Five Modern Japanese Novelists

by Donald Keene

  In his last years, Abe was constantly battling against illness. He told me, as a great secret, that he had cancer. He hated letting people know he was unwell, and he probably was afraid of death. His classmates at medical school, now distinguished physicians, did everything possible to save his life, but (perhaps because of the treatment) he aged very markedly and tottered rather than walked. It was painful to see this. But once seated in a coffee shop, he was still fun to be with. His sense of humor, especially his wonderful irony, set him apart from any other Japanese writer I have known. He never agreed with anything I said, however innocuous. If I commented that it was hot, he was likely to prove statistically that it was unusually cool for that time of year; if I said that prices were high, he would demonstrate that they had been falling constantly. Despite his illness, Abe was as alert and funny as always, and he seems to have continued writing until shortly before his death. Several incomplete manuscripts were found in his word processor, all of them interesting and unique to Abe.

  Abe and I enjoyed each other’s company. Sometimes, when he discovered my abysmal ignorance of even the rudimentary facts of science, he would shake his head in amazement, declaring that every Japanese middle-school student was familiar with what, for me, was unknown territory. But he seemed to value my opinions on his books. At his request I wrote blurbs for some of his novels and later wrote the kaisetsu, or “expository comments,” appended to almost all his novels and plays when they went into paper. We also did together a series of dialogues that were gathered into a book. When I look at these documents of our friendship, I feel proud my name is joined to his. Proud but very sad, for I lost in Abe a strange and wonderful friend.

  *Kōbō Abe, The Woman in the Dunes, trans. E. Dale Saunders (New York: Vintage, 1991), pp. 222–23 (slightly modified).

  *Kōbō Abe, Beyond the Curve, trans. Juliet Winters Carpenter (New York: Kodansha International, 1991), p. 223.

  Shiba Ryōtarō

  (1923–1996)

  I don’t really remember when I first met Shiba Ryōtarō. Quite possibly it was between 1953 and 1955 while I was studying at Kyoto University and Shiba was working as a reporter at the Kyoto office of the Sankei shimbun. Foreign students were something of a rarity in Kyoto, and it would not have been strange if Shiba, like other reporters I remember more clearly, had interviewed me, if only to ask my impressions of Japan.

  In those days I was frequently asked, by virtually every reporter in the city, whatever had made me learn Japanese and if I did not find life in Kyoto extremely inconvenient. Reporters were always eager to elicit from foreigners unfavorable comments about Japan, but perhaps by way of compensation, they were equally eager to take photographs of foreigners struggling with chopsticks.

  Even if Shiba subjected me to the treatment appropriate to a typical foreigner—which I doubt—I have, in all honesty, no recollection of him from those days. I think I would have remembered him if only for the shock of white hair that even at that time was his most conspicuous visible feature.

  My first real memory of Shiba dates from the time of our “dialogue” in 1971. An editor at Chūō Kōron Sha with whom I was friendly telephoned one day to report that he had a marvelous idea but pledged me to secrecy. The insistence on secrecy made me more than usually attentive to his proposal, but when he revealed its contents—a dialogue between Shiba and myself, dialogues being a frequent feature of Japanese publications—I was nonplussed. I had to admit that not only had I never read a word by Shiba but I knew nothing about even the kind of books he wrote. I politely declined to take part in the dialogue.

  The editor was disappointed, but two or three days later he again telephoned to report that Shiba, though an extremely busy man, not only was willing to have a dialogue with me but, when told that I was unfamiliar with his writings, had insisted that I was not to read them. This gracious concession made it impossible for me not to take part in the dialogue. Shiba imposed only one condition, that he not be obliged to move out of the Kansai region during the anticipated three sessions of our dialogue. I gladly complied.

  We met first among the recently excavated ruins of Heijō, the ancient capital, not far from Nara. Our guide informed us of such matters as the likelihood that two rows of stones in a field were the foundations of the Hall of State and the likelihood that another cluster of stones was the site of a temple. I knew in advance that I would not retain this information for more than twenty minutes, but I listened patiently, from time to time stealing glances at Shiba. I thought that his white hair, contrasting with his youthful face, gave him a pleasing dignity. When we spoke, his tone was friendly and (unlike many others who met me for the first time), he did not seem to worry over whether or not I would understand his Japanese.

  After inspecting the ruins of the Heijō capital, we went into the city of Nara where our dialogue was to take place. There we exchanged views over dinner for a couple of hours, every word being taken down by both a stenographer and a tape recorder. When the dialogue was over and I went to my room at a nearby inn, I felt quite discouraged, sure that my part in the dialogue had been a total failure. In fact, I could not recall having said one word to Shiba apart from an occasional “Of course” or “Is that so?” I had been overwhelmed by the mass of information at Shiba’s command with which he inundated me with his every utterance. Even as I was trying to think of something to say in response to one of his revelations, another great wave of information would come sweeping down over me. I was no match for him.

  Only later, when I examined the transcript of our dialogue, did I realize that although I had been so tense at the time that I could not recall anything I had said, in fact I had spoken quite a lot. Moreover, I now realized that Shiba had again and again thoughtfully provided me with opportunities to display whatever knowledge I might possess. I had been too intimidated by his range of knowledge to recognize this kindness, the first of many instances I was to experience.

  In the preface he wrote to the book The Japanese and Japanese Culture (Nihonjin to nihon bunka), which came out of the three dialogues, Shiba said that our only mutually shared experience up to the time we met was our both having served during the war—we had been “comrades in arms” (sen’yū). It was certainly unusual to say we had been “comrades in arms.” After all, we were on opposing sides and had never so much as seen each other. But Shiba was right. We had shared the experience of a terrible war, and the experience had changed us equally. In my case, as Shiba mentioned, it was because of the war that I had learned Japanese, and this would be at once my lifework and the factor that made it possible for Shiba and me to become friends. In his case (though he did not mention it at this time) the war had aroused a hatred for the nationalism that had been its cause. Our wartime experiences had been entirely different, but they had brought us to the same place.

  I think I felt drawn to Shiba—even though the first two of the three dialogues were certainly a strain—because he reminded me somehow of my teacher, Tsunoda Ryūsaku sensei. The two men did not look in the least alike, and they belonged to entirely different generations. For that matter, their interest in Japanese history and religion was by no means the same; but both men constantly searched for what was truly important, truly worth remembering in the events of history. Both men also relied on intuition when they found that the bare facts were insufficient to permit understanding. Intuition is a dangerous guide, but there are times when it is worth the risk of following it. A work dependent on intuition may be seriously flawed, but it is likely to be more interesting and perhaps more truthful than a mere accumulation of facts.

  The first dialogue between Shiba and me began with an editor giving us a general plan, but we followed no particular order in the matters we discussed, one subject leading to another. I soon discovered from his comments and questions that although Shiba had forbidden me to read his books, he had taken the trouble to read several of mine and therefore knew which topics were most likely to interest me. The book based on the three
dialogues (the first held in Nara, the second in Kyoto, and the third in Osaka) was published in May 1972. It opens in this manner:

  Shiba: Today the two of us came to Nara and looked over the remains of the Heijō capital together. I felt as I looked at the ruins how amazing it was that Japan, which at that time produced hardly anything apart from rice in the paddies—a country that was economically so poor it was little more than fields and forests—was able to build a capital of that size. But I suppose that the purpose of the capital was rather similar to that of what today might be called a world’s fair.*

  Keene: Yes, it probably was something like that. The first big temple in Japan was the Shitennō-ji. It was built to receive foreign visitors, to demonstrate to people from advanced countries—especiallyChinese—that Japan had a culture, that it was capable of building such a splendid temple. I imagine the same was true of the Heijō capital. The Japanese probably feared that if they didn’t build such a capital, they would be thought of as barbarians who lived in a backward country. It was probably for the same reason—a strong desire to prove to the outside world that Japan had a history and a literature—that the Nihon shoki, the Man’yōshū, and the Kaifūsō, the imperial collection of poems in Chinese, were compiled.*

  As I read over these and later exchanges, I can see now that Shiba had made it possible for me to discuss something of special interest to me, Japanese concern about how their country was viewed by people in the outside world, the kind of topic a non-Japanese like myself is likely to find absorbing. Shiba must also have been thinking of the many Japanese attempts over the centuries to gain the respect of advanced countries. This was true not only in the seventh century, when the Heijō capital was built, but also in the nineteenth century after the Meiji Restoration and was equally true of Japan at the time we had our dialogue.

  My words, as recorded by the stenographer, were surprising even to myself. I can’t recall that I had previously thought that the compilation of three famous eighth-century works had been inspired by the desire to prove that Japan was a civilized country. Perhaps I had heard this long ago from Tsunoda sensei, or it may have been an unprepared response to the stimulus of Shiba’s comments. Japanese editors who arrange dialogues between strangers always hope that one participant’s remarks will stimulate the other to express thoughts that otherwise would lie dormant within him. On reading the dialogue now, thirty years later, I am surprised at my boldness and glad that Shiba had provided me with the occasion for making such an observation.

  About twenty years after this first meeting with Shiba, the same publisher arranged for a three-way conversation (teidan) in connection with the forthcoming publication of a series of books devoted to Japan during the Tokugawa period. In addition to Shiba and me, the critic and playwright Yamazaki Masakazu took part. The site was Ichiriki, the famous teahouse in Gion where Ōishi Kuranosuke is said to have amused himself while plotting vengeance against his enemy, the man who insulted his lord. I was excited to be in this celebrated restaurant, to which guests are normally admitted only if they possess the proper introductions, but I was dismayed when the teidan was about to start to hear Shiba say, “I don’t like the Tokugawa period.” Yamazaki said, “I don’t like it either.” Since the point of the teidan was to create interest in the Tokugawa period among potential purchasers of the series, it was not an auspicious beginning to our conversation. I was left to defend the period in terms of the writers I admired and had made my specialty—Chikamatsu and Bashō especially. But the teidan got nowhere, and even the capable editor had trouble in finding enough substance for an article in his magazine.

  Afterward I wondered why Shiba had spoken so harshly about the Tokugawa period. It occurred to me that although he had written extensively about the period just before the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunate and also about the period when the shogunate was tottering and on the verge of collapse, he had not written about the more than two hundred years of Tokugawa peace. Perhaps this was because peace is less exciting to a novelist than warfare and change, but I think it was mainly because he disliked the constricted life that the Tokugawa government imposed on the Japanese people in order to preserve the stability of the regime. Some of the great writers and artists of that time, unable to fit into Tokugawa society, lived on the periphery as recluses or eccentrics or as frequenters of the world of the licensed quarters. At our distance from Tokugawa society, we can forget its repressive nature and enjoy the haiku of Bashō, the plays of Chikamatsu, or the prints of Utamaro and Sharaku without concerning ourselves with the conditions under which these works were created. For Shiba, though, the chief characteristic of the Tokugawa period was not its art or literature but its lack of freedom and its isolation from the rest of the world; it was a time marked by the oppression of the human spirit.

  Shiba’s likes and dislikes were sometimes revealed indirectly. A whole series of books is devoted to his travels within Japan, and another series describes his travels abroad. Wherever he went, he always found things to admire, and often the choice of things he admired in foreign countries indirectly revealed a criticism of Japan. I recall especially his account of his travels in the Basque region of France and Spain. There was a reason for a Japanese to be particularly interested in the Basques. St. Francis Xavier, the most celebrated of the Spanish and Portuguese missionaries to visit Japan in the sixteenth century, was a Basque, and Shiba mentioned another Basque who had contributed to Japanese culture, the missionary Sauveur Candau, who acquired a remarkable facility in the Japanese language and was admired by Shiba, who considered Father Candau to be a benefactor of Japan.*

  It is surprising, all the same, that Shiba devoted so much attention to the Basques, a people who were seldom discussed by the Japanese except in terms of the curious theory that because the Basque and Japanese languages are not related to any other languages, they must be mutually related.

  Shiba’s interest in the Basques was aroused by the fact that they had a language and an ancient culture, but no country of their own. As we know from the tragic events of recent years, the Basques have by no means been satisfied to be without a country, but Shiba was attracted by the possibility that the identity and culture of a people could survive without the nationalism that was the curse of the modern world. Of course, he was aware that Basque extremists had resorted to acts of terror in the hopes of gaining complete independence, but he seems to have hoped that somehow the Basques and their culture could survive without demanding the political independence that inevitably develops into nationalism. This hope exemplified his humanitarianism and his deep dislike for the divisiveness of nationalism that pits country against country, culture against culture. Abe Kōbō, who almost never praised another writer, was impressed by the attitude underlying Shiba’s description of the Basques, no doubt because he also thought of nationalism as the greatest obstacle to peace in the world.

  Perhaps it was his acquaintance with Candau that had first aroused Shiba’s interest in the Basques. He expressed his admiration for Candau in these terms:

  S. Candau was a priest and a theologian, and he was also a philosopher, but even more, he was a splendid “Japanese.” From the time he landed in Japan in 1925, he enjoyed the great affection and respect even of nonbelievers, and he in turn loved the Japanese and Japanese culture. In addition, he wrote a perfect Japanese prose style that had a high order of content and a fine quality of humor. On top of that, he was the possessor of a gentle and transparent soul.*

  I do not think Shiba was being humorous when he spoke of Candau as a Japanese. Rather, I think he believed that a foreigner who spoke Japanese perfectly and who loved Japanese culture should be accepted as a Japanese, regardless of his facial features. I believe that he also hoped that this possibility should not be limited to Candau but extended to every non-Japanese who wished to be accepted as a Japanese and that the more such “new Japanese” there were, the more likely it would be that the mystique of the single, homogeneous Japanese race would ce
ase to spread nationalistic prejudices.

  Shiba was one of the proponents of the Yamagata Bantō Prize offered by Osaka Prefecture. The prize is intended to express Japanese appreciation of the work of foreign scholars who have devoted their lives to the study of Japan. In 1982 I was the first to receive the prize. I do not know why I, rather than some other scholar, was chosen for the prize, but I feel sure that Shiba, whose great kindness I had again and again experienced, had something to do with this decision.

  In the same year, 1982, Shiba and I participated in a symposium held under the auspices of the Asahi shimbun. After the symposium, all the participants went to a restaurant where we were offered dinner and ample saké. I was seated not far from the president. Shiba, who seemed to have been drinking rather more than usual, came up to us from the opposite end of the room and said in a fairly loud voice to the president, “The Asahi shimbun is no good!” Everyone looked at him in surprise. He continued, “In the Meiji period, the Asahi was no good, but it became a good newspaper by hiring Natsume Sōseki. The only way for the Asahi to become a good newspaper today is to hire Donald Keene.”