A friend sent me The Tale of Murasaki by Liz Dalby. I’d had this novel on my list to buy for a while, but other books took precedence. Once I received the book, it sat on my nightstand in “the stack” for a few weeks before I finally could get to it—I even pre-empted a couple of other books in the queue. I shouldn’t have waited so long.
The Plot
Framed by letters from Katako, Murasaki Shikibu’s daughter, to her own daughter, The Tale of Murasaki, details the life of the author of The Tale of Genji during the Heian period in 11th century Japan, frequently credited as the first novel ever written. The novel begins its chronicle of Murasaki’s life from her mother’s death when she was 15 and young “Fuji” takes over running her father’s household, in lieu of her older sister who is mentally disabled in some respect.
Fuji, later given the nickname “Murasaki” when she enters the empress’s service, takes after her father, a scholar of Chinese and poetry, with her literary frame of mind and talent for writing waka (the forerunner of haiku). She begins writing Genji tales as a way to entertain herself and a girlfriend who all too quickly moves away and is forced to marry. Fuji’s early friendships with other girls and young women often had lesbian overtones. I’m not sure if this is due to the author’s beliefs about and research into the life of Murasaki or if she’s merely describing typical 11th century friendships between young women. When describing Fuji’s relationships with women, Dalby does not write anything overtly sexual, but she does make references to “love”; whether the love between Fuji and her girlfriends is romantic or sisterly remains ambiguous. I found this aspect of Murasaki’s life simply fascinating and the book did leave me wondering. But I digress…
Fuji writes Genji tales and in her journal when her new stepmother moves into the house; she writes more when her father receives an appointment to a provincial governorship and the family moves to the countryside for a few years; she writes when she finally marries a man old enough to be her father, an arranged match, and then falls in love with her husband (an aspect of the book that I, frankly, found rather difficult to believe). She writes after the birth of her daughter and then finds herself called to the palace to serve Empress Shoshi who likes her Genji stories.
Most of the book seems to build up to Murasaki’s service to the empress, service she enters at the age of 33, well past the norm, and has to leave her six-year-old daughter in the care of her father’s household. Murasaki struggles, at various times, with her adjustment to life at court, unwanted attentions from gentlemen, her brother’s embarrassing blunders, and with her writing. At court, Michinaga, the real power behind the throne and Empress Shoshi’s father, wants to use Genji tales as a means of glorifying his reign and force Murasaki to write her tales for this end. Murasaki must also contend with the gossip and manipulations, and with the unthinkable: killing off her main character who had become an albatross.
The book winds down with Murasaki leaving the empress’s service to take the tonsure and retreat to a nunnery with a girlhood friend. Katako’s letters round out the rest of her mother’s life as she passes down her mother’s poetry and journals to her own daughter.
Elements of Style
Liz Dalby pieced together her quasi-biography based on Murasaki’s actual journals and writings. Dalby did avail herself of creative license to fill in the gaps left and to interpret the meanings of some of the poetry as it applied to Murasaki’s life (no mean feat, especially for a Westerner). Dalby definitely has a flair for writing like a Japanese person; her images of nature are beautiful and harmonious and lucidly flow page after page and yet the reader develops a sense of what a strong woman Murasaki was, flawed and often sarcastic. Dalby blends in snapshots of 11th century Japanese life, at least for the upper classes, that make for interesting reading and gives the modern reader a vivid image of the kind of person Lady Murasaki might really have been.
Dalby includes many of Murasaki’s original waka, and their approximate English translations, all the more difficult since 11th century Japanese is for native speakers like Middle English is to us. With my limited skills, I could pick out a few recognizable terms here and there, but not only was the translation greatly appreciated, I also needed the text explanations that Dalby wove in. Most Western readers, myself included, would not understand the unspoken implications of the poems otherwise.
Dalby, for some reason, decided to attempt an ending to The Tale of Genji, currently published in an incomplete form. The very last chapter of The Tale of Murasaki contains her version of the “lost” ending. Although Dalby’s ending strikes the right chord with its wording and even the events that take place, I’m still disappointed. As long as The Tale of Genji on my bookshelf did not have an ending, it could go on, as I imagine Murasaki intended to do—I like to think of her, before and after reading this novel, writing stories indefinitely.
Overall
The Tale of Murasaki is rich: rich with images, colors, flowing prose, and historical and biographical detail. Reading Dalby’s historical novel, I remember all the things that I like about Japanese literature, especially the affinity for noticing the beauty of nature, something I am guilty of overlooking in my fast-paced American lifestyle. Most of all, The Tale of Murasaki is a very fitting tribute to a fascinating woman.