Călătorie către curcubeu

by Yasunari Kawabata, George T. Sipos (Translator)

Tradus pentru prima oară în limba română, Călătorie către curcubeu, unul dintre primele romane publicate de Yasunari Kawabata, urmărește o familie complexă încă nevindecată de rănile trecutului. Cartea a fost ecranizată în 1956, în regia lui Kōji Shima, Kawabata semnând, alături de Toshio Yasumi, scenariul peliculei.



Într-o lume încă neașezată după cel de-Al Doilea Război Mondial, două surori – fetele arhitectului Mizuhara cu mame diferite – se luptă să-și înțeleagă soarta și să-și afle calea. Asako, mezina, care experimentează dragostea pentru prima dată, este obsedată de găsirea unei a treia surori, fiica unei curtezane din Kyōto, în timp ce Momoko, sora cea mare – bântuită de pierderea iubitului ei kamikaze și de ultimele lor zile tulburătoare împreună –, își caută alinarea într-o serie de aventuri fără speranță. Pe parcursul unui an, călătorind prin Japonia înfrântă, ale cărei splendori de arhitectură își pierd aura mitică, devenind obiective turistice sau fiind reconvertite în hoteluri, personajele încearcă să-și câștige echilibrul, restabilind „o punte între suflete“, dar și o cale de comunicare, de reînnodare a legăturilor între prezent și trecut, între viață și moarte, în descifrarea unui sens al istoriei personale și colective.

Genres: Japan, Fiction, Japanese Literature, Classics, Historical Fiction, Asia, Asian Literature

256 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1951

About the author

Yasunari Kawabata (川端 康成) was a Japanese short story writer and novelist whose spare, lyrical, subtly-shaded prose works won him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968, the first Japanese author to receive the award. His works have enjoyed broad international appeal and are still widely read today.
Nobel Lecture: 1968
http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prize...

Reviews

[Alwynne · Rating 3 out of 5]

First published in the early 1950s, Yasunari Kawabata’s episodic novel reflects its origins in serial form but also Kawabata’s preoccupation with a fragmented Japan after WW2. The narrative centres on half-sisters Momoko and Asako, the daughters of architect Mizuhara, they live with their widowed father in Tokyo. Both women have lost their mothers, Momoko’s to suicide, Asako’s to illness. Now Asako is searching for an estranged third sister rumoured to be the child of a Kyoto geisha, a quest that loosely ties the story together.

Kawabata’s style is a mixture of stiff and mannered and lyrical, drawing on aspects of Japanese poetry there’s a strong emphasis on setting and mood. Mizuhara moves between cities, forced to look for dwindling commissions in a rapidly-changing Japan, a place that, for him, seems somehow defiled, filled with once-grand buildings now hastily repurposed as shabby inns or guest houses. These examples of rebuilding are used to underline an impression of loss and a melancholy longing for long-standing, cultural traditions. Impermanence seems a feature of each characters’ experience, often symbolised by the imagery of the shifting seasons, from falling blossoms to whirling snow. Juxtaposed with these natural phenomena are memories of the events of the war, the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the foreign influences now pervading society, enhanced by a widespread, American presence.

Momoko, whose mother Mizuhara never married, is represented as the more ‘modern’ sister, sexually adventurous, but also battling trauma stemming from her childhood, the loss of her lover to war, and her liminal status within the family. Asoka is depicted as innocent, intent on holding everything and everyone together. Kawabata’s notions about gender are fairly conservative, as are his references to Momoko’s queer longings, which are linked to perversity and violence in ways I found problematic and unsettling. Although none of Kawabata’s characters are drawn as strictly realist, they seem to exist more as vehicles for his underlying themes. I was fascinated by this as a particular perspective on Japan in the years following the war – especially the detailed descriptions of architecture, custom and ritual - but ultimately less than convinced by the sisters’ respective storylines. Translated by Haydn Trowell.

[Fátima Linhares · Rating 4 out of 5]

Com uma escrita envolvente, este Arco-íris leva-nos a conhecer três irmãs, todas filhas do mesmo pai, mas de mãe e de circunstâncias diferentes. As circunstâncias do nascimento de cada uma moldam as suas personalidades e comportamentos. Temos Momoko, Asako e Wakako. A primeira mais revoltada, sobretudo depois das perdas que teve. Asako, a filha do meio, uma jovem sonhadora e preocupada com os outros, vista como a preferida do seu pai, o arquitecto Mizuhara. Wakako é menos mostrada, mas parece uma jovem simples e agradável. Este livro mostra como o passado e as escolhas de um homem podem trazer a estas três jovens personalidades e perspetivas tão distintas, moldando os seus caracteres para sempre. Se quisermos extrapolar, pode-se até dizer que este livro retrata um espécie de domínio do homem sobre a vida/destino destas três mulheres, já que foram as suas escolhas que fizeram com que as três filhas tivessem formas de estar e de agir tão díspares. Seja ou não, foi uma leitura que fluiu de forma bastante agradável.


São as pequenas ninharias que nos trazem conforto, porque são as pequenas ninharias que nos trazem dor.

[Dana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Another beautiful novel by the genius of lyrical Japanese literature, Yasunari Kawabata.

I feel as though no matter how many books of his I read, I still cannot stop experiencing the intense sense of awe from discovering hidden symbols and meanings in his prose (from the meaning of the rainbow at the beginning of the book to what each sister represents).

His works feel like treasure hunts you embark on without a map, but with vague clues, hesitantly turning every page, scared to miss out on something important, something that just might help you find what you are looking for — meaning.

[Дар’я Буря · Rating 4 out of 5]

“You can try so hard not to push your loved ones into the hell that you end up falling into it yourself”

As with every Japanese book I've read, this one also holds charming nature descriptions filled with deep meaning and tenderness along with tragic deaths and mysterious plot twists. I guess that is the unique feature of this particular type of literature and why we find such calmness and wonder in it.

I'm a fan of Momoko’s character (your girl loves to live with broken characters, what can I say). Her feminist nature and her deep sadness touched me profoundly.

I must say this is my favorite novel by Kawabats so far (oh did I just finally learn how to dive into Japanese books?)

[Chris · Rating 4 out of 5]

Een pas kortgeleden voor het eerst in het Engels vertaald werk van Kawabata dat ik o.a. voor de mooie cover niet kon laten liggen bij 'Waterstones' in Brighton. Het mocht dan niet zo beklijvend zijn als Sneeuwland of De schone slaapsters, ik raakte toch weer snel ingesponnen door de melancholische ondertoon, dat gevoelige oog voor schoonheid van landschap en verleden, de onderhuidse gevoelens en reminiscenties aan dood en zelfmoord; ingrediënten die Kawabata altijd meesterlijk weet te combineren.

De roman, ooit als feuilleton in hoofdstukken verschenen, begint net als Sneeuwland met een treinreis. Nog geen sneeuw, maar wel een regenboog boven het Biwa-meer trekt de aandacht van Asako, die aanvankelijk het hoofdpersonage lijkt, maar die rol naar het einde toe moet doorgeven aan haar halfzus Momoko. Het zijn dochters van dezelfde vader - een gerenomeerd architect, maar van verschillende moeders die allebei overleden zijn. Verder blijken ze nog een jongere zus te hebben die samen met haar moeder in Kyoto woont.

De twee zussen zijn heel verschillend en vooral bij Momoko borrelen er regelmatig heel wat onderhuidse emoties naar de oppervlakte, wat zich uit in harde, confronterende uitspraken die al haar relaties, zowel die met haar familie als die met haar vriendjes op scherp stellen, terwijl ze innerlijk kwetsbaar en twijfelend blijft. Ouder dan Asako en al meerdere malen met de dood in contact gekomen, beseft ze hoe verschillend ze zijn. Kawabata beschrijft het ergens zo: 'The memories of these two half sisters belonged to different currents, refusing to flow together.'

'The rainbow' nodigt ook uit om te gaan googelen, daar er erg veel interessante en belangrijke tempels, theehuizen en landschappen worden bezocht. De naam Hiroshige valt ook ergens en net als zijn beroemde 19e eeuwse ukiyo-e-uitgaves, zoals Hiroshige: One Hundred Famous Views of Edo, lijkt deze roman wel een soort toeristische staalkaart van Japanse bezienswaardigheden.

Daarnaast schetst het ook een beeld van de veranderingen en de verwesterende gewoonten in het na-oorlogse Japan, wat me dan weer herinnerde aan Kazuo Ishiguro's An Artist of the Floating World. Om maar te zeggen dat ook een iets mindere Kawabata nog altijd meer dan de leesmoeite waard is. Zijn The Sound of the Mountain ligt hier alvast ook nog te wachten.

[Pyramids Ubiquitous · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am very grateful to have a newly translated Kawabata novel, especially one that stands against any of his best work. All of Kawabata's standard themes are present such as examinations of tradition and convention, humanity's inevitable and unceasing interconnectedness with nature in all of life's vicissitudes, death and the influence of the dead, and realistic depictions of daily life in postwar Japan. Front-and-center is a focus on grief, guilt, and coping. Our main character Momoko tends to reject community as a coping mechanism, and it becomes instead a self-fulfilling prophecy that fuels her despondency. Hope emerges when Momoko bonds with her late lover's father over the pain and irresolution created with his death; she is forced to confront uncomfortable truths in her mirror-moment, connecting with someone whose grief and guilt is equal to hers. There's a bit more to dig into here than is standard for Kawabata courtesy of some light suggested surrealism in the form of the disorienting and ghostlike manchild Takemiya and his tendency to haunt Momoko throughout the narrative. Reading Kawabata has a sobering effect that few other authors are able to achieve, especially as consistently as he is. The Rainbow is one of Kawabata's greatest novels which bears a timely and urgent message of gratitude and hope for a world pushing deeper into geopolitical tension and danger. I'm only shocked that it took over seventy years for it to be translated and published in English.

"Trying to separate our individual fate from the people and the world around us leads only to loneliness and solitude."

"It isn't the responsibility of the living to erase the sins of the dead. Rather, we should think more about giving thanks to each other."

[Darya Zarya · Rating 4 out of 5]

About a year ago, I read Kawabata's "A Thousand Cranes" and remained utterly confused. It made some sense to me only with further book club discussion and some explanation of Japanese cultural phenomena.

My experience with "The Rainbow" has been very different. I enjoyed the narration, the dynamic plot, and the well-portrayed characters. Can't say I grasped the meaning and reasoning behind all of their actions, but overall, reading this book has been a pleasurable experience. Besides, it does a great job describing post-war Japan and the moment of a massive transformation for the country, all through the characters' dialogues and lenses.

I guess it's more of a 3.5 for me, but let it be a 4 for the time being :)

P.S. On a separate note, I just love how much Japanese life is built around contemplating nature and the seasons.

[Ann]

The story of sisters in Japan after WWII sounded interesting, but I could not get into the pace of the writing or the story. It was a little too slow and quiet (very beautifully Japanese in that sense) for me at this time.

[Steven R. Kraaijeveld · Rating 3 out of 5]

"The dead knew no wounds; these injuries of the heart existed only for the living." (197)

I thought that I had read all of Kawabata's novels translated into English, but then I came across The Rainbow and realized that I somehow missed it. It's a slow, meditative story about the architect Mizuhara and his two daughters—Asako and Momoko—by different women; and, as it turns out, the search for a third daughter—Wakako—by yet another woman. As we learn more about the characters' history, the wounds from their pasts mirror those of post-war Japan. The landscape—with the rainbow as a central image—speaks of both the ephemeral and eternal (eternally ephemeral?) nature of beauty. The novel opens with a focus on Asako's perspective but eventually shifts to that of Momoko, who becomes the dominant presence. I wish there had been more of Asako, since I found her to be the more interesting character. Overall, the novel isn't as good as some of Kawabata's others—like The Old Capital or Thousand Cranes—but the interplay between surface-level placidity and the at times rather violent undercurrent of emotions is fascinating and produces some of the novel's most compelling scenes.

"It's like they say: The beauty of a single flower is enough to reawaken one's will to live." (119)

[C. B. · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was my first foray into Japanese literature. I would classify it as dreamily melodramatic. There’s a great deal here about power, social decay, and post-war trauma. There’s a definite conservative streak in Kawataba’s understanding of these, as he finds uncertainty, violence, and a death drive (I can’t think of a less Freudian way of putting this) in post-war Japanese society. But much of what the novel is concerned with is timeless. Each of Kawataba’s romantic and familial relationships are overshadowed by a different one. They never speak for themselves, rather the characters always see their deceased mother in their girlfriend, or their deceased boyfriend in another man; for instance, Momoko sees a mysterious girl in the fair skin of her effeminately homosexual young boyfriend Takemiya (pp. 145–46) (the psychosexual drama is set at quite a high pitch). But the father Mizuhara’s escapades with multiple women and the resultant emotional family dynamics form the heart of the story. I’m glad I read this. It has an atmosphere that’s not easily forgotten.

[Ivy-Mabel Fling · Rating 5 out of 5]

Although this tale of YK's resembles the others I have read in the sense that its background is melancholy and its style often lyrical, it struck me as much more firmly based in a historical period (the years after the end of WW2). The reader learns how various members of a family have been affected by the trauma and aftermath of war: each has suffered in his/her own specific way. The aspect of Kawabata's writing that particularly fascinates me (and was very much to the forefront of this novella) is the role played by natural phenomena as symbols of mood and psychological development: above all the changing of the seasons (and the accompanying meteorological events) and the beauty of plant life, which offers stability in an unstable world.

[Platon Cristina · Rating 4 out of 5]

3,5/5
Ce avem noi în gând, japonezii au pe buze.
Majoritatea dialogurilor nici n-ar trebui să fie rostite.
Atâta "cireș" n-am mai văzut. E mare preocupare în cartea asta dacă au dat sau nu în floare.
Mai încercăm.

[Brian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Stagnant clouds that foretold snow hung low over the surface of the lake. Though they seemed to extend across the entirety of the surface, there must have been a gap somewhere out of sight, as the far shore remained lit by a brilliant band of light. In front of the rainbow, soft beams of sunlight were glistening over the water.

The rainbow rose only as high as that band of light.

It looked as if it were climbing almost directly up into the sky. Perhaps because only its base could be seen, the rainbow seemed all the wider. To trace an arc, it would have to be truly gigantic, ending very far away indeed. But of course, only the base of the one side was visible.

On closer inspection, though, Asako realized that the rainbow didn't have a base at all. Rather, it looked as though it were floating in midair. It half seemed as though it were rising out of the water, and half as though it were rising from the ground of the far shore. As she followed its arc upward, it wasn't clear whether it disappeared into the clouds or before reaching them.

The rainbow appeared all the more vivid for its being cut so short. It seemed to call out to the clouds with a sense of sorrow as it ascended into the heavens. The more she looked at it, the more strongly she was taken by the feeling.

The clouds were of the thick, leaden kind, reaching down to the far shore like dark splotches of ink hanging motionless over the horizon.

The rainbow disappeared from sight before the train reached Maibara. [6–7]

[bia]

que cambada de cornas que elas eram
e não cheguei a perceber se o gajo era mesmo uma criança ou não raios parta as metáforas

[Jennifer · Rating 4 out of 5]

Artful and graceful tale of 3 sisters and their relationship to each other, their father, and lovers and would-be lovers in post-war Japan. When the imperial past is discredited, what's left of personal and familial identity, and how would one like to define oneself in a new era?

[Mariia Ivanenko · Rating 4 out of 5]

Stunning descriptions of nature, postwar Japan that’s trying to find its footing in the new reality, family drama, family trauma, love and death. Smth like that

[Diana · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Rainbow [1951/2023] – ★★★★

Some notable Japanese authors, including Tanizaki in The Makioka Sisters and Dazai in The Setting Sun, captured the traumatic, directionless period of Japan just after the WWII, and this is Kawabata’s contribution in distilling a curious period of time that was also not without a hope for the future. This is a story of architect Mizuhara and his two daughters by two different mothers, older and rebellious Momoko, and younger and dutiful Asako. Asako has just returned from Kyoto after searching for her other half-sister Wakako without father knowing. As the family embarks on a travelling tour around Japan’s changed-by-the-war sights, unexpected meetings from the past open old wounds. There is suddenly a realisation that a distance between one’s heart and the next may be light years away, while the track from one’s heart to the past is just a blink of an eye. This unassuming story of one fragmented family is, nevertheless, full of surprising emotional depths.

Post-War State: Unhealed Wounds

The novel opens with Asako seeing a strange-to-her phenomenon outside her train window: a rainbow in winter. She is en route to her home in Tokyo from Kyoto, where her efforts to find her sister Wakako proved unsuccessful. The rainbow is also noticed by a man sitting opposite her. He is with a toddler, and they strike up a conversation. It will later transpire that that man has a direct connection to her family.

Mizuhara, Asako and Momoko later tour the sights of Japan, but the great mansions and castles, once symbols of Japanese power and importance, and which Mizuhara once helped to build, are reduced to a shadow of their former selves due to the extreme economic want. Many of them have now been converted to tourist guest-houses. The disintegrated, defeated state of Japan and the converted mansions also reflect Mizuhara’s own fractured family unit. The forced mobility, death and chaos during the war meant that now, there on his shoulders, are two daughters from two different women but no mother figure, and an encounter with a third woman from his past would send him down the memory lane. He does not really know his third daughter, Wakako, whose older sister is already an established geisha.

Kawabata’s writing of much subtlety brings to the surface Japan’s post-war guilt, shame, and confusion, capturing the essence of the country torn between its past glory and the brutal current reality as it faces the consequences of its past. As Kawabata’s characters try to pick up the pieces, the only familiar remaining point of reference for them seems to be the passage of time itself, natural phenomenon, and the changing seasons. The characters draw attention to some strange sightings in front of them, such as a rainbow or a winter cherry, an action that conveys bigger troubling issues brewing in the country and in their own hearts. The small is the reflection of the big. The rainbow, a sigh of hope for Asako on the train, also represents a bridge, a strong connection to the past that will always be there. It is also telling that, a rainbow, a beautiful natural phenomenon, is only possible after bad weather, rain or fog, symbolising a trial or a hardship.

After the war, class division lost its strength as much aristocracy became bankrupt. “I wonder whether anyone in today’s Japan can really claim to have a firm social status? It might only be people like you, carrying the weight of three other family members all by yourself, who truly know where they stand”, comments Momoko while observing a boarding house worker.

Kawabata’s prose may lull the reader into a sense of security, comforting naturalism and sentimentality, but this is quite deceptive. One may think that “nothing is happening”, and yet by the end of the book, it is evident that “everything was happening all along”. Disturbing things slither into the characters’ most innocuous conversations and pursue them into places of amusement as the past comes to haunt them. Like much of Japanese fiction, the aim here is the presentation of a situation, rather than some linear plot.

Family: The Fractured Dynamics

As in The Old Capital, Kawabata is interested in sisterly relationships and affection. The youngest family member, Asako, has the least to lose by reconnecting with the past and, therefore, is the most open to exploring the past. Among her family, she is the eagerest to explore the history and art behind the old mansions they family tours, and also wants to find her sister in Kyoto. Her innocence and inexperience are touching as she makes tentative steps to get close to Natsuji, the younger brother of Keita, Momoko’s sweetheart killed in the war. Asako represents the post-war Japan that still clings to its glorious past, honours all its traditions, and has hopes for the future.

In stark contrast, aimless, promiscuous Momoko is the reflection of Japan defeated and feeling apathetic about the future. Momoko’s affairs with numerous young men shock her family, but her erratic, self-destructive behaviour also has causes. The father, Mizuhara, explains: “when someone plays with danger, like chewing a knife, it’s because they’re harbouring a wound that’s eating them from inside”. Momoko is the one who has already experienced much since the war, including the deaths of her mother and lover. However, her past, filled with lasciviousness and carelessness, soon catches up with her, too, as she faces the consequences of her irresponsible lifestyle at the end of the novel.

Travel: Journey to the Heart

At many points throughout this novel, the characters’ travel is treated as a symbolic journeying to recapture the lost identity and make sense of the ever-evolving relationships between the characters. Father Mizuhara takes a journey into his past by reconnecting with Kikue, a mother of his third child. Momoko is also shocked to re-connect with the father of Keita, a man she loved before the war. The journeying is treated as both an escape and a reckoning. This may also explain the resistance to travel on the part of Momoko as she has the most to lose by reconnecting with her past.

Again, Kawabata’s sparse prose allows us to inhabit and savour each character’s moment and thought as the past hovers over all the characters’ actions: “with the passage of the years, he [Mizuhara] had come to doubt that joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, were deep truths of human condition. They had began to seem to him no more than small, ephemeral waves in the flow of life”. The Japanese believe that, what is understood without words, need not to be voiced, and Kawabata, whose simple narrative hides much complexity, would not put into his writing that which we have already guessed is ongoing in each of his characters’ hearts. And, anyway, it is not what we say, but what we mean, that carries the greatest weight.

Kawabata’s writing is notoriously difficult to translate to capture the full intent of the author, but Haydn Trowell seemed to have struck a delicate balance: Kawabata’s simplicity is conveyed without compromising the depth of meaning behind his characters’ cursory glances at the world around them. This is a tenderly dramatised novel of coming to terms with one’s past and place in the world.

[Sephreadstoo · Rating 5 out of 5]

ARCOBALENI IN INVERNO

"Un ponte di pietra tra le anime? Meglio allora un arcobaleno."
"Sì, è possible che il ponte che unisce due anime sia simile a un arcobaleno."

In punta di piedi Yasunari Kawabata ci introduce nella vita di una famiglia di Tokyo, nel dopoguerra, composta dal padre e due sorellastre, Asako, dolce e altruista, e Momoko, diffidente e incostante.

Non mi stanco mai di lodare Kawabata per le bellissime descrizioni che offre al lettore, soprattutto quelle legate alla natura, perché sono sempre ricche di poesia e creano metafore delicate ed eleganti. Inoltre aiutano anche a conoscere la flora giapponese; il repertorio delle bellezze naturalistiche è poesia con la penna di Kawabata.

In questo romanzo si analizzano i delicati rapporti familiari del presente ma anche del passato, in un intreccio che scorre poco fluido perché ad ogni pagina si aggiunge un ulteriore strato al passato dei protagonisti, soprattutto al passato di Momoko, che appare un'anima inquieta al confronto con Asako, nata e cresciuta in un ambiente d'amore e affetto.

[Enya · Rating 1 out of 5]

The fact that in the novel Momoko's reason for fucking young boys was that apparently since they're young they resemble girls more and she really wants to sleep with women... It's certainly.... a brand new flavour of homophobic male author bullshit. It certainly also didn't read as though the author was prepared to acknowledge these actions as rape and abuse. I know this was written in the 50s, but come on, that's so fucked up. This is why we need feminism.

Please note that I'm the first to say that a book that portrays morally reprehensible acts or contains views I fundamentally disagree with can still be enjoyed, for example the infamous Lolita is a very good book in my opinion, however this book didn't work for me and I'm not convinced its portrayal of the abuse of young boys is done particularly well or even consciously perceived as wrong, and I felt uncomfortable. The rest of the book also dragged too much for me to rate it well.

[Annisha Borah · Rating 2 out of 5]

This book was so male author writing female characters. I’m gonna chalk this up to a bad translation and give the original book the benefit of the doubt. I did really appreciate how much joy the characters got from flora and fauna and how knowledgeable they were about it. Very necessary trigger warning that there is a lot of suicide. It’s important to acknowledge that there are likely many cultural references and contexts that I didn’t understand bc I honestly don’t know that much about Japanese history.

[Amos Lamb · Rating 5 out of 5]

Definitely need to re-listen to this to fully digest it, but the prose is so lyrically dense where every word feels handpicked it’s clear to see the technical prowess on show. And the imagery of how the sister’s journeys reflect post-war Japan is masterful. Absolutely wild to me that this is the first time this novel has been translated to English given that it’s written by a Nobel Prize Winner and hardly feels like a lesser work.

[Sasha · Rating 3 out of 5]

I enjoyed how gentle a read this was whilst covering the darkness of death, family, grief and relationships. Wish I knew more about Japan because I felt like I missed a lot of the cultural context

[Wolfe Tone · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's a rare privilege to encounter a wholly new book by an author who has died half a century ago. And what a book. The characters, Momoko and her lovers especially remind me of similar characters in The Lake and Beauty and sadness, and the setting and theme has similarities with Thousand cranes. The novel that this work is most closely related to however is The Old Capital, both in its vivid descriptions of Kyoto and of its story of long lost sisters. The Rainbow however manages to surpass all of these books and in my opinion belongs among the very best works of Kawabata along Snow Country and The Sound of the Mountain. It is an absolute masterpiece. If only more of Kawabata's works would be translated.

[Ericka Clou · Rating 3 out of 5]

It's a mood, as the kids say.

[Edie Lee · Rating 5 out of 5]

“The Rainbow” reminded me of another Kawabata book, “1000 Cranes”. The latter is one of my favorites. Now I include “The Rainbow” as another.

To give a detailed description would reveal too much. So I’ll just say the story tells of three step-sisters with very different personalities. The stories intertwine with many colorful flowers, trees, old buildings and Japanese traditions. Several threads go on at once and they are artfully woven together.

I’m hesitant to say this is a *must read*. I once recommended “1000 Cranes” to my best friend and he hated it! So it’s not a book for all tastes. I’d call it a quiet yet powerful book.

[Mauro Brenna · Rating 3 out of 5]

Una storia ambientata nel dopoguerra che richiama il passato e le tradizioni giapponesi. Scritto con la maestria di Kawabata. Delicato come sempre. La storia non rientra molto in schemi occidentali e potrebbe lasciare con un senso di incompiutezza

[Rob · Rating 1 out of 5]

Translated into English for the first time only last year (2023), this is effectively a new book from an author who died in 1972. But as Mark Twain said: 'It was wonderful to find America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.'

[Belem · Rating 4 out of 5]

[Portuguese version below]

Apparently, this is Kawabata's least known or discussed book. And it is so worth reading. It shares several characteristics with others I have since read: the incomparable beauty of nature, accidental encounters on train journeys, young people entering adulthood, the relationship between (half) sisters, Japanese traditions, regional dualities (in this case, Tokyo vs. Kyoto), social classes, the "feminine condition" (a term used by the author), and geishas (here in a secondary, but relevant, role).

Added to this are the book's main themes: the post-war period and its visible scars, loss and grief, and suicide and its impact on those who remain.

The story takes place a few years after the end of the Second World War, which is mentioned, but with a certain reserve, perhaps in line with the latent trauma. The book itself was originally published a few years after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the defeat in the war, and the beginning of the adaptation to the new reality (1950-51). An architect, father of three daughters, from three mothers with distinct pasts and histories. Historic Japanese buildings caught between degradation, recovery, and the strange conversion into tea houses and inns. The weight of the parents' choices on the daughters' very nature.

But, in line with the irreducible beauty and renewal of nature and the unlikelihood of a rainbow in winter, it is also a book about recovery and hope.

Once again, Kawabata seems to leave the book incomplete. Does he leave the ending for us, the readers, to decide? Or does he avoid the sentimentalism of potential happy endings? But, as I mentioned, I read it as a message of hope, of a new beginning.

"If we try too hard not to push our loved ones into hell, we end up falling into it ourselves. (...) let's agree that the dead are to blame. (...) it is not the responsibility of the living to pay for the sins of the dead. We should, instead, think more about being grateful to one another."

(Additional Note: I still find Kawabata too 'sexist' to properly portray the motivations and emotions of young women and LGBT. But, of course, I am reading a book written over 70 years ago, and long before the feminist ideal came to be better understood. It's for these reasons and others that we must read many more women writers.)

***

Aparentemente este é o livro menos conhecido ou discutido do Kawabata. E vale muito a pena lê-lo. Partilha várias caraterísticas com outros que entretanto li: a beleza incomparável da natureza, os encontros acidentais em viagens de comboio, a entrada na idade adulta de jovens, relação entre (meias) irmãs, as tradições japonesas, dualidades regionais (neste caso, Tóquio vs. Kyoto), as classes sociais, a "condição feminina" (termo usado pelo autor), as gueixas (aqui com um papel secundário, mas relevante).

A isto acresce o que são os temas principais deste livro: o pós-guerra e as suas cicatrizes visíveis, a perda e o luto, o suicídio e os seus impactos nos que ficam.

A história passa-se poucos anos após o fim da segunda guerra mundial, que é mencionada, mas com um certo pudor, talvez alinhado com o trauma latente. O próprio livro foi originalmente publicado poucos anos após os bombardeamentos de Hiroshima e Nagasaki, a derrota na guerra, e o princípio de adaptação à nova realidade (1950-51). Um arquiteto, pai de três filhas, de três mães com passados e histórias distintas. Edifícios históricos do Japão entre a degradação, a recuperação, e a estranha conversão em casas de chá e hospedarias. O peso das opções dos pais na própria natureza das filhas.

Mas, em linha com a beleza irredutível e renovação da natureza e da improbabilidade de um arco-iris no inverno, é também um livro sobre recuperação e esperança.

Mais uma vez, Kawabata parece deixar o livro incompleto. Deixa para nós, leitores, a decisão de um final? Ou evita o sentimentalismo de potenciais finais felizes? Mas, como referi, li-o como uma mensagem de esperança, de recomeço.

(Nota Adicional: continuo a achar o Kawabata demasiado "machista" para retratar devidamente motivações e emoções de jovens mulheres e LGBT. Mas, claro, estou a ler um livro escrito há mais de 70 anos, e muito antes do ideal feminista passar a ser melhor compreendido. É por essas e por outras que temos de ler muito mais Escritoras.)

"Se nos esforçarmos muito por não empurrar os nossos entes queridos para o inferno acabamos nós por cair nele. (...) concordemos que a culpa é dos mortos. (...) não é responsabilidade dos vivos pagar os pecados dos mortos. Devíamos antes pensar mais em agradecer uns aos outros."

[Ana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Estou finalmente deixando de lado O Arco Íris. Foram 5 leituras consecutivas. E eu não sei se estou pronta, ou preciso de uma sexta leitura.

É um livro 5 estrelas. Eu amo essa justaposição das nossas melhores e piores qualidades. Eu amo a humanidade, a realidade, a complexidade dos personagens.
Tristemente, eu ainda me sinto mais como a Asako que a Momoko. Incompleta, perdida, buscando aqui e ali os sinais para seguir em relação às outras pessoas. E se eu tivesse uma Momoko na vida, eu certamente também a acharia a coisa mais fascinante do mundo, a coisa mais importante a ser protegida.
Acho que eu tenho minha Momoko. Ou meu Momoko. E o fascínio é real. E o escudo, a redoma em que eles vivem. E eles cuidam da gente, mas não devia ser o contrário? Não é isso que eles querem, mas é isso que as Asakos da vida querem. Oh, oh. Tão pessoal.
Se eu pudesse proteger o meu Momoko de tudo. Mas eles precisam sentir tudo, eles precisam sentir tudo 3, 4 vezes. A intensidade é sem fim. Eles não se sentem vivos se a dor não está lá? E eles buscam o eco dela. E nós, Asakos... Só queremos abafar tudo. Abraçar, fazer tudo passar.
As personalidades opostas são sempre as que se atraem, não é?
Se estou sendo justa com meu amado Momoko, não sei. Mas a sentimos o que sentimos, e nem sempre esses sentimentos são lógicos.

[Ryan Dickinson · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was a bit of a strange one for me. I am a big fan of Kawabata but this didn't hit me as strong as his others usually do. It felt a bit plodding and didn't grip me a huge amount.

We have his usual tropes with nature and how they become their own characters within his books; plenty of chit chit about the rainbow we encounter at the beginning and at the end, and mentioned in conversation throughout - I can only assume it is pointing us towards the metaphorical phrase 'there's a rainbow at the end'. I don't know though, as I am quite stupid.

The two main characters Asako and Momoko are both struggling for different reasons but still both interlinked with their elusive other half sister whom they've never met. They're both trying to find that rainbow in difficult post-war circumstances and irregular family ties and histories.

The book is of course beautifully written by Kawabata, he never disappoints on that level.

I would definitely recommend The House of Sleeping Beauties, The Sound of the Mountain and Snow Country before delving into this effort.