The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  Each core, reaching its own heart

  Reposes

  Around it circles

  The time of rich putrefaction

  Now before the teeth of the dead

  The fruits and their kind

  Which unlike stones do not strike

  Add to their weight

  And in the deep bowl

  Behind this semblance of night

  On occasion

  Hugely tilt

  THE PAST (KAKO, 1955)

  The man first hangs the apron from this thin neck

  He lacks the past as well as the will

  He begins to walk, holding a sharp knife at his side

  A line of ants rushes to a corner of his wide-opened eyes

  Each time light from the sides of his knife stirs the dust on the floor

  Whatever is going to be cooked

  Even if it’s a toilet

  It will perhaps shriek

  Will instantly spurt blood from the window to the sun

  What is quietly waiting for him now

  What gives him the past that he lacks

  A sting ray lies motionless on the board

  Its mottled back, large and slippery

  Its tail seems to hang into the basement

  Beyond it, only the rows of roofs in the winter rain

  The man quickly rolls the sleeves of his apron

  And thrusts the knife in the ray’s raw belly

  No resistance

  In slaughter not to get any response

  Not to get one’s hands soiled is terrible

  But the man bears down little by little and tears apart the membranous space

  The dark depth where nothing is spewed out

  The stars that sometimes appear and fade

  Work done, the man unhooks his hat from the wall

  And goes out the door

  The part which had lain hidden under the hat

  The spot where the hook is, which had been protected from the terror

  From there the blood with time’s adequate weight and roundness deliberately begins to flow

  POETRY IN TRADITIONAL FORMS

  After the end of the Pacific War in 1945, when writers were free to write as they chose, new experiments became possible, in both form and content.

  BABA AKIKO

  Throughout her long career, Baba Akiko (b. 1928) claimed that her principal interests were tanka (thirty-one-syllable poem), the history of women poets in Japan, and the medieval nō theater. In addition to her accomplishments as a tanka poet, Baba has written about both classical and modern women poets and had her contemporary nō dramas performed at the National Theater and elsewhere. The translations are by Hatsue Kawamura and Jane Reichhold.

  within me waga uchi no

  a monster also stands igyō mo tachite

  and walks along ayumu nare

  in autumn our words aki wa kotoba mo

  sound like a stone ax sekifu no hibiki

  called frustration zasetsu to wa

  it is generally painful ōku kurushiki

  man’s way of course otoko michi

  I can see my father fishing chichi miete chisaki

  for a very small fish uo tsurite ire

  in the evening yūgure wa

  as sprightly as silver ikitaru gin no

  a fish jumps up uo agari

  the desire to wander alone ryūri no omoi

  shines for a moment setsuna kagayaku

  coming from afar ginkan no

  from another galaxy kanata yori kishi

  some souls tamashii no

  are faintly white honoka ni shiroki

  dogwood flowers yamabōshi no hana

  being alone is fine hitori ga ii

  I am fine being alone hitori ga ii to

  the white magnolia tree hakuren wa

  tosses into the sky hana nisanbyaku

  several hundred blossoms sora ni fuki agu

  KANEKO TŌTA

  Although Kaneko Tōta (b. 1919) began writing poetry along with his father, Kaneko Mitsuharu, Tōta’s professional career as a haiku (seventeen-syllable poem) poet started after the war, when he could use his war experiences. Reflecting his longstanding interest in diction and other formal aspects of haiku composition, Tōta has also written about methods of composing haiku.

  How lovely their mouths, Dore mo kuchi

  All of them: a late summer utsukushi banka no

  Jazz combo. jazu ichidan

  Translated by Donald Keene

  How strong they are, the young men, Tsuyoshi seinen

  Even on a day when onions hikata ni tamanegi

  Rot on the dry beach. kusaru hi mo

  Translated by Donald Keene

  High school boys Chūgakusei

  are talking of God, while the snow kami katari ori

  keeps piling up on the ricks. yuki tsumu wara

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  The graveyard is burned, too: Bochi mo yakeato

  cicadas, like pieces of flesh, semi nikuhen no

  on the trees. goto kigi ni

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  Like an arm overstretched Te ga nagaku

  and tired, reddish brown smoke darushi akachaketa

  rising from a steel mill. seikōen

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  NAKAJŌ FUMIKO

  A tanka poet from Hokkaido, Nakajō Fumiko (1922–1954) became nationally known when, suffering from breast and lung cancer, she underwent a mastectomy and then used this experience in her own writing. The translations are by Janine Beichman.

  My breasts are ushinaishi

  gone and there is a hill ware no chibusa ni

  that resembles them nishi oka ari

  in winter withered flowers fuyu wa karetaru

  will adorn it hana ga kazaramu

  As long as they blazed moyuru kagiri wa

  I gave to him hito ni ataeshi

  my breasts chibusa nare

  and never knew when gan no sosei o

  the cancer took on shape itsu yori to shirazu

  The ocean is stripped yorokobi no

  of all joy and deep below ushinawaretaru

  the octopus and umi fukaku

  its kin, tentacles tightly ashi tojite tako no

  closed, will be frozen forever rui wa kōramu

  DRAMA

  BETSUYAKU MINORU

  Betsuyaku Minoru (b. 1937) was one of the youngest of the many avant-garde dramatists who began his career during the student revolts of the 1960s. While attending Waseda University, he and other students, including the now-famous avant-garde theater director Suzuki Tadashi, became friends and colleagues. They began to produce a political theater of protest, initially against the renewal of the United States–Japan Security Treaty, and this movement continued in one form or another for nearly two decades. Betsuyaku’s play Elephant (Zō, 1962), written in a style sometimes reminiscent of that of Samuel Beckett, combining poetry and humor, remains the Japanese theater’s most powerful treatment of this subject. The Little Match Girl (Matchi-uri no shōjo), first staged in 1966, represents the epitome of Betsuyaku’s style, mixing the familiar (in this case, the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale) with disquieting ambiguities.

  THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL (MATCHI-URI NO SHŌJO)

  Translated by Robert N. Lawson

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Woman

  Her younger brother

  Middle-aged man

  His wife

  Center stage there is an old-fashioned table with three chairs, a little to stage left a small serving table with one chair.

  This may be called an old-fashioned play, so it should open on an oldfashioned, slightly melancholy note.

  The theater gradually goes dark, without its being noticed. From out of nowhere, a song from long ago, on a scratchy record, faintly comes to be heard. Then, unexpectedly, as if right in the next seat, a woman’s voice, hoarse and low, can be heard whispering.

  WOMAN’S VOICE: It was the
last night of the year, New Year’s Eve, and it was very cold. It had already become dark, and snow was falling.

  A poor little girl was trudging wearily along the dark, deserted street. She had no hat, nor even any shoes. Until a little while before she had been wearing her dead mother’s wooden shoes, but they were too big for her, and, trying to dodge two carriages that came rushing by, she had lost both of them. Her little feet were purple and swollen, as she put one in front of the other on the stiffly frozen snow.

  Her apron pocket was filled with matches, and she was holding one bunch in her hand. She had been trying to sell them, but no one had bought a single match from her that whole day. No one had given her so much as a single penny.

  From stage right a middle-aged man and his wife appear, carrying evening tea things. They begin to place them on the table, meticulously. In this household the way of doing such things is governed by strict rule, it seems. The wife sometimes makes a mistake, but her husband then carefully corrects it. Various things—taken from a tray, from the folds of their kimonos, from their pockets—are carefully positioned. A teapot, cups, spoons, a sugar bowl, a milk pitcher, jars of jam, butter, cookies, various spices, nuts, shriveled small fruits, miniature plants and animal figurines, and other small things are all arranged closely together. As this is going on, the two mumble to each other.

  MAN: Setting a table is an art, you know. If you arrange everything just right, even a dried lemon will show to advantage.

  WIFE: The people across the street place the powdered spinach next to the deodorizer.

  MAN: Hum, what kind of pretentiousness is that?

  WIFE: Right . . . just what I said to them. “Isn’t that pretentious?” But listen to what they answered. “In this house we have our own way of doing things.”

  MAN: Their own way, huh? Well, fine. But, even so, there should be some principle . . . such procedures should be according to rule.

  WIFE: That’s right. Just what I told them. There should be some principle . . .

  MAN: Hey, what’s that?

  WIFE: Garlic.

  MAN: Garlic is for morning. I never heard of garlic for evening tea.

  WIFE: But we saw the sunset a little while ago. Don’t you always say, “Garlic for sunset”?

  MAN: Garlic for sunrise. Onion for sunset.

  WIFE: Was that it? Well, then, onions.

  MAN: But let’s not bother with them.

  WIFE: Why?

  MAN: They smell.

  WIFE: Of course they smell. But is there anything that doesn’t? You can’t name a thing that doesn’t have some drawback. Ginseng may not smell, but it has worms.

  MAN: Yes, but those worms are good for neuralgia, you know.

  WIFE: I like to eat onions. Then I don’t feel the cold. One works for one night. Two for two nights. So three will work for three nights.

  MAN: Roasted crickets are good if you are sensitive to cold. I keep telling you that. One cricket for one night.

  WIFE: But there aren’t any crickets now. What season do you think this is? There’s snow outside.

  MAN: All right, then, do this. First, heat some sesame oil. Then, after letting it cool, lick salt as you drink it. Lick and drink. Lick and drink. Three times. It works immediately.

  WIFE: Isn’t that what you do when you haven’t had a bowel movement?

  MAN: No, then it’s soybean oil. In that case you lick and drink four times. You don’t remember anything at all, do you?

  WIFE: Say . . . over there . . . isn’t that cheese?

  MAN: Hmm, it seems to be. It wasn’t there last night. Well . . . where should we put it? In the old days, we used to put the cheese next to the dried dates, but . . .

  WIFE (picking it up): I wonder when we got this. It’s pretty stale, isn’t it?

  MAN: Yes, getting hard. Didn’t there used to be something called hard cheese? Cheese that had become hard. . . . (Thinking.)

  WIFE: Look, teeth marks. You took a bite and then left it, didn’t you?

  MAN: Ridiculous! Let me see. I’d never do an ill-mannered thing like that. Those are your teeth marks.

  WIFE: My teeth aren’t that sharp.

  MAN: I don’t know about that . . . but it could have been the cat.

  WIFE: Well . . . maybe. In the old days we had a cat. Could it have been Pesu?

  MAN: Pesu was the dog. Kuro was the parrot, Tobi was the goat, and the horse was Taro, so the cat . . . could it have been Pesu after all?

  WIFE: The cat was Pesu. Kuro was the parrot, Tobi the goat, the horse was Taro, the dog . . . the dog. . . . I wonder if the dog was Pesu . . .

  A woman appears stage left.

  WOMAN (quietly): Good evening.

  MAN: Huh?

  WOMAN: Good evening.

  WIFE: Good evening.

  WOMAN: Are you having evening tea?

  MAN: Well, after a fashion . . .

  WIFE: We never miss having tea in this house, from long ago.

  WOMAN: It was that way in my family, too, long ago.

  MAN: Ah, well, since you have taken the trouble to come, won’t you please join us?

  WOMAN: Yes, thank you.

  WIFE: Please do. Not just for evening tea, but any time you have tea it’s nice to have company. In the old days we frequently entertained.

  MAN: Please sit down.

  The three of them sit down. The man pours them tea.

  MAN: Now then, before tea in your home, I mean before evening tea, do you say a prayer?

  WOMAN: Ah . . . I don’t really remember.

  MAN: Well then, let’s skip that. Actually, saying a prayer before evening tea is not proper. You might even say it is a breach of etiquette. Do you know why?

  WOMAN: No.

  MAN: Because it’s not to God’s liking. It says so in the Bible. (To his wife.) Do you remember?

  WIFE: No.

  MAN: She forgets everything. Because of her age. Sugar? How many?

  WOMAN: Yes . . . well, if it’s all right, I’ll serve myself.

  MAN: Of course. Please do. That’s the best way. People should be completely free.

  WIFE: In this house we always have guests who visit at night join us for evening tea. Now, after so many years, you are the victim.

  MAN: How many years has it been? But you are late in coming . . . which way did you come from?

  WOMAN: I came from City Hall.

  WIFE: Ah, City Hall! That gloomy building? Don’t you agree that it’s gloomy?

  WOMAN: Yes, it’s gloomy.

  WIFE: Gloomy!

  MAN: Would you like a sweet?

  WOMAN: Thank you.

  MAN: We have rich things, too, if you’d prefer. By the way, speaking of City Hall, how is that fellow?

  WIFE: What fellow?

  MAN: That guy who sits there on the second floor and spits out the window.

  WIFE: Oh, he died. Quite a while ago.

  MAN: Is he finally dead? He was a problem for everybody. As many as thirteen times a day. People avoided passing that place.

  WIFE: Well, no one avoids passing there these days. His son is sitting there now, and that young man is very courteous. But did you come directly from City Hall to our house?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: Directly here? That is to say, intending to come to our house?

  WOMAN: That’s right, directly here.

  WIFE: Is that so? (A little perplexed.) Well then . . . ah . . . how nice of you to come.

  MAN: Yes. You are certainly welcome. We’ve had very few visitors lately.

  WIFE: But what did they say about us at City Hall?

  WOMAN: Nothing in particular.

  MAN: That we are good citizens?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  WIFE: Exemplary?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: And harmless?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  WIFE: Well, that’s certainly true. We are the best, most exemplary, citizens.

  MAN: Last year the mayor went out on the balcony and gave a speech. Then,
at the end, he said, “In our city we are pleased to have 362 citizens who are not only good, and exemplary, but also harmless.” Those last two are us . . . really.

  WIFE: The city tax isn’t much, but we pay it right on time. And we don’t put out much trash. And we don’t drink much water.

  MAN: Our ideas are moderate, too. We are both, relatively speaking, Progressive Conservatives. Those Reform party people are so vulgar. Neither of us can tolerate that. One of those guys, you know, will yawn without putting his hand to his mouth. Really! In the old days that would have been unthinkable.

  WOMAN (with feeling): It is really . . . nice and warm here.

  WIFE: Yes, isn’t it? And refined, too. We aren’t rich, but we try not to be unnecessarily frugal.

  MAN: Now, to put it briefly, you’ve been sent here from City Hall.

  WOMAN: No, I wouldn’t say that exactly.

  WIFE: Perhaps we should say, “dispatched.”

  WOMAN: No, that’s not it. I heard about this place at City Hall. Something that made me want to visit you . . . so I came.

  MAN: I see. I understand. You say that you heard something about us at City Hall. That made you want to visit us. And so, here you are—visiting us. That’s certainly logical.

  WIFE (in admiration): That makes sense. In short, since you wanted to visit us, you visited us. That’s different from saying that you didn’t want to visit us, but visited us anyway.