

3 stars

Japanese Gothic Tales

“Japanese Gothic Tales” – Izumi Kyoka; University of Hawai’i Press, 1996

I read this collection of four stories by Izumi Kyoka (1873 – 1939) in April 2020. I decided to read this because, honestly, I was avoiding the next (chronological) novel by Yukio Mishima. This book caught my eye and I decided to read it. The author is considered a major writer of modern Japan; there is even a prize for literature that is in his name given by his home city:  Izumi Kyoka Prize for Literature (Izumi Kyouka Bungaku Shou).  He was a contemporary of Junichiro Tanizaki, Nagai Kafu, and Natsume Soseki.

This particular collection, with its title “Japanese Gothic Tales” is edited by Charles Shiro Inouye.  Inouye wrote his dissertation on Kyoka at Harvard and his deep knowledge of Kyoka shows in his extensive introduction as-well-as the end notes that serve as a brief textual analysis at the end of the book.  This book was first published in 1996 by the University of Hawai’i Press and Inouye also provides the dates for each of the four stories contained in the book.  However, I do not recall Inouye sharing why these four stories were specifically selected for this collection. Inouye also does not provide a bibliography of the author’s works. Inouye might have included one in his 1998 work The Similitude of Blossoms: A Critical Biography of Izumi Kyoka (1873–1939), Japanese Novelist and Playwright, which I do not own.

Inouye starts his introduction to this book by bringing up a comparison of Kyoka and Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849). Inouye builds his discussion upon the notion of “Gothic.” Personally, I think Inouye must be very brave to make this his point of departure because, I think, in literary studies “gothic” has so many interpretations, some narrow and some wide-open, that anyone bringing the term up must also be ready to defend their usage. Its overused and often ill-used as a term/genre, in my not-so-humble opinion. However, Inouye was brave enough to use the term even in the title of the collection, so he must feel it brings some value to the collection.  As this is really my first foray into Kyoka’s writings, and because I am a novice in Japanese literary theory (if even that!), I know better than to make any further assertions on whether Inouye is making strong arguments or not. This is my way of saying, in this review I use all the terminology very loosely and tentatively.

Kyoka’s stories here collected are:

• The Surgery Room (Gekashitsu, 1895)
• The Holy Man of Mount Koya (Koya hijiri, 1900)
• One Day in Spring (Shunshu / Shunshu gokoku, 1906)
• Osen and Sokichi (Baishoku kamonanban, 1920)

All four of these stories feature elements that a reader might classify as Gothic.  For example, the usage and reiteration of specific colors (especially red), beings that are not what they seem, scenes in hospitals, clergy/religious individuals, forlorn romance, and fantastic components. If, as suggested by Inouye, there is any valid comparison between Poe and Kyoka on their place in Gothic literature, it seems to me that Inouye is more pastoral and poetic than Poe. That really does not have a whole lot of meaning, other than my stating my reader reaction to this collection. It is basically my saying that in these four stories I did not find the outright horror that is sometimes associated with Poe’s work.

The damp and sweaty plum blossoms nearby, a flame ready to flutter away into the crimson sunset, swayed brilliantly with the chatter of small birds. – pg 73 (One Day in Spring)

I see why Inouye put the first and last stories as bookends, so to speak, in this collection. They actually balance each other and work well in this collection even though they were written twenty-five years apart. It is interesting because the core of each of these stories, a sort of failed and forlorn romance, culminates in a hospital room with surgeons. And I know it seems that I am leaving something out, or as if I did not finish my thought, but that is precisely how Kyoka wrote these stories. The endings are unfinished, that is to say, they are as far as they need to go and Kyoka has the strength and bravery to let the reader come to whatever conclusion they very well like. It is not quite the same as saying that the stories are incomplete, although one might accuse me of playing semantic games here. I just mean, the stories are as complete as they need to be, whether there is a traditional “…and this is what happened. The End.” stamped on them or not.

Obviously I do not know how these stories sound and feel in their original language. However, in English, they have an extremely fragmentary feel, but not as jarring as they might be because the near-poetic wordsmithing seems to smooth out fragmented pieces. All of the stories are written as if it was a sleeper awoken who might be retelling their dreams and the linear cause and effect of reality, utterly absent in dreams, causes them to just move from scene to scene without worrying about all the pesky academic details. The reader who only enjoys very clear-cut and straightforward writing will not like these stories; I daresay they would be frustrated and find the stories to be incoherent.

The four stories involve mysterious, inscrutable women, clergymen or surgeons, and odd moments of nature in the scenes. In the first story there is a segment where Kyoka must tell us the azaleas are in bloom. The second story is magnificent for its descriptions of nature; in particular a frightful, deep forest in the mountains.  The third story has a kigo (seasonal word) right in its title (Spring) and devotes long sections to describing rapeseed fields/blossoms. The fourth story has intense imagery describing rains, mud, and the moon.

“…the woman wore thick, lacquered clogs, fastened with wisteria-colored thongs and splashed with mud.” – pg. 141 (Osen and Sokichi)

At the end of the day, I really won’t care much about the stories for the plots. I do not actually feel like the characters were all that important either. I give the shortest of the four stories the highest marks, because it is so abrupt and disturbing and poignant. The second story is remarkable not for any character or plot, but I want to sit down with J. R. R. Tolkien and also Terry Brooks (author of The Sword of Shannara, 1977) and I want to talk about, really talk about, those forest scenes and those descriptions. I will remember this story for its images of nature. The third story is the weakest of the bunch. I really feel that Kyoka wanted the reader to get something from this, maybe a sense of third-party witnessing unrequited love? or something? but the story gets really meandering – just like its main character. The descriptions of water, though, are well done. Finally, the last story, with its weird focus on eyebrows is the strangest of the four. However, I feel it probably best explains a lot of Kyoka as a person and as a writer and the topics that were significant to him and his work.

Do I know what these stories were all about? Honestly, no, not really. But that does not mean that they are crap or I am stupid. “One Day in Spring” is a story retold in ‘onion layers’ – a previous traveler told segments to a temple priest, who is telling segments currently to a traveler, who somehow can be discussed by a narrator, as well. Its not easy to follow.  Still, I really feel like the value in this collection is in the unique manner of storytelling and sudden vivid descriptions. This is not, however, some pretty collection of nature poems; there is plenty of “Gothic” material here:  death, fear, misery, and deformity.  Therefore, this collection is for very strong readers.

3 stars

The Temple of the Golden Pavilion

“The Temple of the Golden Pavilion” – Yukio Mishima

This is actually the second time I read this novel. But since one cannot step into the same river twice, I suppose, this is also my “first” time reading “this” novel. Written by Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970), it was published in Japan in 1956 and was translated into English in 1959. I read the Vintage International edition, translated by Ivan Morris.  It is a literary fictional re-telling of the life of Hayashi Yōken, a Zen Buddhist Acolyte, the arsonist who burned down the original Kinkakuji (Temple of the Golden Pavilion). Hayashi Yōken committed this horrible act in 1950 and six years later, this novel was published.

The main overarching point that I want to assert regarding all of this is that no other author in the universe ought to have written this novel. Yukio Mishima is precisely the one that would, could, and did write this. Allegedly, Mishima met with the young monk once the monk was imprisoned. Somehow this is accepted as near-fact, though, I do wonder how Mishima was allowed this access?  I do not doubt he was, though. Mishima was enigmatic, overwhelming, significant. He was also a member of the samurai class; even if this was already 1950.

Take note, I think if all the dates can be trusted, Mishima was nearly the same age as the young acolyte – allegedly, Hayashi Yōken was 22, Mishima was 25.

Mishima was not one who would stop a rumor, I suppose, were one to circulate. But he might be pleased to give contradictory reports, just to see what would happen. He seemed to enjoy the spotlight, but also knew to keep his cards close and covered. The alleged interview with the mad monk may have been worthless and useless. Or it may have be everything. Or, most likely, it was nothing to most people, but everything to Mishima’s insightful, perceptive, literary eye.  All of this is to say, this could be one-hundred percent rubbish created by Mishima who enjoyed making idols and knocking them down and shocking his readership. It could also be totally peppered with truths and the reader is at a loss for any tools to distinguish what is true and what is not.

Hardly could there be another author who would dare and who would care in the same way as Mishima to write this notorious novel of this national tragedy. Not to mention, using some of the material of the story for esoteric considerations of beauty and nihilism. So, when it is all said and done, I am not entirely sure what Mishima actually thought of the event. It was horrible and shocking and he loved that it occurred because of its horror, is what I think.

Moving from Mishima to history and the temple itself, it should be noted that this event occurred not too distant from WWII. The Nanking Massacre started in 1937, the Pearl Harbor attack was in 1941, and, of course, the Hiroshima bomb in 1945.  While the boy was likely isolated to an extent by his life at the temple, the war doubtlessly crept into every nook and cranny and had profound effects on everyone.

My concern, what confronted me with my real problem, was beauty alone. But I do not think that the war affected me by filling my mind with gloomy thoughts.  When people concentrate on the idea of beauty, they are, without realizing it, confronted with the darkest thoughts that exist in this world.  – pg. 48

The temple known as Kinkakuji was originally built in 1400 or so. And after the young acolyte committed arson, it was painstakingly rebuilt and it is likely rebuilt to restore the original glory of the early temple, and not simply that of the 1950s. I think that even as recent as the early 2000s, highly detailed repairs were being completed. I would be interested to know if Mishima knew of these efforts, what he thought of them, etc.

Mishima changes the name of the acolyte to Mizoguchi, a boy afflicted with a serious stutter who is also the son of a Buddhist priest. Hayashi Yōken was allegedly diagnosed with schizophrenia and eventually died from tuberculosis. Mishima has Mizoguchi narrate this story.  As a narrator, Mizoguchi is entirely self-centered and self-occupied.  If this is something that Mishima intended, I do not know. However, it is difficult to truly sympathize or empathize with Mizoguchi, although he often seems simple and awkward enough to merit some mitigation for his thoughts/actions.

“For what purpose do I live? At such thoughts people feel uneasy and even kill themselves. . . Just to exist was more than enough to satisfy me.  In the first place, doesn’t uneasiness about one’s existence spring precisely from a sort of luxurious dissatisfaction at the thought that one may not be living fully?” – pg. 100

Readers who may take an interest in this story because they want to watch the development of Mizoguchi; from a young boy with his ill father, to an acolyte obsessed with the Temple, to a madman with a nihilistic spark [sic!], will be disappointed. The slope that Mishima takes us on is not steep and daring and breakneck.  If such development is present, it is very subtle. The story is indeed told in episodic fashion, mainly in a variety of relationships that Mizoguchi has with his Superior at the Temple, his fellow acolytes, and his fellow schoolmates.

Many of the episodes that Mizoguchi undergoes are, in a sense, difficult to read through.  He is not a comfortable individual and it seems that he is unable to discern the normal from the abnormal. Bizarre situations fascinate him and affect him strongly.  Mishima suggests that Mizoguchi is a fully-aware of the evilness or sin in his actions.  Mizoguchi seems, at points, to revel in the sin, to perform the evil action just to bring evil into the world – as if it is a thing of beauty. The way Mishima presents all of this is weird, because Mizoguchi does not seem to want to commit any particular sin for the sake of that sin. Instead, he just wants to do anything evil, any sort of immoral act will suffice.

Was one obliged to pay back one’s debts in the face of a world catastrophe?  I was tempted to give Kashiwagi the tiniest hint of what was in my mind, but I stopped myself – pg. 208

Kashiwagi is a character possessed of a big personality that strongly affects Mizoguchi. Its clear that Kashiwagi is a toxic relationship for the young acolyte, even if Mizoguchi is unable to discern this.  If Mizoguchi had toyed with self-loathing feelings and dabbled in a variety of profanities, it is after Kashiwagi’s influence that Mizoguchi embraces the truly destructive. Mishima likes to juxtapose these two characters and both and neither are his some-time mouthpiece throughout the novel.

“Why does the Golden Temple try to protect me?  Why does it try to separate me from life without asking it?  Of course it may be that the temple is saving me from falling into hell. But by so doing, the Golden Temple is making me even more evil than those people who actually do fall into hell, it is making me into ‘the man who knows more about hell than anyone.’ ” – pg. 153

Unfortunately, Mizoguchi’s obsession with the Temple seems to cloud his judgment and he is unable to discern who or what is influencing him.  To top it off, he has no close confidants or role models to look toward.  There is no one to turn to in the hopes of pulling him back onto a better path.  So the question is not always “what is the evil influence?” but sometimes:  “why can’t Mizoguchi find, create, and maintain close relationships?”  Of course Mizoguchi would tell us it is due to his stutter. Sometimes he believes the Temple – and all that it represents – forms a blockade between himself and others.

There are definite sordid and profane moments in this novel.  Mishima likes to look at the concepts of evil, beauty, war, religion, relationships and show them both at their best and worst. Sometimes Mishima comes across as quite nasty.  At other points, Mishima seems to crave purity and and beauty more than anyone. This book is not for gentle readers.  It is not an easy read – even just textually, though there are only ten chapters in this novel, there are several whole chapters that really slog, especially when Mishima allows Mizoguchi’s mental meanderings to go wide-open.  It can get boring and rambling.  Nevertheless, though I have read this twice, I don’t like this book. But I know I will probably re-read it in the future. Its a good book that is really tough to enjoy.

2 stars

Thousand Cranes

Thousand Cranes by Yasunari Kawabata (1899 – 1972) was published in 1952 and in English in 1958. It is the second Yasunari Kawabata novel that I have read. I disliked his main characters, however, in this novel they do seem to possess a measure of realism. I felt that the characters in Snow Country were not realistic. While this is a speedy read, one can finish it in a day, it is not really an easy story to penetrate. There is a great deal of native culture within that can keep non-Japanese readers at bay. Further, this entire novel is very much focused on human interrelationships and their responses to each other. For some readers, this could be challenging.

Wikipedia’s entry, in very forthright style, explains precisely what this book is about. This means this, that means that. And while some of that is probably true, I think there are deeper and more complex interpretations possible.

The storyline, the characters, and the other general dimensions of the novel were not anything I was particularly drawn to. It is quite a dramatic work and does not immediately appeal to any of my major interests. As I mentioned above, this work is very heavily focused on human relationships. The defect is in me, clearly, because I am usually disinterested and bored and even confused by novels like this. Autistic. Russian. I have a hard time with some aspects of stuff in this genre. All of this being said, though, I will admit wholeheartedly and very profusely that in this novel, Kawabata’s skills are on showcase. In a sense, I feel this is almost a brag novel – Kawabata knows he is that good of a writer and he is showing off. He is an excellent novelist and even if this particular storyline does not appeal to everyone – the skill with which it is written is undeniable.

Do not suppose, however, that this novel is arrogant or that it is over-the-top with writerly flourishes.  Perhaps in its minimalist oh-so-Tanizaki/Japanese manner, it is precisely what it needs to be:  no more and no less; and Kawabata deserves all the praise he gets for it.  He proves himself an acutely aware, highly sensitive, perfectly edited, writer. He is a master-writer.

Layered upon the story are tea ceremony items and elements of Japanese aesthetics, specifically pottery. This would be best understood by someone with familiarization with such topics. To some readers, the frivolous and fastidious obsession with which tea bowl to use, which vase, what tokonoma flower, may seem massively tedious. I was able to assimilate my personal cultural experiences fairly easily and completely empathize with the discussions of the tea items etc. To some people, such concerns seem “petty” or “decorative” as opposed to practical. The tea ceremony is such a THING, though, that I hardly know what to say about it. From its origins, to all of its iterations throughout history, and from the praises of it, to those who scorn it… whatever one thinks of it, it is not something to merely hand wave at.  Yet, I struggle to discuss it.  Regardless, if someone were to ask me about the tea ceremony, I do think I would recommend that they read this book. It sort of provides a situation for the whole process without directly confronting it.

Like the back of book says: “a luminous story of desire, regret, and the almost sensual nostalgia that binds the living to the dead.” Again, this is going to be felt more by a reader who can assimilate certain cultural/religious aspects. This blurb accurately describes the novel. But I liked all the smaller points, symbolism of water, of mould, of the thousand cranes. And more than anything, the very subtle presentation of old Japan crashing with modern Japan.

The symbolism in this work is significant and excellently written. And while I dislike the main character, Kikuji Mitani, even I could not help but be caught up in some of the sensitivities Mitani faces and is caught up in.  The dispositions and inheritances (both in objects and relationships) that befall him from his deceased father are mighty and certainly not pristine “black and white” dichotomies.

This is a very good novel. I think I took it for granted as I was reading it and only afterwards was I able to process how good a work it is. I think it is a written by a master writer, but the storyline itself does not interest me at all. Three stars is a very good rating for a plot that I was uninterested in…….  Recommended for all fans of Japanese literature, students of the tea ceremony, ikebana scholars, and readers of quality literature.

3 stars

Bullfight

Bullfight is one of Yasushi Inoue’s (1907 – 1991) early works. This story won Inoue the Akutagawa Prize in 1949. It is definitely not for every reader, but there are many who will be able to appreciate it. As is expected with his writing, the plot and the story are not thrillers. In another review of another of his works, I described his stories as haunting and mundane. I think that is still true. While the storylines are not outrageous and unusual, the way in which they are written can be haunting. The setting is enveloping and the characters are very realistic.

Entitled “Bullfight” and yes, there is a bullfight (a sort of bracket tournament among actual bulls), the bullfight itself is a minor element in the story. The story focuses on newspaperman Tsugami and his efforts to stage this bullfight in post-war Osaka. The novel portrays the struggles that take place before the actual bullfight. I love this Pushkin Press edition that I read because it has a good feel to it and there is a nice black and white photo of Inoue on the first page.  The cover art is by artist Ping Zhu ( https://www.pingszoo.com ) who’s work I am discovering that I highly enjoy.

The concept of a bullfight in this context is entirely different from the more well-known Spanish bullfighting. Readers are probably more familiar with the Spanish forms wherein humans compete against bulls – matadors and picadores taunt, wound, and evade the bull.  The bullfighting in Inoue’s story is traditional to the Ryukyu Islands and is better translated a “bull wrestling” or “bull sumo.”  Bulls are pitted against other bulls and the contest is similar to sumo wrestling in which one contestant attempts to wrestle/push the other from the ring.

The true bullfight tournament in this novel may not really be between the bulls. It may be between the main character and his business partner. Or the main character and his girlfriend. Or between the Japan of what was and what could be. Or even symbolizing the concepts of Success and Greed and Failure and Resignation. Or, in the most radical interpretation, between Tsugami and his own Self. There are many ways this story, in its utter mundanity could be interpreted.

Inoue writes as if putting his scenes and characters on a microscope – and it seems he turns the knob and zooms, zooms in – until the we are focused on the character’s reactions to their daily lives. Facial expressions. The way they smoke their cigarette. Their posture. We do not get to see extraordinary characters in unusual situations. Instead, we see realistic characters in intensely portrayed realistic situations. And when it rains, we feel the raindrops. When they pour tea, we see the steam from the cup.

The supporting cast is both a reflection and a competition for Tsugami. His girlfriend Sakiko provides the only exterior view of Tsugami in the story, so she is a vital component to the novel. Mirua Yoshinosuke, president of Toyo Pharmaceuticals, provides an almost dopplegänger-like challenge to Tsugami.

He was a young man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with long sideburns and a red necktie in a large, loose knot; he had the affected air of someone in the film world – an assistant director, perhaps – but he exhibited a certain drive as he rose, an unmistakable energy, like that of a sportsman meeting an opponent. – pg. 79

This little description has an awesome, subtle clue in it that may or may not relate to the very last page of the book, in which the result of the bullfight is mentioned. As the reader follows the various struggles that Tsugami faces in order to put on this show, each character that he is forced to deal with presents some facet of his own personality. It is interesting for the reader to consider Tsugami’s relationships with each of the other characters. Mirua’s seemingly successful status versus that of Okabe’s is the contrast that I most enjoyed.

For strong readers and for fans of Japanese literature.

3 stars

Devils in Daylight

Devils in Daylight by Junichiro Tanizaki (1886 – 1965) was first written in 1918, but not published in English until 2017. I read this 2017 New Directions edition translated by J. Keith Vincent. I had previously read Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows (1933) – his very important, but short, nonfiction essay. Devils in Daylight is really, from what I understand, representative of all things Tanizaki – even if it is one of his earlier pieces. It contains all the elements and themes that Tanizaki is usually associated with. The first key item to be mentioned is Tanizaki’s being impressed with all things modern and/or Western culture early in his life. This is probably one of the main reasons that this book is nearly an homage to, or a reworking of, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Gold Bug (1843).

I strongly recommend having familiarized oneself with Poe’s work before reading Devils in Daylight. There are so many parallels and also allusions and references that the reader would be shortchanging their reading experience by skipping the Poe work. Tanizaki’s work is highly influenced by The Gold Bug, though I would hesitate to say “based on.” The main character in Devils in Daylight, Sonomura, is nearly exactly the character in Poe’s work, William Legrand.

I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens… – The Gold Bug, E. A. Poe.

Tanizaki basically tells the reader that Poe’s work is necessary reading. Sonomura is talking to his only friend, the narrator:

He suddenly doubled over and cackled with laughter, whereupon he continued, with immense self-satisfaction, like some insufferable scholar showing off his vast learning.

“I take it you have not read Poe’s famous story ‘The Gold Bug.’ Anyone who had read it would recognize these symbols immediately.”

Sadly, I had only read two or three of Poe’s stories.  I had heard of one with the title “The Gold Bug,” but I had no idea what it was about. – pg. 15

So much for the proofs needed for reading The Gold Bug.  Devils in Daylight begins by Sonomura telephoning Takahashi (the narrator) in mid-morning insisting that Takahashi come over to his house immediately. Takahashi is a writer and had spent a sleepless night with his pen in his hand trying to finish a serial novel for a magazine. Sonomura says:

“Later tonight, at around one o’clock, in a certain part of Tokyo, a crime. . . a homicide will be performed. I want to get ready now and go see it happen, and I want you to go as well. . . . But I want to watch it happen, in secret, without any of those involved knowing that I am there.  And I would feel a lot better about it if you came with me.  Doesn’t that sound more enjoyable than staying home writing a novel?” – pg. 9

Straightaway Tanizaki shows his hand and gives the reader all the usual themes that he is known for.  Sonomura expresses a desire to watch a crime – in secret. And then there is the juxtaposition between writing and watching and performing that rolls through the entire novel.

The novel is rather short – only 87 pages. I do not want to quote or comment too much about what the storyline actually contains.  This sort of noir-esque novel can be spoiled easily, although the crime and mystery is not really the strong part of this novel.  The excellence of this work comes from the finely-tuned writing that describes the narrator’s experiences. Using only as much as needed, Tanizaki carefully shows the reader the entirety of the story without burdening him with too many words, concepts, and descriptions.

Throughout the novel, Takahashi remains tired and sleepless. The few hours of sleep that he manages to get is punctuated by interruptions from Sonomura and images that disturb Takahashi’s psyche.  Takahashi’s tiredness provides this neat feeling to an already noir story. It also provides Takahashi a small excuse for not thinking/judging perfectly throughout.

The element of a femme-fatale is present in this story and the reader should appreciate her mysteriousness and her effectiveness. This is a theme that Tanizaki returns to quite often in his works. In this work, the femme-fatale may or may not be a geisha – which neatly juxtaposes the Western concept of femme-fatale with the Japanese-rooted geisha archetype.  More than simply using certain symbols and elements over and over, Tanizaki utilizes these elements to demonstrate the tension he feels and observes between Western and Eastern cultures. Hopefully reviewers will forgive this possible spoiler:  it seems that in this novel Tanizaki (as well as Sonomura and Takahashi) do not view geishas as capable of being femme-fatales – a point that is an intriguing insight into Tanizaki’s understanding of Japanese culture.

The ending might aggravate some readers – particularly ones who do not appreciate certain literary chess moves. Throughout the novel it is difficult to know whether one likes or hates Sonomura. By the end, I think readers will be even more suspicious of Sonomura (and by default, William Legrand) than anything. The title of the novel, for me, made no sense originally, but then at the end, I decided who the devils were and they are, indeed, also in daylight.

I recommend this to noir-fiction fans, readers of Japanese literature, and also Poe fanatics. I enjoyed this work and definitely will be reading more Tanizaki.  He has a reputation of writing some unsavory topics, so I will still attempt to be selective with what I read by him.

4 stars

The Woman in the Dunes

The Woman in the Dunes by Kobo Abe (1924 – 1993) was first published in 1962.  I read the Vintage International edition from 1991. The novel won the Yomiuri Prize. In 1964, a Japanese film by the famous Hiroshi Teshigahara was released – author Kobo Abe wrote the screenplay. The film was nominated for an Academy Award, but lost to the Italian film Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow by Vittorio De Sica.

This is probably Kobo Abe’s most famous novel. I have not read any of his other works, but I do own The Ark Sakura. I am open to reading other works by this author, but he does not interest me at the same level as some of the other super-famous authors of mid-20th Century Japanese authors. Sometimes his works are classified as absurdist/surreal literature, which is a genre I can sometimes devour and at other times am disinterested in.

The man intended to collect insects that lived in the dunes. – pg. 10

I enjoyed this book, and I really do appreciate what the author has shown us via sand. However, I cannot help but subtract a few points from my estimation of its rating due to a few sections of the novel.

There are dozens of ways to interpret this novel, but the erosion of the main character’s opinions via the Sisyphus-lifestyle is the overwhelming concept. The sand claims all – eventually. Survival alongside the eroding powers of the sand drives the story. The way the sand affects everything is really well done. The author very gradually traps the main character within the pit in the dunes. This is, in my opinion, the most beautiful part of the writing; the character being trapped is done so subtly and simply.

I really enjoyed the early chapters because the early interactions between the man and the woman are so very well written. In translation, the woman’s sentences are often open-ended, with ellipses or simple statements that only seem innocent:

“But somebody just said ‘for the other one.'”

“Hmm. Well, they’re referring to you.”

“To me? Why mention me in connection with a shovel . . . ?”

“Never mind. Don’t pay any attention. Really they’re so nosy!” – pg. 30

One of my favorite aspects of the novel is how the woman clearly knows what is going on and yet, is able to seem innocent. Though she knows what is happening to the man, she may or may not be powerless to stop/change it. Like the man, the reader will probably consider, in turns, the woman to be mentally challenged, an entrapping vixen, or a resigned, but dedicated villager.

The author really puts the main character through some suffering, but he also inflicts some on the reader. Readers will constantly want “justice” or “to know the reason” or “someone to accuse” through the novel. And Kobo Abe just doesn’t provide a clear and direct target for all of that. Frustrating? Maybe. Engaging? Definitely. (Probably the reason for Kafka comparisons.)

Stop looking so stupid! He was angry; he wanted to make her admit her guilt even if he had to force it out of her. – pg. 90

The subtle horror of being trapped/imprisoned for, seemingly, no reason is the key that makes this novel so vibrantly emotional. Even if I disliked parts of the novel, I have to credit the author with the ability of being able to tap into that fundamental chord in my being that I assume every human possesses, which rebels against such a circumstance. It seems it is easier to accept a prison sentence if there is a reason. But without reason or cause, without an authority or a captor to blame, without a purpose or goal – such an imprisonment is a magnitude of horror well beyond a reasonable incarceration.

For some time he concentrated on digging.  The sand was exceedingly tractable, and his work appeared to be progressing.  The sound of the shovel as it bit into the sand, and his own breathing, ticked away the time. However, at last his arms began to grow weary. He thought he had worked for a considerable time, but his digging had apparently had no results at all. Only a little bit of sand had fallen from right above where he was digging. – pg. 68

The man’s psychological state is what one might expect. He is outraged, indignant, and frustrated. He calms himself by convincing himself a rational and thoughtful method will rescue him. He dips into the violent and the desperate. He only very gradually comes to realize an outcome, which, perhaps, the woman knew from the start. The woman’s reaction to the man’s arrival, when you think about it in retrospect, contains all of the pensive understanding of what she knows he and, by connection, herself will have to undergo. Her early timidity is probably because she knows what emotional turmoil will occur – and she has to resign herself to going through the turbulence as well.  In a way, this also means that nothing the man does truly surprises her.

And what of the man’s mental state? At points he forces himself to be relatively rational. Bargaining and reasoning with his supposed captors. He also attempts “scientific” escapes and schemes. But he is also clearly disturbed because he has mental conversations with himself – or the Mobius man.  Kobo Abe even suggests, subtly, that there is an element of schizophrenia at play. Late in the novel, the man has a mental conversation with an imagined judge:

-Your Honor, I request to be told the substance of the prosecution. I request to be told the reason for my sentence.

-I am telling you that in Japan schizophrenia occurs at the rate of one out of every hundred persons. – pg. 217

And this fascinating little segment with the man conversing with himself continues to an amusing conclusion:

-Well, listen to me calmly.  Acrophobes, heroin addicts, hysterics, homicidal maniacs, syphilitics, morons – suppose there were one per cent of each of these, the total would be twenty per cent. If you could enumerate eighty more abnormalities at this rate – and of course you could – there would be statistical proof that humanity is a hundred per cent abnormal. – pg. 218

I disliked, though, the chunk at the end where the main character is told the “deal” how the villagers will let him see beyond the pit. This was weird/vulgar and destroyed a lot of good faith I had in the author. This part was the “too far” point in the writing.

Excellent in concept and writing, although the 1960s-Freudian-focus is a bit too prominent in the whole thing. Definitely for an adult readership. I appreciate the “horror” of the novel, but dislike some of the episodes. In any case, this is an excellent novel for book clubs, I think, because there is a lot to discuss about all of the various interpretations available.

3 stars