Not many journals were kept during the late 1950s. The pages below, on Mishima, stand by themselves.
undated, 1958. I am to meet Mishima at the Korakuen Gym for a workout in the late afternoon. Soon, much out of shape, I am sore, but I like the gym. The bodies are nice, but that isn’t it. Actually, a gym is rather like a butcher-shop—lots of good meat, but all this display does not whet the appetite.
No, I like the gym because it is warm and friendly and everyone is doing the same thing and everyone is in a way, well, humble. No one is vainglorious of his body. That is saved for outside. The gym is the workshop. The worst body and the best are after all bodies and in that, they are alike. The best remembers when it was bad, and the worst can look forward to being better.
Tonight is crowded but Yukio is not yet here. He usually guides my efforts and originally got me accepted. I have often watched him work over the top half of his body and neglect the lower. Muscled torso on spindly legs. I am just as bad. Without him there to push I don’t even use all the machines. Just as well. Ache from those I do. The thirties are not the twenties. But thirty-four is no time to sit back and give up. I like the way that physical exercise makes me feel. I can see why Mishima so much enjoys it.
“Where’s your pal?” ask my bench-pressing partners. Since Mishima originally brought me I am now regarded as a part of him. He is popular at the Korakuen Gym. This is because he doesn’t give himself airs. He is not a famous author, singer, boxer, actor. He is just one of the boys—all of them pulling together, all of them working on the buffing of the body, the building of that domicile which will more fittingly house them.
Yet he keeps his distance and this they also appreciate. After all the straining and grunting, sweat coursing, it is customary to hit the bath, a large tiled tub filled with very hot water, built to contain dozens. This I always look forward to—not only the healing heat and the soothing lustrations, but all those big, beefy bodies with you in the soup.
Not for Mishima, however. For him a solitary shower, front decently turned, towel in place, then back into the jockey shorts, the invariable tan slacks, the black jumper, the gold chain around the neck. Then the comradely wave, the quick smile, and the body-builder author vanishes until the next time. Not me. I hang around, loll in the tub, and talk about dumbbell techniques with friendly flat-nosed fellows twice my size.
I am today thinking of leaving when he finally appears, full of apologies. He is naturally sorry to have kept someone waiting, but he is even sorrier that he is the kind of person who, if he isn’t careful, appears less than courteous. Consequently we sit down and he has to tell me the reason. He was rereading Shiosai [The Sound of Waves], and despite everything Greece meant to him, he is not satisfied with this novel based on Longus’ late Greek romance. What he had done was too artificial. It was, he said, Greece in the style of the Trianon at Versailles. Too late to do much about that, but he was attempting to. Hence his tardiness.
Since the reason had been the most serious one he could think of—work—I was to accept this and forgive his lateness. When I did so he gave me a smile and asked how I was coming with the weights. He then went on to show me what he could do. Much more than myself, and I watched as he pushed and sweated and the muscles grew and the mass expanded.
undated, 1958. Party at Meredith’s. Even as I enter the gate I can hear Mishima’s laugh, that great, ugly laugh of his—one that it is said his grandmother taught him. It is a part of his heavy buffoonery. When such protection seems necessary, he turns himself into a harlequin, a zany, is weightily paradoxical, and makes outrageous statements.
He clowns about the things closest to him. Like killing himself. The reason that none of us ever take this seriously is his endless chatter about it. It disarms us. It is intended to.
Much of Yukio’s considerable charm is that when it suits his purposes he pretends not to take serious things seriously. In this he is like that historical personage he much admires—Yuranosuke in the seventh act of the Kanadehon Chushingura.
Here the leader of the now masterless forty-seven samurai pretends to give himself to dissipation and frivolity. In actuality, this is a sham, a cover for his plans for revenge. It is as though both he and Mishima are involved in similar projects.
Laughter continues until late. Not too late, however. Yukio is always home by midnight. Then the serious part of life begins—writing. No laughter then.
undated, 1958. A man is what he wears (a woman too), projecting a desired image. Whether we think about the effect or not, we create it. It is our costume and expresses our intentions. Look at Mishima, that casual wardrobe—the leather jacket, the medallion on its thin gold chain, the boots, the tight trousers, and the wide belt. These create a cutout figure, an outline, and a recognizable icon. We can trace its lineage. From Hemingway to Brando and beyond, this image presumes virility.
No less for the bike people than for Yukio, this icon is magical. But it originally meant that civility was courted, was sought for. It did not presume that it had been already attained. That this image is even now seen as clone-gear in Village ghettos indicates that the search has not ended.
The leather-look, of which Yukio’s is a modified version, is, I think, about a super-virility that can exist only for the wearer and for those who share his dream. Like all icons, this one can never be tested—it is ideal. The icon designates the deity and eventually becomes it.
undated, 1959. Yukio and his deities. Saint Sebastian, for example. This popular sufferer—drawn, painted, sculpted, poeticized, turned into music—has, like most, a double aspect. One can be him, or one can regard him. If the former, then one is the saint; if the latter, then one of the archers.
Mishima, despite his draped and ecclesiastical posings for photographers, would say he was really one of the archers. Yet, unlike them, he knows that a single look from Sebastian will scatter them all. The sadist cannot stand that blow from the eyes of the other. He is so occupied in turning that body into a thing for his pleasure that he leaves himself open to invasion from that very body. It need only reassert its individuality to remove all of his pleasure. Sadism as a means of communication is doomed to failure because communication creates empathy, and this devastates the sadistic impulse.
He talks a lot about sadism, Mishima does, resting after having been translated or photographed. He is as interested (as have been some of his models—Barbey d’Aurevilly, Swinburne, Wilde, Gide) in “evil.” Perhaps he confuses the two. Yet this interest confines itself. Like Baudelaire, who found in diablerie an extension of bourgeois interests, so Mishima retains the sadistic pose because it continues the cult of the self that is so important to him.
It doesn’t go very far. Yukio is not what the books call a practicing sadist. Instead he is a practicing author, and his life like any other involves placation and compromise. These were qualities not unknown to Saint Sebastian himself, slumped there, pumped full of arrows. But those who think they are lined up, bow ready, just one of the soldiers, are really already tied to the post. Sadism is an illusion born from the needs of its opposite. We are all of us masochists, no matter how much leather we wear.
undated, 1958. A party at the Mishimas’ new house. It is all concrete, somewhat Spanish-looking with its whiteness, its tiles. Yukio calls it his “anti-Zen house,” and I have heard others describe it as “Montgomery Ward Colonial.”
There is a large naked man in the forecourt, a copy of, I think, the Apollo Belvedere, and there is a grotto lined with Delft-blue tiles. Inside, the house is light, airy, spacious—and a little strange.
A staircase suddenly descends directly into what would be the drawing room, but it leads nowhere—just up to a high little door with a balcony around it. It is from this staircase that Mishima descends upon his guests, having revealed himself first on the little balcony. In another part of the house is a big, wide set of stairs to the second floor, and this is what the family and servants use.
We guests are served drinks—
big choice, scotch, any cocktail you can think of, sherry—and amuse ourselves until the descent of the host. No sign of his wife. Probably in the kitchen being wifely. When he takes her out he is completely solicitous but in the house she turns into a more Japanese spouse.
We hear his laugh above us, and then he is among us, making sure that glasses are filled, a word for everyone, complete charm as he circles among us, addressing remarks mainly in English. This is because the guests are mainly foreigners or Japanese who have lived abroad. One of the reasons is certainly that few foreigners speak Japanese and few Japanese speak foreign languages. Another, however, is that Mishima likes to control an audience. Perhaps he acts differently in front of an all-Japanese party.
Mishima Yukio, 1958. yato tamotsu
In front of us he is charisma itself—fascinating (he explains the philosophy of the Japanese sword), sincere (he admits to doubts about this same philosophy), amusing (he invites a minor ambassador to immolate himself on the carpet), and self-deprecating (tells how clumsy he is, finds difficulty in returning sword to sheath). All of the time being the most considerate of hosts.
The food is very good—fish, steak, fruit—and well served by, I think, hired caterers. No sign of Yoko, however, until the very end when, like a chef, she is brought on. We all sit around and drink chartreuse and Grand Marnier for a time. Typical of Yukio and the enormous divisions he cultivates in himself—house all Western but inside ruled by Japanese customs regarding wives; outside, liberal, egalitarian, solicitous; inside, a Japanese husband.
At the same time, however, signs of concessions. Last week when we lunched he asked me not to send him any more St. Sebastian postcards from my various travels, a habit I have gotten into. The reason is that Yoko has asked that I stop.
There are also from this period several descriptive essays that Richie made from diaries, apparently intending them to be a part of some autobiographical work. One of these is about the marriage of his friend Tani Hiroaki.
1958—nagatoro. I sat all dressed up and looked at the happy couple, while the spring smell of muddy water filled the room. Outside the brown river ran, and Tani stood straight in his new black suit, white gloves in hand, tie crooked. At his side sat the bride in kimono, sleeves trailing on the floor, a white headpiece hiding the jealous horns that brides traditionally wear.
A flash, a cloud, a smell, and there they stood on the photographic plate forever. The local artisan, pursing his lips to indicate optimism, placed the cap back on the lens and we all applauded, while the bride put two fingers into her tight obi and shifted the fan that took the place of the dagger brides once carried to use against themselves if dishonored.
Back at the inn, in a large, low room, cushions had been arranged for the wedding party, small, low tables in front of each, and at the far end a dais for the couple. Outside the low windows the river flowed, rich and muddy in the early spring.
There now sat Tani, enthroned with his bride, and here sat I, first in the row that held his party, all men, all about his own age. They had politely ignored me until it was learned that I could, after a fashion, speak. They then dropped their solemn shyness and wanted to know how I had come to meet their friend.
Prepared, I lied about school, English class, and promising pupil. This explanation was so expected that it was at once accepted and the muscular young man in a white three-piece next to me tried out a few modest English phrases.
The river murmured, the spring smell of fresh water filled the room, and the bride entered, elaborately careful of skirts and sleeves, while Tani gripped his gloves and looked straight ahead as the assembled women broke into a little patter of applause.
These were all of the bride’s party, older, in sober kimono, her mother beaming. She was why we were in this country inn on the banks of the Arakawa in far Chichibu, the low mountains just outside the window. Her daughter had to be married in her homeland.
So city boy Tani had had to transport his party, all members of the same construction gang, and myself, into the deep country. On the way his friends pointed out the horses and pigs to each other and one, upon arrival, had gotten too near a bull, which snorted and sent him scampering down the lane.
Now wary of the country, they sat formally, their legs under them, and looked about as the applause died and bride seated herself on the dais by her new husband.
She was really just as citified as he, had been working a Shinjuku bar frequented by members of this small gang to which Tani now belonged. It was the construction boss who had served as go-between. He was interested in the bar she tended. And she wanted marriage, needing some stability in her fluid life. As for Tani, he found her pretty, didn’t have a steady girlfriend, and as the latest member had to listen to advice from the boss.
Sake was poured, even before the first speech. Local sake, and lots of beer, and a big, brown bottle of whisky for me. Tani smiled, tie still crooked, and indicated that I should relax, stretch my legs out. This I did and his gang friends, all uncomfortable sitting on their calves, spread out as well, pointed out a passing dog, slurped their sake, and turned to look down at the muddy flow.
The bride smiled down upon them. She included even me. Originally I had been a threat—the foreign friend. When I first went with Tani to the bar where she worked, her manner had been coolly professional, a chilly hostess doing her duty. Later, however, she warmed. Maybe I was a good influence after all—keeping him away from all those awful other women.
Now the speeches began—long and stilted, about her virtue or his, older people mumbling about future promise. Then, cups and glasses filled, more toasts. And food—country food: boiled radish and salted river fish, burdock, miso baked on eggplant, and pickled fiddler fern.
Speeches again, but now short and funny, as though having observed the sublimity of marriage we might now allow ourselves its foibles. As a foreigner—and foreigners are famous for being funny—I was first.
Prepared and knowing what was expected, I spoke of the groom’s doomed efforts to learn my language, made affectionate fun, skillfully suggested an apparent stupidity, and ended by blaming myself for all lack of progress.
Laughter, applause, and for me a reward from Tani, now sitting cross-legged in his new suit, a glance of connivance, and a short smile from the bride, and from my three-piece neighbor a solemn paw and a level and approving gaze.
More toasts, more speeches. One old woman with loose teeth spoke loudly of the joys of the marriage bed. The room roared, the member with the perm spilled beer on himself, and the bride, virgin for a day, covered herself with confusion. Everyone was getting drunk.
Me too. I looked at the handsome Tani, lolling up there with his bride, useless white gloves still firmly in fist, and felt sorry for myself. You are losing your friend, I thought, and a tear actually appeared.
The ceiling gently rotated, the river rose, and the smell of spring and mud ran over the mats, while the creamy three-piece pounded me on the back, brimming cup in hand. I drank, handed it back, filled it up, watched him drain it, and then back it came.
This went on for a while—minutes, hours—then it was time to dance. The old women wove among their cushions, the men slapped their country thighs in time, while the boys shuffled and twisted, the bride clapped and shrieked, and Tani grinned, tie askew.
Pulled to my feet, I stood between the young man in the white three-piece and his permed friend. We were to dance, a special dance from their native place—far and fabled Kyushu. I attempted to sit down. My new acquaintance leaned over and pulled me up again, reassuring in a warm whisper that it was real easy.
So it was. While his friend knelt, banged the glasses and sang, he advanced upon me, holding a large empty sake bottle between his legs. I was to hold tight to the folded cushion between my own legs and receive the bottle. We were then to move in an illustrative manner while his friend sang, veins showing, and then back off and begin all over again.
Here he came, sake bottle up, and I was ready w
ith my folded cushion. Bottle erect between his tight thighs, he put both arms around me and humped as the old women screamed and the men shouted with laughter.
This went on until my groom fell down, bottle rolling, and I, the bride, opened my legs and let the pummeled cushion drop. The floor vibrated with the applause and the passing river rippled. Looking at the groom on his dais, I received a smile. This was a wedding, it seemed to say, what did I expect?
Wedding? I think I thought—no: divorce! Eyes full I turned and staggered up onto the dais where I leaned against him, reached out and slowly, carefully, straightened his tie. Slight discomfort from my groom, a ripple of real annoyance from the bride, still in her hood to hide the horns, and then three-piece tackled me, pulled me back, and lay on me as he poured beer down my throat.
The river ran, the sake flowed, the smell of spring mud lay over me as I lolled on the mats, a foot in my face. Then the boats arrived.
At Nagatoro you went boating, that was why you had come, and so a trip was planned, no matter the condition of the boaters. One old woman got her white stockings all dirty when she missed the stern; one old man missed the boat entirely.
Pushed or pulled, the others boarded and the boat swayed. Tani and his smiling bride were in the prow where we would see them, while the rest of the guests gripped the gunwales. I was next to the boy with the perm. His three-piece friend was nowhere in sight, and I gazed about as though seeing for the first time the bright blue sky of early afternoon, the rich clay-brown of the passing river.
Farmland glided past, a curious cow, and we were in the gorge, where the river splashed and the big rock walls slid by, where the bride, pretending fear, clung to her new husband, and one old farmer in braces got sick in the frothing tide.
On and on, the boatman plied his single oar in the wake of the bumping boat, until a pool was reached and we were pulled to one side while he pointed into the depths and told us that here lurked the fabled carp, one traditionally friendly to such brave endeavors as marriage.
The Japan Journals: 1947-2004 Page 15
