Alta Ifland's Blog: Notes on Books - Posts Tagged "japanese"
The Lake by Banana Yoshimoto
The Lake by Banana Yoshimoto (trans. from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich, Melville House, 2011)
The Lake confirmed the impression I was left with after having read Asleep and N. P.: Yoshimoto is one of those contemporary writers situated at the border between what one could call (for lack of a better word) “serious” literature and pop fiction. The fact that The Lake was better received than N.P. in this country is at least in part due to the fact that its translator, Michael Emmerich, is considerably more skilled than N. P.’s translator. Still, while reading The Lake, I felt, as I often do when I read translations from the Japanese or the Chinese, that the language shifts in abrupt ways, from the very casual to the very poetic. I know that Yoshimoto has been praised for both her poetic language and her hipness (expressed in the very contemporary style of her dialogues), but I wonder if certain awkward transitions sound the same in the original.
I confess that my feelings about Yoshimoto in general and this book in particular are ambivalent. On the one hand, she does have a gift for creating atmosphere and identifiable characters with only a few simple strokes. She gives the impression that she has hurriedly jotted down some notes, which grab the reader in spite of herself. But then, one also finds passages that seem taken from some teenager’s blog—which may explain the huge following the writer has among young people.
The novel’s plot is simple: a young woman whose mother has recently died begins a relationship with a mysterious young man about whom she knows that he had suffered a big trauma in his childhood. Yoshimoto is very skilled at maintaining the suspense until the very end, when she reveals what had happened in the man’s childhood. More than anything, Yoshimoto’s enormous success among the Japanese comes, I think, from her strong sensibility whose dark side is popular not only for its “gothic” associations, but also because in traditional Japanese culture there is something noble about melancholy and sadness. The same fascination with melancholy characters and a dreamlike atmosphere can be found in Yoko Ogawa’s books, but the latter is a much better writer than Yoshimoto.
The Lake confirmed the impression I was left with after having read Asleep and N. P.: Yoshimoto is one of those contemporary writers situated at the border between what one could call (for lack of a better word) “serious” literature and pop fiction. The fact that The Lake was better received than N.P. in this country is at least in part due to the fact that its translator, Michael Emmerich, is considerably more skilled than N. P.’s translator. Still, while reading The Lake, I felt, as I often do when I read translations from the Japanese or the Chinese, that the language shifts in abrupt ways, from the very casual to the very poetic. I know that Yoshimoto has been praised for both her poetic language and her hipness (expressed in the very contemporary style of her dialogues), but I wonder if certain awkward transitions sound the same in the original.
I confess that my feelings about Yoshimoto in general and this book in particular are ambivalent. On the one hand, she does have a gift for creating atmosphere and identifiable characters with only a few simple strokes. She gives the impression that she has hurriedly jotted down some notes, which grab the reader in spite of herself. But then, one also finds passages that seem taken from some teenager’s blog—which may explain the huge following the writer has among young people.
The novel’s plot is simple: a young woman whose mother has recently died begins a relationship with a mysterious young man about whom she knows that he had suffered a big trauma in his childhood. Yoshimoto is very skilled at maintaining the suspense until the very end, when she reveals what had happened in the man’s childhood. More than anything, Yoshimoto’s enormous success among the Japanese comes, I think, from her strong sensibility whose dark side is popular not only for its “gothic” associations, but also because in traditional Japanese culture there is something noble about melancholy and sadness. The same fascination with melancholy characters and a dreamlike atmosphere can be found in Yoko Ogawa’s books, but the latter is a much better writer than Yoshimoto.
The Moon over the Mountain
The Moon over the Mountain by Atsushi Nakajima (Trans. from the Japanese by Paul McCarthy and Nobuko Ochner, Autumn Hill Books, 2011)
You may be as surprised as I was to find out that stories on classical Chinese topics are a special literary genre in Japan, and their writers enjoy great respect. Atsushi Nakajima is such a writer. Although he died young and published almost nothing during his lifetime, he became very popular after his death in 1942.
The recurrent characters in many of the stories in this collection are representations of famous Chinese historical characters from eras going as far back as the eighth century. Readers somewhat familiar with Chinese classical tales may recognize some of the names and some of the events narrated.
Three stories, in particular, have stayed with me: “The Moon over the Mountain,” in which an unsuccessful poet who keeps complaining about his unhappy fate is turned into a tiger; “The Master,” in which an archer, after having studied this art with two great masters, achieves perfection only when he understands that “Perfect action lies in inaction, perfect speech abandons words, and perfect archery means never shooting;” and “The Disciple,” which tells the story of a disciple of Confucius. For those of us who don’t know much about the latter (whose Chinese name was, apparently, Kong Qiu), the story skillfully presents the life and philosophy of this world-famous man through a captivating narrative. I now understand why it is said that his philosophy is pragmatic: whether he served the rich and powerful (for a while he was a minister) or wandered aimlessly in relative poverty together with his disciples, he tried to do good, but never in an idealistic way. In extreme situations, he always advised his disciples to save their own skin rather than sacrifice themselves for a higher cause. In today’s parlance, he would be called a “realist.”
Last but not least, this is, as far as I can tell, a very good translation. My only objection is that, occasionally, it sounds too contemporary.
You may be as surprised as I was to find out that stories on classical Chinese topics are a special literary genre in Japan, and their writers enjoy great respect. Atsushi Nakajima is such a writer. Although he died young and published almost nothing during his lifetime, he became very popular after his death in 1942.
The recurrent characters in many of the stories in this collection are representations of famous Chinese historical characters from eras going as far back as the eighth century. Readers somewhat familiar with Chinese classical tales may recognize some of the names and some of the events narrated.
Three stories, in particular, have stayed with me: “The Moon over the Mountain,” in which an unsuccessful poet who keeps complaining about his unhappy fate is turned into a tiger; “The Master,” in which an archer, after having studied this art with two great masters, achieves perfection only when he understands that “Perfect action lies in inaction, perfect speech abandons words, and perfect archery means never shooting;” and “The Disciple,” which tells the story of a disciple of Confucius. For those of us who don’t know much about the latter (whose Chinese name was, apparently, Kong Qiu), the story skillfully presents the life and philosophy of this world-famous man through a captivating narrative. I now understand why it is said that his philosophy is pragmatic: whether he served the rich and powerful (for a while he was a minister) or wandered aimlessly in relative poverty together with his disciples, he tried to do good, but never in an idealistic way. In extreme situations, he always advised his disciples to save their own skin rather than sacrifice themselves for a higher cause. In today’s parlance, he would be called a “realist.”
Last but not least, this is, as far as I can tell, a very good translation. My only objection is that, occasionally, it sounds too contemporary.
Confusion by Stefan Zweig & Kokoro by Natsume Soseki
Confusion by Stefan Zweig (Trans. from the German by Anthea Bell. Intro by George Prochnik). NYRB, 2012.
Kokoro by Natsume Soseki (Trans. from the Japanese by Meredith McKinney). Penguin Books, 2010.
I don’t know about you, but when I read I encounter synchronicities about as often as I do in real life. I happened to read Confusion by Stefan Zweig immediately after having read Kokoro by Natsume Soseki, and the similarities between these books are uncanny. They are all the more unexpected considering that the former is a novella published in 1927 by an Austrian writer, and the second a novel published in 1914 by a Japanese writer.
Both books have three main characters: the narrator—a young man who is a student; the narrator’s friend—an elder who, in Confusion, is the narrator’s teacher, and in Kokoro, although not a teacher per se, is the narrator’s mentor and is called (by the narrator) “Sensei” (i.e., “teacher” in Japanese); and the friend’s/teacher’s wife. Both stories consist in the narrator’s ruminations about a “secret” his teacher/friend seems to have. In both, there are numerous dialogues between the wife and the young narrator whose main topic is the mysterious teacher—an enigmatic character the young narrator attempts to decipher. Even the titles have similar connotations: in Japanese, “kokoro” means both “heart” and “mind,” and its use by the narrator appears to indicate his emotional and mental confusion regarding his friend.
But the endings couldn’t be more different, and one could say that they are emblematic: in Kokoro, the “secret” has to do with a shameful act Sensei had committed in his youth; in Confusion, shame is also associated with the secret, but it is—of course!—of a sexual nature (let’s not forget, this is the period when Zweig’s compatriot, Freud, is at the peak of his career). Another difference is stylistic: Kokoro is written in a simple, straightforward way; Confusion, on the other hand, in Anthea Bell’s masterful translation, is one of Zweig’s best stylistic accomplishments.
Both stories are rather slow and monotonous, but it is a pleasant monotony, like the purring of a cat.
Kokoro by Natsume Soseki (Trans. from the Japanese by Meredith McKinney). Penguin Books, 2010.
I don’t know about you, but when I read I encounter synchronicities about as often as I do in real life. I happened to read Confusion by Stefan Zweig immediately after having read Kokoro by Natsume Soseki, and the similarities between these books are uncanny. They are all the more unexpected considering that the former is a novella published in 1927 by an Austrian writer, and the second a novel published in 1914 by a Japanese writer.
Both books have three main characters: the narrator—a young man who is a student; the narrator’s friend—an elder who, in Confusion, is the narrator’s teacher, and in Kokoro, although not a teacher per se, is the narrator’s mentor and is called (by the narrator) “Sensei” (i.e., “teacher” in Japanese); and the friend’s/teacher’s wife. Both stories consist in the narrator’s ruminations about a “secret” his teacher/friend seems to have. In both, there are numerous dialogues between the wife and the young narrator whose main topic is the mysterious teacher—an enigmatic character the young narrator attempts to decipher. Even the titles have similar connotations: in Japanese, “kokoro” means both “heart” and “mind,” and its use by the narrator appears to indicate his emotional and mental confusion regarding his friend.
But the endings couldn’t be more different, and one could say that they are emblematic: in Kokoro, the “secret” has to do with a shameful act Sensei had committed in his youth; in Confusion, shame is also associated with the secret, but it is—of course!—of a sexual nature (let’s not forget, this is the period when Zweig’s compatriot, Freud, is at the peak of his career). Another difference is stylistic: Kokoro is written in a simple, straightforward way; Confusion, on the other hand, in Anthea Bell’s masterful translation, is one of Zweig’s best stylistic accomplishments.
Both stories are rather slow and monotonous, but it is a pleasant monotony, like the purring of a cat.
Notes on Books
Book reviews and occasional notes and thoughts on world literature and writers by an American writer of Eastern European origin.
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