Морякът, комуто морето обърна гръб

by Yukio Mishima, Юкио Мишима, Дора Барова (Translator)

Нобору е тринайсетгодишният син на овдовялата Фусако, който „членува“ в безжалостна момчешка група и определя света на възрастните като илюзорен, лицемерен и сантиментален. Когато майка му започва да се среща с помощник-капитана Рюджи, той и приятелите му първоначално го издигат на пиедестал; не след дълго обаче отсъждат, че същността му е обидно мека и романтична. За тях разочарованието от постъпките му е чисто предателство. И плануваното за това предателство възмездие е ужасяващо.

Genres: Fiction, Japan, Classics, Japanese Literature, Literature, Novels, Literary Fiction

208 pages, Paperback

First published September 1, 1963

About the author

Yukio Mishima (三島 由紀夫) was born in Tokyo in 1925. He graduated from Tokyo Imperial University’s School of Jurisprudence in 1947. His first published book, The Forest in Full Bloom, appeared in 1944 and he established himself as a major author with Confessions of a Mask (1949). From then until his death he continued to publish novels, short stories, and plays each year. His crowning achievement, the Sea of Fertility tetralogy—which contains the novels Spring Snow (1969), Runaway Horses (1969), The Temple of Dawn (1970), and The Decay of the Angel (1971)—is considered one of the definitive works of twentieth-century Japanese fiction. In 1970, at the age of forty-five and the day after completing the last novel in the Fertility series, Mishima committed seppuku (ritual suicide)—a spectacular death that attracted worldwide attention.

Reviews

[Megha · Rating 4 out of 5]

I had a slightly different review in mind until I read a little bit about Mishima's life. In light of what Mishima did to himself, I am not really sure what to make of The Sailor Who.... While it is dark, reading it I knew it was only a story. But knowing that this darkness could have emanated from Mishima's personal thoughts makes it extremely unnerving.

Fuskao, Noboru's mother, represents westernization; which Mishima despised. Noboru, a 13 year old, is more in the favor of traditional Japan. Ryuji, the sailor, dreams of a heroic death and glory, which makes Noboru worship him. Ryuji's dreams represent Mishima's own political thoughts on achieving glory for his country. When Ryuji abandons all such thoughts of heroism, Noboru reacts violently. The question is, how much of Noboru's psychology reflects Mishima's own mind. That Noboru's vileness goes unchallenged and unpunished hints towards there being some parallels.

I know The Sailor Who... was written seven years before Mishima committed ritual suicide. Also I shouldn't be drawing any conclusions based on reading a short work of fiction and one wikipedia article. But I find it difficult to view the ideas in the book and Mishima's life separately.

The gracefulness of the writing stands very much in contrast with the ominous content. His writing is very lyrical. The scene descriptions are vivid, very much like painting with words. Sunlight dances on the pages giving everything a different kind of glow. He infuses some beauty even in cringe-worthy scenes.
In the second half of the book, when story begins to take a dark turn, there is a change in the tone of the writing as well. While poetic descriptions are not completely abandoned, there are fewer of those. On approaching the ending, the story, however, seems to drag for a bit, largely because I could see what was going to happen a long way ahead. I was expecting it to generate a sense of foreboding, but that was lost.

The biggest strength of the book, in my eyes, is the treatment of Noboru's psychology. Mishima provides some perspective on a character I can never hope to understand too well. Once I can digest how disturbed a child Noboru already is, the rest will perhaps be somewhat acceptable. After all, misguided beliefs and fanatsies are not that uncommon among teenagers. Noboru's disenchantment with his hero serves as a cue that makes him lash out, turning his beliefs into something more sinister and real.

Not only Noboru, the other characters are not very relatable either. This is more like a mere peek into a world completely alien to me. Also I can't really expect to be able to view anything with the same eyes as Mishima did. I am ok with that, I think.

While characters are not fully fleshed out, Ryuji and Noboru have enough going on to let us see who they are. Fuskao, the only major female character, on the other hand was completely dis-appointing. She is introduced to us as Noboru's mother and Ryuji's love-interest, and that's about it. Other than playing these assigned roles, anything like a personality is non-existent. She does run a business of her own, but the only role she seems to play there is to buy stuff and the intricacies of the business are handled by her male associate. There is just one chapter where, of these three main characters, only Fusako makes an appearance. And she uses this stage-time to discuss her prospective husband with another woman. Isn't that what chick-lit is for?! If you are drawing a female character who is a single mother running a business of her own, why not let her have at least one original, smart thought? Why can't she be feminine, and not be hollow at the same time?

Apart from a complaint or two, I do think highly of The Sailor Who... for the most part. It is written economically, but there is lot to chew upon.

[Robin · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book features a cold band of psychopathic children, but isn't "about psychopaths". Just like Lord of the Flies isn't about psychopaths. It's a philosophical allegory about human nature.

There are miniature monsters in this book. One of them likes to secretly watch his mother in her bedroom through a hole in the wall. When she brings home a lover, he watches them have sex. Later, he performs unspeakable acts of cruelty to an animal (in practice for something larger).

I'm telling you though, since you're backing away from me with a nervous smile on your face, making polite excuses for moving on to the next review, that this book is absolutely spectacular. I've rarely read anything so gorgeous. Every paragraph knifes you with its beauty. Impales you with a precision that can only be admired. I let it have its way. I let it kill me. I'm writing to you from the afterlife.

I loved this book because I knew it wasn't "about psychopaths". Like The Stranger isn't about a psychopath. Just as Camus used the character of Meursault (who commits indiscriminate murder, and gives more thought to the uncomfortable heat of the day than to the killing) to dramatize existentialism, Mishima used his little band of merry psychopaths to illustrate Japanese nationalism, how he felt about the westernization of Japanese culture.

When you see it's philosophical, when it rises far above the structures of the story, it becomes more than something that might be relegated to the horror genre (because indeed, it is horrifying). As you sink into the hands of this fascinating writer, you realize that you too are looking through a hole in the wall just like the little psychopath, and you're powerless to look away because, goddamn it, you've been seduced.

How can something be so beautiful when it has such disturbing subject matter? Whenever I ask myself this question, I know that I've probably fallen in love (at least, in my literary life).

Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room - a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming. Full of the glitter and the frenzy of night, the horn thundered in, conveying from the distant offing, from the dead center of the sea, a thirst for the dark nectar in the little room.

[Jim Fonseca · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’m in the process of reading Mishima’s four-book cycle, The Sea of Fertility. (I’ve read the first two.) Sailor is not one of the cycle and I found it disappointing – a bit of implausibility but maybe it’s intended to be more of a fantasy.



A thirteen-year old boy discovers a peephole into his widowed mother’s bedroom and watches her have sex with a sailor. His mother, 33, and the sailor, about the same age, fall in love. The sailor leaves the sea and they intend to get married.

The boy is a member of an intellectual gang – bright 13-year-old kids, not thugs. But they turn into thugs as their leader makes them do things like kill cats and skin them. Although the boy admires the sailor and his sea stories, he also keeps a list of ways the sailor has embarrassed him in front of his friends with stupid jokes and stories and showering in the park under a drinking fountain. He shows the list to the gang. The boys are all under age 14—important because they know they cannot be charged with a serious crime at that time in Japan. The gang hatches a plot to kill the sailor.



I just found it a stretch. The blurbs say the book offers Mishima’s “…vision of the homicidal hysteria that lies latent in the Japanese character.” Really?

Older photo of the port of Yokohama, where the story is set from shippingwondersoftheworld.com
The author from carlabrahamsson.com

[Sarah · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a disturbing yet compelling read.

[Luís · Rating 4 out of 5]

This novel is still noir by Mishima, which is almost a pleonasm with this author.
The setting here is the coastal city of Yokohama. The main characters are a triumvirate of a widow with her navy-loving son and the mother's new companion, a sailor.
That concise but very dense novel made me think a little of his Majesty of the Flies of Golding, written at about the same time and with the same dark childhood vision.
Mishima is a significant author who manages to put a whole range of feelings in very few lines. Here, the outcome, cruel, tragic, easily guessed, happens quite naturally, quietly as evidence.
Another major novel by a prominent writer of the 20th century, an example for many Western novelists who, incapable of conciseness, can only commit large vulgar and oily cobblestones that we will never have the pleasure of re-reading not having enough brain time available to devote to them.
This terse novel makes it difficult to comment without deflowering much of the plot. Nevertheless, it would be wise to refrain from summarizing the book in the comments or the back cover. Instead, I made a statement to give an opinion on a book and briefly say what it is. This critique is not a summary or a reading sheet.

[ArturoBelano · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bugüne kadar yazdığım yorumları okuyanlar genel olarak kişisel duyguları eleştiriye katmadığımı fark etmiştir. Okuduğum o kadar kitaptan sonra öldüm, bittim, beni mahvetti tarzı metni anlama, anlatmaktan çok salt bıraktığı kişisel etkiyi öne çıkarmak bana yeterli ve tek başına anlamlı gelmiyor. Ama bu genel kuralın esnediği nadir anlar var ve artık o nadide eserlerin en başlarında Denizi Yitiren Denizci’de yer alıyor.

Bu kitap, Altın Köşk Tapınağı’ndan sonra okuduğum ikinci Mişima kitabıydı ve kitap bittiğinde istemsizce başka sayfalar aradım, acaba eksik mi basılmıştı, sayfayı çevirirken atlamış mıydım ve bir sürü abukluk. Marguerite Yourcenar ne güzel söylemiş; “ İnce, bıçak ağzı gibi dondurucu bir kusursuzlukta” diye. Ben o kadar edebi konuşamayacağım, dehşetli bir güzellikti her satırı ve çok az kitaba nasip olan o ritüelden o da payını aldı, masanın üzerine koydum ve alkışladım. Eserden hala kopabilmiş değilim ve o alkışın hakkını veremesem dahi birkaç kelam etmek istiyorum. Bu kişisel övgüden sonrası yoğun spoiler içerir ve bundan hoşlanmayanlarla yolumuz burada ayrılabilir.

"anlaşılan, tehlikenin ne demek olduğunu bile bilmiyorlar. tehlike deyince, gazetelerin abartarak yazdığı fiziksel anlamdaki yaralanma, biraz kan akması gibi şeyleri getiriyorlar akıllarına. bunun tehlikeyle hiç bir ilgisi yok. gerçek tehlike yaşama eyleminin ta kendisidir. hiç kuşkusuz, yaşamak, varoluşun farklılaştığı bir kargaşadır. fakat varoluşu her an aslında olduğu düzensiz haline çözümleyip ortaya çıkan endişeden hareketle, her an ilk kargaşayı yeniden yaratmaya çalışan kaçık bir eylemdir yaşamak. bu denli tehlikeli başka bir iş daha olamaz. varoluşun kendinde hiçbir korku ya da hiçbir örtülü yan yoktur, bu korku ve tedirginliği yaratan eylemdir. ve toplumda, kökende anlamsızdır; kadın erkek bir arada yıkanılan roma hamamları gibidir. okul da, toplumun minyatürüdür: bu yüzden bize boyuna buyruk veriyorlar. bir avuç kör adam, bize ne yapmamız gerektiğini söylüyor, sınırsız yeteneklerimizi paramparça ediyor."

Herhangi bir Mişima kitabını, yazarın yaşam ve düşüncesinden ayrı düşünmek ve oradan doğan dertleri eserde takip edememek eserin kavranmasında bir eksiğe yol açacağı muhakkak. Ancak bu kitap çok kişisel dertlerin, hesaplaşmaların ve politik problemlerin dışında da okura çok büyük bir haz yaşatacak bir eser. Dilinin şiirselliği, betimlemerin ve tasvirlerin mükemmelliği, psikolojik tahlillerin gücü, ve bunlarla beraber o duru anlatım akıl alır gibi değil. Bu sadelikten doğan derinlik her yazarın harcı değil. O nedenle eseri birkaç koldan okumak mümkün ve bu yanıyla genç ya da kitap kurdu her okura yaşatacağı büyük bir edebiyat hazzı var. Ben becerebildiğimce derine ineyim, bakalım nerelere kadar gideceğiz.

Denizi Yitiren Denizci iki bölümden oluşuyor,Yaz ve Kış. Yaz bölümünde üç temel kahramanımızın (anne ve sevgili Fusako, oğul ve çete üyesi Noburo ve şan şeref uğruna karaya sırt çeviren denizci-sevgili-baba Ryuji) hayatlarında her şeyin iyiye gittiğe bir döneme tanık oluyoruz. Bu iyiden ne anlaşılması gerektiğine gelince; Noburo, hayatına giren Ryuji ile bir “ kahramanla tanışmış oluyor, karanın o sinik, dejenere, baba ve öğretmenlerce iğdiş edilmiş dünyasında Ryuji denizi, yani “ bütün kötülükler içinde tek iyi olan şeyi” ,macerayı ve özgürlüğü temsil ediyor. Ama bu özgürlük hissi Ryuji’nin karada geçirdiği günler içinde azalıyor, karanın kokusu onun da üzerine siniyor ancak Ryuji yeniden sefere çıkmaya karar verince “altın boka dönüşmekten” son anda kurtuluyor. Ryuji-Noboru ilişkisindeki temel sahneyi şu kısım oluşturuyor, annesi ve Ryuji’yi odasındaki delikten izleyen Noburo, Ryuji’nin annesi ile tam sevişme öncesi bir gemiden gelen düdük sesiyle denize doğru döndüğü anı bir mucize olarak yorumluyor ve içinde taşan sıkıntı ile ��öyle diyor; “ bu kaybolup giderse dünyanın sonu demektir” diye mırıldandı. Ne denli korkunç olursa olsun, bunu yıkacak her şeyi durdurmak için elimden geleni yapacağım.” Elinden geleni ileride göreceğiz.

Fusako, kocasının 5 yıl önceki ölümünden beri yalnız yaşamaktadır ve Ryuji’nin ortaya çıkışı ile bu yalnızlı��ı son bulmuş, kendi sınıfsal pozisyonundan çok uzaktaki bu adamla yeniden aşkı tatmıştır. Ama malı-mülkü-giyimi ve Japon kültüründe kopuk yaşamıyla tam bir kara insanıdır Fusako, kişiliğiyle batıyı temsil etmekte ve bu vahşi denizciyi duyduğa aşk ile evcilleştirmek istemektedir.Bulduğu aşkı bir sefere daha çıkacak ama geri dönecektir. Fusako ne kadar batıysa Ryuji o kadar doğudur. Yenilmiş, iğdiş edilmiş, güneşin hakimiyeti elinden alınmış Japonya’sında “arkaik” düşler içinde geçirmiş gençliğini ve bu yenik coğrafydan, denizi sevdiği için değil karadan nefret ettiği için ayrılmıştır.

Lyotard 60’ların sonunda “ büyük anlatılar çağı sona erdi” demişti, lakin Japonya’nın büyük anlatısı 6 ağustos 1945’de zaten bitmişti. Ryuji’den dinliyoruz; “20 yaşındayken tutkusu kesindi. Benim kaderim bir tek şeydir o da şan ve şeref, evet şan ve şeref ! Ne tür şan ve şeref özlediğini ya da ne tür şan şerefe uygun olduğunu bilmiyordu. Sadece, dünyanın karanlıkları içinde bir yerlerde salt kendisi için var edilmiş bir ışıklı nokta olduğuna ve günün birinde bu ışığın salt kendisini aydınlatmak için yaklaşacağına inanıyordu.” Yine başka bir yerde “ benim sıradan insanlara bahşedilmeyecek özel bir kaderim olmalı” diyor ve ama binlerce mil deniz yolculukları, tropikal adalar, popüler şarkılar hiçbiri o şeref yolundan eser taşımıyordu. Fusako ile tanışmasıyla o hep arzuladığı, ölümüne kendini vereceği ve sadece ölümle anlam kazanacak aşkı sonunda bulmuştu, aradan çıkarılacak bir yolculuk kalmıştı.

Yaz bölümününde dikkat çeken diğer temel hususlar ise Noburo ve annesinin ve Noburo- çetenin şefi ilişkileri. Mişima’nın annesiyle derdi üzerine konuşacak yetkinlikten uzağım ancak Altın Köşk Tapınağı ve bu kitapta anne- oğul ilişkileri epey problemli. Tapınak’taki nefretin yerini burada aşk ve nefret ilişkisi alıyor. Her problemli anne-oğul sorununda ucuzundan oedipus kompleksi aramak gibi bir çabam yok ama yazarın Freudyen sularda ustaca gezdiği de bir gerçek.Noburo’nun özellikle annesinin ona kızdığı günlerde delikten annesini gözetlemeden uyuyamaması, Ryuji’nin suçları bölümüne “ annemle gezip beni yalnızlığa terk etmesi”ni eklemesi( sonradan bunun öznel bir problem olarak görüp listeden çıkarsada) okuru mecburen antik yunan referanslara götürüyor.
Babasız yani otoritesiz büyüyen Noburo’nun hayatının merkezinde çetesi ve onun şefi yer alıyor. Şef, edebiyat tarihinin gördüğü en nihilist karakterlerden biri olsa gerek, nihilist ama pasifist değil, şef ama güçlü değil, gruba liderlik yapışı zekasından geliyor. Yukarıda alıntıladığım cümlesinden görüleceği üzere tüm toplumsal yargılara cephe açan bu 13’lük veletin etkisinde kalan Noburo başta kahraman ilan ettiği Ryuji’ye şefin( babanın ) gözü ile bakmaya başlayacaktır.

“Bu dünyanın üzerinde boydan boya yapıştırılmış bir olanaksızlık etiketi vardır. Ve bu etiketi yırtıp atabileceklerin sadece biz olduğumuzu aklından çıkarma. Ötekiler korku kaynaklı saygıdan sustular.”

Şefin konuştuğu bir çok yerde aklım hep Mişima ve eylemine gitti, sanki yıllar öncesinden bize yapabileceklerinin sınırsızlığını göstermek, olanaksızlık etiketini parçalamak istediğini göstermek istiyor gibi. Hala kitap boyunca bahsi olunan dünyanın boşluğunu,Mişima’nın boşluk ile kasttetiği şeyi düşünüyorum. Neyse gelelim ikinci bölüme.

Bu bölümü ve esas olarak son 30 sayfasını adeta gerilim film izler gibi okudum ve ilk kitap okuduğum günlerden yadigar sorularla baş başa kaldım; “ne olacak şimdi.”

Ne olacağı biraz erteleyip olayların gelişimi ve doğurduğu düşüncelere geçelim. Kış aylarındayız, yazlık hayaller karlar altında ve hayallerin ardındaki gerçeklik gün yüzüne çıkmak üzere. “ Dünyanın hiçbir yerinde şan ve şeref yoktu” diyen Ryuji’nin dönüşü ile açıyoruz bölümü. Bir zamanlar kahramanlık, ün ve şeref düşkünü karakterimiz boyun eğmiş, karada karar kılmıştır. Ancak denizlerin hülyası varsa Japon karasının da gerçekliği var. Fusako ile birlikte alınan evlilik kararı sonrası karşımıza beyefendi (yani Avrupalı) gibi giyinen, yabancı dil (yani İngilizce) öğrenen ve müstakbel eşinin şirketine ( yani batı malları satan bir firmaya) uğramaya başlayan bir adamla karşılaşıyoruz. Bu değişim, Noburo’nun nefret ettiği sıradanlaşmış dünyaya teslim olma anlamına gelmektedir ve medeni bir babanın çektiği nasihat ile son raddesine ulaştığı yerde Noburo bağırmak ister; “ Bu adam böyle sözler edebilir mi? Bir zamanlar öylesine parlak bir kahraman olan adam bu mu” ve devam eder; “ bana bunu nasıl yapabildin?

“Fusako’nun evinde Japon stilinde bir tek oda bile yoktu. Yaşam biçimi, yılbaşı günleri dışında, tamamen batı tarzındaydı. Sadece yılbaşı günleri lake boyalı tepsilerde özel yılbaşı kahvaltısı hazırlamak ve yeni yıl onuruna saki kadehlerini kaldırmakla geleneğe uyardı”

Ryuji’nin şan ve şereften ricat ettiği yeri böyle anlatıyor yazar ve Noburo’nun suçlar listesinin en sonunda şöyle yazıyor;

“ 4- buraya geri gelmek.”

Yani Noburo’nun temel derdi, annesi ile arasına yabancı birinin girmesi değil, altının boka dönüşmesi, değerini yitirmesidir. Denizcinin bu seçimi yaparken yitirdiği esas şey denizden çok ötesidir ve Jameson’ın, Çok Uluslu Sermaye Çağında Üçüncü Dünya Edebiyat yazısında öne sürdüğü “ bütün üçüncü dünya metinleri, diyebilirim ki zorunlu olarak ve çok ozgül bir tarzda alegoriktir: biçimlerinin kaynağı roman gibi esasen batılı temsil araçlarına dayandığında bile, hatta bilhassa boyle durumlarda ulusal alegoriler olarak okunmalıdırlar” tezi oldukça yerindedir.

Hızlananlım biraz; Noburo’nun “ ne denli korkunç olursa olsun bunu durdurmak için elimden geleni yapacağım” dediğini görmüştük. Kahramanının son hali ve suçlarının listesini gruba açıkladığında şef şöyle der; “ onu yeniden kahraman yapmak ister misin?

Altın Köşk Tapınağı için mutlu sonla bitiyor yorumu yapmıştım, bu kitap için de aynı yorumu yapacağım. Anne- Sevgili- patron ve hepsinden çok batı değerlerinin ayaklı temsilcisi Fusako hariç bu kitap tüm karakterler için buruk bir mutlu sonla bitmiştir. Bu mutluluğu açalım biraz.

Onu yeniden kahraman yapmayı her şeyden çok isteyen Noburo, çetesi ile birlikte Ryuji’yi öldürmeye karar verir ve onu arkadaşları ile buluşmaya ikna eder. Bu buluşmaya Ryuji beyefendi kıyafetlerini çıkarıp o eski denizci kıyafetleri ile gelir. Çocuklara her şeyden habersiz denizcilik anılarını anlatırken vazgeçtiği yüceliğin farkına varır, şan ve şeref yolunda kahramanlık arzularıyla geçen bir ömürden geriye kalanın muhasebesi yapılır; “Ürkütücü ölüm artık istemiyordu kendisini. Hiç kuşkusuz yücelikte de sırt çevirmişti ona. Duygularının getirdiği şarhoşluk. O delici acılar, o sıcak ayrılışlar. Yüce Dava’nın çağrısı, tropik güneşinin bir başka adı ve kadınların gözyaşları, özlemler, onu erkekliğin doruğuna iten o tatlı güç, artık bunların hepsi bitmişti.” Bu anlamda, bu sonla denizcinin o hep aradığı ama nerede olduğunu bilemediği yücelik onu tam da ondan koptuğu yerde bulmuş ve düşlerini son anda gerçek kılmıştır. Ryuji’nin gizli isteği, Noburo’nun eylemiyle iç içe geçmiştir. Noburo’da mutludur zira o adamı düştüğü boktan alıp tekrar kahraman yapmış, dünyanın üzerindeki olanaksızlık etiketini yırtıp atmış, konuşmaktan başka bir işe yaradığını şefine ispat etmiştir.( ah ulan mişima Allah müstehakını versin, sanki olanaksızlığa gelecekteki müdahelesini anlatıyor). Şef mutlu mu onu bilmiyorum işte, muhtemelen umurunda da değildir, sonuçta dünyanın boşluğunu 13 yaşında kavramış bir çocuk ne kadar mutlu olabilir ki.

Bu yazıya tahammül eden okura son olarak şunu söylemek isterim; benim yaptığım okumaları boş verin, bu kitap bunların edebiyat olarak çok ötesinde. Hemen hiç vakit yitirmeden bu kitabı alın, okuyun ve Mişima’nın Japon edebiyatının en tanınmış yazarı değil,1950 sonrası dünya edebiyatının en önemli kalemlerinden biri olduğunu görün. “İyi uykular yavrum “”ile başlayıp,” daldığı düşten ayılmadan” la biten bu kitap uykularınızı mı kaçıracak düşlere mi daldıracak ona da siz karar verirsiniz artık.

[Tim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Given the publishing industry's recent obsession with YA, I can't help but wonder how this book would be marketed if published today. Would they hype up the teenager angle? Would it be advertised as "Lord of the Flies" meets "The Hunger Games" even though there is nothing Hunger Games like about it really, but advertisers do love a good buzz title.

Speaking of titles, this one may have my favorite title ever: The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea. I remember first seeing this title as a kid in a video rental shop and seeing a VHS of the film adaptation. I've never seen the movie, but man, that title stuck with me. Even as a kid it sent my mind wandering… perhaps fitting given that the title seems to be from the point of view of one of our teenage characters in the book.

The plot is simple: Noboru is a teenager. He belongs to something of a club of fellow like-minded nihilistic teenagers, who take your usual teenage angst and dreams of better things (while knowing that the world sucks and probably isn't worth it… come on, you remember being a teenager, right?) and ramp it up to eleven as they decide to act on their philosophies and ignore the rules of society (bit of a warning here, those who can’t stand to read about anything bad happening to animals, may want to give this one a skip).

One night his mother brings home a sailor. At first Noboru is enamored with him. He is after all everything Noboru dreams of being. He's your classic "man's man," separating himself away from society and living on the sea. He goes where the ship takes him, he works, he dreams of glory.

He's also tired. Very, very tired. It's about time for him to settle down… but will this betrayal of all that Noboru's beliefs stand?

Nay.



Alright, so, this is not a cheery book. Just a heads up, it is depressing as hell… and it is wonderful.

This is a book that really seems so simple when you're reading it, but there's just so many things to unpack (far more than I'll even attempt to tackle in this review). This is a book about post-American occupation of Japan, this is a book about looking back at what Japan lost with WWII, this about the atrocities people commit and justify, this is about moral codes… and what happens when you force those codes upon others. The book is only 182 pages and yet it packs so much into everything.

I noticed when looking on here that the majority of my friends don't care for it too much ( a lot of three stars or lower), though of course some do love it. I understand both points of view. In some ways I think this is a very hard book to like. It's… mean and unpleasant. Honestly though? I loved it. I debated about the star rating for some time. On one hand I knew it was easily my favorite Mishima book I've read thus far… but was it really deserving of five stars? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that yes, to me it is.

5 bitter, angry and jaded stars out of 5.

[Parthiban Sekar · Rating 4 out of 5]

THE SAILOR – THE GLORY

Glory, as anyone knows, is bitter stuff. What glory is there for any sailor whose life is besieged by the vast and open sea? Vast but not open, as there are occasional traces of clouds shrouding the openness he longed for. Open but not vast, as the storm often come encroaching on his territory and posing a threat on his-otherwise-serene life. His Life and sea have become inseparable. Thinking of life beyond her seems abysmal to him. Impelled by his desire for glory, he continues sailing to distant harbors and seas.

There is no glory to be found. Disillusionment slowly and unknowingly start gnawing his yearning for glory. The thought of settling for an earthly life seems appalling, blowing off the gentle light which awaits him for his prophetic glory. But, then comes a lady, Fusako (who lost her husband few years ago. So, categorically a widow having a 13-year old son), like a bright sun on a gloomy day. But not all clouds have withdrawn yet; Storms await eagerly for his departure like vultures waiting on cliffs for their prey. The sun is not just enough. He longs for storms on sunny days, but he misses the sun on rainy days.

He has changed; He is a new man. He belongs neither to the sea nor to the land. There is no solace for his solstice. Blinded by his earthly love, he is ready to abandon his glory and his first love – the sea, not knowing what awaits him on the land. Ryuji set sailing towards the shore hoping for a new life which, he believes, will free him.

THE SON – THE FALL

“The sailor is terrific! He’s like a fantastic beast that’s just come out of the sea all dripping wet.” , thinks Noboru, the son of Fusako. The sailor has become someone who this kid greatly admires. The intimacy between his mother and the sailor has grown stronger and closer. He finds a peephole, not just allegorically, which gives him access to their cohabitational world. But the world in which the sailor and Fusako lived made him feel disgusted. The insignificance and unworthiness of their coital activities alienated him farther from their world.

“It is a trap – a rabbit trap. A hideously subtle trap: the rabbit, ensnared, is no longer a rabbit” . Now, what brings him to the land in this dandy western attire (chosen by his mother). It is so strange, he thinks, like his mother’s bedroom into which he sneaked, when she was away.

PEVERSION AND PRESERVATION

“Don’t you realize that there is no such thing as hero?” The sailor who, once, he admired as hero begins to falter. The grace and honor of Ryuji which once was stronger (like the sea wave) and roaring (like a majestic tiger), he thinks, now has become like a sea-foam abandoned on the shore and a cry of a kitten smacked against a log.

“Trying to force maturity on a thirteen-year-old boy. Maturity or Perversion.” Noboru grows disquieted in the world which his parents, teachers, and leaders have created for him. The vast gaps and the emptiness in it make him lose faith in the filthy humanity (as he sees it). Noboru feels that he has to preserve the glory. The sailor sees that glory “knifing toward him like a shark from some great distance”

“And the world, as you know, is empty.” Is there any happiness in this world, in true sense? Happiness that defies description. Noboru takes the sailor with him to make him aware of how incorrigible his decision to return to the land is and how egregiously he reacted when Noboru's innocence was shattered behind the peephole...

--
I tried not to reveal most of the elements of the story which would either surprise or disturb the reader. In fact, Noboru is the protagonist. But the sailor is the one who makes him the protagonist. Hence, my view is totally from the sailor’s perspective. This story has a lot of things which we wouldn’t agree or even despise. Nevertheless this story is really important for everyone, if I may say, all parents (though I am not one)!

[Loretta · Rating 1 out of 5]

This book was, simply put, horrible. I struggled to finish it. I was creeped out reading how Noboru, the thirteen year old boy of the story, watches his mother through a "peep hole" getting dressed and having sex with her boyfriend. If that wasn't creepy enough, now I had to endure the graphic details of how he and his friends, who cheer him on, disgustingly mutilate and kill a cat. At that point I was truly done, but I did read on realizing that the ending was exactly what I thought it would be. If there was some hidden meaning, or not so hidden meaning, between the pages, it fell flat on me because I was way too creeped out to really care.

Note to anyone who thinks they may want to read this book. You really have to have a very strong stomach to get through how they kill the cat. It was very painful.

[B0nnie · Rating 4 out of 5]

The title The Sailor Who Fell from Grace With the Sea is a poetic rendering of the Japanese, 午後の曳航, literally "Afternoon's Towing". The English translation is done much in the spirit of Remembrance of Things Past ( A la recherche du temps perdu = "In Search of Lost Time"). It's evident (in the titles at least) that something is gained in translation as well as lost.

We know then, at any rate, that we are going to have a very imperfect understanding of this book. And even if we know Japanese history, know something of Mishima's life, know his personal use of symbols and allusion - all these hover around the writing merely as clues to the "WTF" shock of this story and to the allegory contained within.

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace With the Sea is a simple story. It is not an easy story. There is power here, but be warned: it's not all pretty kittens and seascapes. Rather, it's a tearing apart of - what? Contentment? Surfaces? Materialism? Or maybe just anything that makes us forget what we are.

There's a disturbing scene, meant to kill the tender feelings of the participants. They become hardened against the flesh, the blood, the organs. The mortal coil unwinds.

Hard heart, hard heart.

Was it done to the characters, or done to us?

I think of X. Trapnel's maxim, "Reading novels needs almost as much talent as writing them." Perhaps it needs courage too. I'm not a brave reader, but a writer will sometimes grab you by the head and force you to look at things you don't want to see.

And you do look: the writing is lyrical and it is beautiful.

However the characters are stiff and wooden, their roles each neatly carved out by Mishima. Are they supposed to be masks, types, everyman?

The sailor, Ryuji, is convinced that he is destined for glory.

"He could feel the horn probing deep inside him, rousing his passion for the Grand Cause. But what was it? Maybe another name for the tropical sun."

The boy, Noboru, is convinced of his own greatness. He follows the gang leader, "the chief" who has "a smile as brittle as fine glass crystal, and very dangerous."

And Fusako the mother, the widow, the lover. So easily brought to tears. She studies herself in the mirror as if asking, who am I? She is caught between running a business, and quiet domestic life - doing embroidery, worrying about her son. When she "had brushed against reality" it is "something she dreaded more than leeches."

She arouses a conflict in Ryuji. His will is weakening.

"For Ryuji the kiss was death, the very death in love he always dreamed of. The softness of her lips, her mouth so crimson in the darkness he could see it with closed eyes, so infinitely moist, a tepid coral sea, her restless tongue quivering like sea grass… in the dark rapture of all this was something directly linked to death. He was perfectly aware that he would leave her in a day, yet he was ready to die happily for her sake. Death roused inside him, stirred."

Perhaps Fusako is something worse for her son - for what created Noboru? Here, I'm not even sure of the questions, never mind if there are answers. Again, some disturbing scenes. It's related to the connection between him and her room, giving light - or sometimes not:

"The room as a whole, feverish with a vestige of the noon heat, was as black as the inside of a large coffin, everywhere a shade of darkness, and alive with jostling particles of something Noboru had never seen, the blackest thing in all the world."

The world is empty.

Noboru has a problem with Ryuji, and he takes it to the gang.

They scheme.

Make him a hero again... a useless thing, a father…no return to the Tepid towns of men...

And Mishima grabs hold of you, forces you to look. Maybe you're not sure what it is that he makes you see, but you won't like it.

Glory is bitter stuff.

[Mevsim Yenice · Rating 5 out of 5]

İlk Mishima okuma serüvenim "Denizi Yitiren Denizci" ile oldu. Kafamı toparlayabilirsem birkaç şey yazmak istiyorum hakkında. Öncelikle yol boyunca sürekli kitabın başından kalkıp durdum ben. Genelde okuduğum ve izlediğim bir şey beni çok etkilediğinde yapıyorum bunu. Söze bununla başlamışken, kitabın başında kalktığımda da hakkında düşünmeye devam etmekten kendimi alıkoyamadığımı söyleyerek devam etmek, en doğrusu olacak sanırım.

Öyle çok yerine hayran bıraktı ki, hangisinden başlayayım bilmiyorum. Doğu-batı kıyası için bu kadar göze sokarak verilecek iki örneği(kadın-erkek) bu kadar güzel yedirerek alttan alta yapması, bir denizicinin denizci olmayı seçmesindeki esas nedeni "denizi sevmesi değil", "karadan nefret etmesi" şeklinde oluşturarak ters köşe ve vurucu müthiş bir roman temeli atmış olması, hayatın boşluğunu 13 yaşındaki bir grup ergen çocuğun öğretisiyle ve toyluğuyla (ki toyluk çoğu zaman bir konu hakkında kirlenmemiş bir bilgelik halidir şüphesiz) tekrar tekrar algılatması, kişisel olarak her seferinde baba ve tanrıyı terazinin birer ayrı kefesine koyup tarttırması ve her seferinde hesabın kitabın şaşırtan muazzam benzerliğine şahit etmesi beni, anlatımdaki sadeliğin "sadelik gelinen en üst seviyedir" tezini ispatlaması, edebiyatta defalarca kez ele alınmış Oidipus Kompleksi'nin bir çekmece deliğinden annesine kızdığı günlerde onu gözlemleyerek verilmesi zerafeti ve insanın boğazında beton etkisi yaratan o muazzam sona yaklaşırken "denizi yitiren denizci" nin yitirdiklerini başka türlü görmeye başladığı o büyülü gerçekçi anın verdiği masalsı keyif! son cümleyi okuduktan sonra çevirecek bir sayfa daha arayışım ama bulamayınca daha da yumruk yemiş gibi oluşum. Hepsi harikaydı.

Şiddetle tavsiye ediyorum.
10/10

[Carol · Rating 2 out of 5]

It must be me, not him. Had the author been anyone other than Mishima, I would have abandoned this novel immediately after the intentional, cruel murder and mutilation of a kitten.. But instead I continued and finished it and wish I could recover my time. Heresy, I understand.

See my GR friend, Algernon's, review at this link. He captures my thoughts precisely.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

[Fernando · Rating 3 out of 5]

“Claro está que vivir no es más que el caos de la existencia, y más aún: es el afán loco y erróneo de ir desmantelando instante a instante la existencia hasta ver restaurado el caos inicial.”

Nunca había leído a Mishima, pero aquí en Goodreads siempre me tomo el tiempo para ver qué es lo que leen mis amigos lectores. Simplemente hago click en la opción “Compare Books” para saber qué afinidad literaria tenemos, sobre todo cuando me envían una solicitud de amistad (solicitud que siempre acepto, de todos modos) y me encontraba que muchos lectores habían leído algún libro de este interesante autor japonés (y su más que interesante vida).
Entonces, aunque no soy de solicitar recomendaciones lo solicité en mi status y me acercaron varias propuestas. Entre todas ellas, la que más me atrajo fue la de este libro.
En lo que respecta a la literatura japonesa sólo he leído a un autor que admiro mucho y que recomiendo, por su fuerte similitud con unos de mis preferidos, Franz Kafka.
Me refiero al genial Kobo Abe. De los restantes autores no estoy muy interesado puesto que las temáticas que abordan no son de mi agrado o estilo de lectura.
Un caso puntual es el de Haruki Murakami. Con ese autor me sucede lo mismo que con otros tantos que no despiertan mi curiosidad por leer sus obras.
Confieso que esta corta novela de Mishima me ha gustado. Más allá del triángulo que plantea entre el marino Ryuji, Fusako y el hijo de ésta, Noboru, lo que tiene de atractiva la historia es cómo Mishima la trabaja en dos planos bien cortados y en contrapunto que se unen y separan constantemente.
Un aspecto de destacar en la narrativa de Mishima es que su prosa es como un oleaje. Las palabras fluyen, van y vienen. Mecen al lector sin cansarlo y lo llevan adelante en la historia que no es para nada aburrida y por sobre todas las cosas poseen un profundo lirismo, belleza y armonía. Parece como que el autor elige las palabras correctas, la adjetivación justa y los diálogos efectivos para que todo el proceso de lectura en conjunto siga la misma sintonía.
Creo que Mishima centra gran parte de la novela en los personajes de Noboru y Ryuji, dejando a Fusako un poco más atrás. La relación entre Noboru y su madre es compleja, le cuesta integrarse con Ryuji y es dominado por el jefe de su violento grupo de amigos, quien lo influenciará negativamente.
Ryuji está en la disyuntiva de seguir haciéndose a la mar o quedarse definitivamente en tierra con Fusako y ella tiene bien en claro qué quiere para su vida aunque como se trata casualmente de la vida misma, las cosas no salen siempre como ellos quieren.
Lo que más me impacta de la novela es cómo planea Mishima su final. Realmente no me lo tenia esperado, pero bueno, de eso se trata casualmente: algunos autores tienen ese halo de maestría que como en el caso de Mishima, los hace tan únicos y especiales.

[Algernon · Rating 3 out of 5]

[7/10]

It is a generally accepted fact that teenagers are weird, all over the world, and all over the ages. Somehow, Japanese teenagers manage to be ten time weirder than the norm, and 13 years old Noboru is a prime example:

He never cried, not even in his dreams, for hard-heartedness was a point of pride. A large iron anchor withstanding the corrosion of the sea and scornful of the barnacles and oysters that harass the hulls of ships, sinking polished and indifferent through heaps of broken glass, toothless combs, bottle caps, and prophylactics into the mud at harbor bottom - that was how he liked to imagine his heart. Someday he would have an anchor tattooed on his chest.

Noboru has fallen in with a gang of young nihilists, all of an age, believing themselves infinitely wise and incorruptible, rising above the petty concerns of mundane living into the lofty spaces of pure intellect. This group philosophy is coming into conflict with his more natural inclination for adventure and discovery of unknown territories, illustrated in Noboru's enthusiasm for everything related to shipping. As the Kuroda family, Noboru and his mother Fusako, live in the port city of Yokohama, this passion is easily sustained, leading to the opening scene of the novel: mother and son visit a cargo trawler and meet there with Ryuji Tsukazaki, an officer on the ship.

That was their first encounter. She would never forget his eyes as he confronted her in the corridor. Deep-set in the disgruntled, swarthy face, they sought her out as though she were a tiny spot on the horizon, the first sign of a distant ship. That, at least, was the feeling she had. Eyes viewing an object so near had no business piercing that way, focusing so sharply - without leagues of sea between them, it was unnatural. She wondered if all eyes that endlessly scanned the horizon were that way. Unlooked for signs of a ship descried - misgivings and delight, wariness and expectation ... the sighted vessel just barely able to forgive the affront because of the vast reach of sea between them: a ravaging gaze. The sailor's eyes made her shudder.

Without Noboru as a critical disruptive element, the story could have developed into a lovely, delicate romance of two solitary people meeting like ships on the immensity of the ocean and weaving their fate together. Fusako is still mourning her husband while taking care of a very succesful fashion business. Ryuji is getting on in years, and his early enthusiasm for the ascetic and demanding life of a commercial sailor is beginning to fade. Mishima has an uncanny talent for multilayered metaphorical phrases, rich in symbolism, transforming his actors into archetypal figures. It is easy to see Ullyses in the wandering Ryuji and Penelope in the level-headed, faithfull Fusako:

Since dark antiquity the words have been spoken by women of every caste to sailors in every port; words of docile acceptance of the horizon's authority, of reckless homage to that mysterious azure boundary; words never failing to bestow on even the haughtiest woman the sadness, the hollow hopes, and the freedom of the whore: "You'll be leaving in the morning, won't you? ..."

The sea itself becomes part of the story, maybe the best use of metaphor here for the dreams and aspirations and states of mind of the characters: the widowmaker in the eyes of Fusako, the ever changing mistress in those of Ryuji, the siren song in the ears of Noboru, both the ultimate cleanser and the garbage collector in the minds of the teenage anarchists.

It was the sea that made me begin thinking secretly about love more than anything else; you know, a love worth dying for, or a love that consumes you. To a man locked up in a steel ship all the time, the sea is too much like a woman. Things like her lulls and storms, or her caprice, or the beauty of her breast reflecting the setting sun, are all obvious. More than that, you're in a ship that mounts the sea and rides her and yet is constantly denied her. It's the old saw about miles and miles of lovely water and you can't quench your thirst. [Ryuji]

The feeling of witnessing a Greek tragedy unfold is reinforced every time the point of view switches to Noboru and his Oedipal obsessions - killing the father, sleeping with the mother. Add a touch of Holden Caulfield and a pinch of Rodion Raskolnikov and you end up with an explosive mix of teenage angst:

There's no such thing as a good father because the role itself is bad. Strict fathers, soft fathers, nice moderate fathers - one's as bad as another. They stand in the way of our progress while they try to burden us with their inferiority complexes, and their unrealized aspirations, and their resentments, and their ideals, and the weaknesses they've never told anyone about, and their sins, and their sweeter-than-honey dreams, and the maxims they've never had the courage to live by - they'd like to unload all that silly crap on us, all of it!

I was conflicted myself in my reaction to the novel. I liked the prose of Mishima well enough, although not as much as Murakami or Kawabata (may be due to the translation), and I admired the way he mixed the contemporary story with the archetypal images of mother, son, wanderer. I may be reading too much in the story, probably due to a parallel lecture of Joseph Campbell on myths and psychoanalysis, but I like to think Mishima did it on purpose. Most of my issues come from wanting to beat the crap out of Noboru, despite some uncomfortable memories of being myself a wiseass and a major pain to my parents at 13. And from a reluctance to subscribe fully to the Japanese preoccupation with death and predestination. Lastly, I very much prefer the original title : Afternoon Towing to the cute choice of the English publisher.

Would I try another Yukio Mishima book? yes, probably, but not as a priority.

[Argos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Öncelikle bana Yukio Mişima okumamı öneren kitap dostlarım Deniz Balcı ve Bern’e yürekten teşekkür ederim. Şimdiye kadar Mişima okumamış olmanın bir eksiklik olduğunu net olarak belirtmeliyim. Kitabın konusunu anlatmak gereksiz, ancak bu kadar etkileyici anlatıma, benzetmelere, olay ve mekan tanımlamalarına çok az yazarda rastladığımı itiraf edeyim.

Bu kadar şiirsel ve duru anlatımla insanın ruhuna girmek nasıl olur gerçekten şaşırtıcı. Gemideki yemek salonunun anlatımı, fırtınanın gemiyle beraber insandaki etkisinin birlikteliği, basit bir öpüşme bu kadar mı güzel anlatılır? Sade anlatım dediysem sakin anlatım demek istemedin. Bir gerilim romanının sürükleyiciliğini de, bir aşk hikayesinin renkliliğini de birlikte okuyorsunuz.

“O sırada iskele yönünden bir gemi düdüğünün hafif sesi geldi, bahçenin üzerine çöktü. Ses ince bir sis kadar belirsizdi.” Sesin sisle uyumundaki etkileyiciliği, bundan önce Yaşar Kemal’in Çukurova’nın havasını tanımlayan “sarı sıcak” tanımında hissetmiştim.

Roman kahramanlarının beş, bilemedin on kişi olması kitabı takipte büyük kolaylık sağlıyor. Üç ana kahraman, dört-beş yardımcı karakter. Ne kadar çok kişi ya da isim girerse romana o kadar zorlaşıyor takip etmek (Yüz Yıllık Yalnızlık, Yazı Tura gibi..) Mişima’da sevdiğim bir başka yön, bazı sözleri veya düşünceleri aynen söylenmiş gibi aktarması ama bunları söyletmemesi. Bu sözler hep psikolojik tahliller içeriyor.

Mişima’nın hayatını okuyunca Samuray’lara öykünecek kadar muhafazakar-milliyetçi hatta faşist ideallere sahip bir insanın nasıl böyle bir incelik, duyarlılık ve zarif kaleme sahip olduğunu bir türlü anlayamadım. Çünkü Denizi Yitiren Denizci’yi yazan bir kalemin insan ve doğa sevgisi ile dolu olması, romantik derecede hümanist olması, şiddet ve otoriteden nefret etmesi gerekir diye düşündüm.

Yaşamını, yaşamını sonlandırışını, politik
düşüncelerini ve dünya görüşünü bir tarafa kaldırıp koydum. Şimdi öbür kitaplarını merak ve beklentiyle okuyacağım.

Kitap dostları siz de Yukio Mişima’yı keşfedin. Ayrıntı istiyorsanız ArturoBelano’nun bu kitap ile ilgili yorumunu okuyunuz lütfen.

[Jaguar Kitap · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Daldığı düşten ayılmadan, ılık çayı başına dikti. Çay buruktu. Bilirsiniz, buruk olur tadı yüceliğin.”

Japon yazarları arasında belki de en özgünü Yukio Mişima’dır. Özellikle Haruki Murakami’den sonra başlayan yeni Japon edebiyatına alışık olanların tuhaf karşılayacağı bir yazardır Mişima. Hem kitapları hem de kendi yaşamı ile tam bir vakıâdır. Üç kez Nobel′e aday gösterilmiştir.

Türkçeye yaklaşık 30 yıl önce ‘Denizi Yitiren Denizci’ adıyla çevrilen romanı (Orijinal adı Gogo No Eiko -İkindi Zaferi-) tüm kitapları içinde özel bir yere sahiptir. Hatta birçok kişiye göre en iyi yapıtıdır.

“İyi uykular yavrum,” gibi basit ve güzel bir cümleyle başlayan roman sonunda dönüp dolaşıp yine uykuya dalan bir adam ile bitiyor… Sonsuz uykuya.

Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca’nın “Çocuklar Korkunç Allahım” adlı şiirini akla getiren romanda elebaşları Noburu önderliğindeki çocuklar gerçekten korkunçtur.

Kocasını kaybettikten sonra bir denizci ile yaşamını birleştiren bir anne ve onun oğlu Noburu. Oğlunun gözünde bu adam denizdeki fırtınalara göğüs geren bir kahraman, dünyanın kadın, seks vb. gibi basit ve aşağılık zevklerine aldanmayacak kadar bir erkekti. Babasını küçük yaşta kaybetmiş Noburu’nun (Yüce Samurayların bombalanmış, savaşı kaybetmiş ülkesi Japonya) gözünde böyle yüce olan denizci ne var ki denizleri bırakıp, kadınlar ile beraber olacak, romantikleşecek kadar sıradan, basit bir adama dönüşerek çocuğu büyük bir hayal kırıklığına uğratır (Samuraylar gelmeyecektir, Japonya boyun eğmiştir). Ama yine de ümitsiz değildir Noburu: o ve çetesi bu ihanetin (Kendisini yakıp yıkan düşmanlara –Batıya-hayran olan Japonya’nın ihaneti) intikamını alacaktır. Alır da.

İşin ilginç yanlarından biri, bu kadar sert bir romanda Mişima Japon ve dünya edebiyatının en hüzünlü, şiirsel ve yorgun kahramanlarından birini yaratmıştır: Ryuji. Yorgun, savaşmayı, mücadeleyi bırakıp eve kapanan bir Odysseus’u kabul etmeyen çocukların öldürdüğü Ryuji.

Mişima’nın yazdıkları mı daha kurgu kendi yaşamı mı, yarattığı roman karakterleri mi daha gerçek kendisi mi daha bir roman karakteri bir türlü karar veremez insan. Özellikle son yıllarında samuray kıyafetleri ile dolaştı, etrafına yüzlerce mürit topladı ve sonunda tıpkı bir zamanlar ulaşılmaz ve yenilmez bir kahraman olarak hayal edilen Ryuji’nin çocukları hayal kırıklığına uğratması gibi, batıya sadece savaşta değil manen teslim olmuş Japonya’nın kendini hayal kırıklığına uğratmasına, ihanet edilmesine dayanamadı ve bir askeri üssü basarak önemli bir komutanı esir aldı,- o gün evinden çıkıp üsse giderken arabası kızının gittiği okulun önünden geçerken "İşte, filmlerde hüzünlü müziğin çaldığı an" dediği rivayet edilir- balkondan ülkesine ve dünyaya son kez seslendi ve kendisi en azından başka çocukları hayal kırıklığına uğratmadan kırk dört yaşında kendi canına kıydı. Mişima bir samuraydı.

Not: Bu yazı, yaklaşık 17 yıl önce İzmir'de artık kapanmış olan yerel bir gazetede yayımlanmış yazının kısaltılmış halidir.

[Steven Godin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Of all the Japanese writers that I've read, Mishama is the one I've struggled with the most. Not because he isn't a good writer, he most certainly is, and I really like his prose, it's just it's difficult to get inside the heads of some of his cold minded protagonists, leaving me questioning some of their actions (similar to that of Temple of the Golden Pavilion). Noboru here is another one, even though he is just a thirteen-year-old kid. There is a scene roughly halfway through the novel when a small kitten gets bashed to death, and from this point on (as a cat lover) I just couldn't shake it off. It affected the way I looked at the whole novel.

In basic terms The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea is a compelling yet disturbingly psychopathic look at corrupted youth. Some things I admired about it, somethings I didn't.
Much preferred 'The Sound of Waves' over this.

Don't really feel like writing a more detailed review today, for obvious reasons.

Stay well folks. As best as you possibly can anyway.

[Dannii Elle · Rating 4 out of 5]

This eerie yet mesmerising little novel recounts, on the surface level, a sailor's relationship through the eyes of his new beloved's teen son, Noboru. In reality, this novel betrays so much more about a nation's way of thinking about and viewing the world, and the disruption of this when increasingly westernised modes of living interfere.

The sailor, to teen Noboru, represents glory, valiance, and the independence of spirit. Noboru belongs to a band of peers with extremely traditional opinions on the concept of valour and combine with this the pressure to separate emotion from action; they view the world through coolly-glazed eyes and work on constructing a mentality to match. When the sailor fails to deliver to them the illustrious figure constructed largely from distance and imagination, harsh measures are enacted against him for these envisaged failures.

Despite being quite a slow-moving work, this felt doused with an ominous air that added tension to every taut movement and suspense to every drawn-out, heat-soaked day that passed without incident. With this minimal action, focus is issued to the mentality of the limited characters involved in this tragic saga. It is an interesting insight to a culture and time period, as well as to the individuals themselves.

Despite the harrowing subject confronted, the writing was of pure and sublime beauty. The juxtaposition of the two only served to heighten their extremes and ensured I was captivated and entranced throughout.

[Michael Finocchiaro · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of Mishima's shorter stories but it is so beautifully and heartbreakingly written that you almost wish it would be longer. My no-spoiler rule prevents me from giving you any details but if you loved The Old Man and the Sea and want to read a Japanese variation on the sea tragedy that is also a psychological study, you will love this one. The Mishima universe is a wonderful one to explore and this is a great place to start.

[Ed · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea is a very short novel, but it does not feel hurried. It is deeply sensitive, immersive and introspective. The writing is disturbing, filled with subtle metaphors of hidden significance. The novel is an exploration of masculinity, and a coming-to-terms with the varied and often contradictory expectations of manhood. It makes no assertions: the implications of the story and its powerful ending are left for the reader to ponder.

I am intrigued by Mishima's life, and the extraordinary circumstances of his death. I hope to return to his writing soon.

[Hazal Çamur · Rating 5 out of 5]

Okuduğum ilk Mişima kitabı. Doğru an bu anmış.

Farklı kültürlerin eserlerini tatmayı işte bu yüzden seviyorum. Kültür değişince aynı duyguların anlatımı da bir başka oluyor. Perspektif değişiyor, en bilindik şey bile bir başka yaşanıyor. Mişima okurken de bunu hissettim. Tıpkı umduğum gibi.

Mişima’nın betimlemeleri bana sık sık, “yahu bunu bu şekilde anlatmak aklıma gelmezdi” dedirtti bana. Edebi yanı da aynı şekilde güçlü. Böylelikle kitap sizi rahatlıkla avucu içine alıyor.

Konu olarak baktığımızdaysa belki özgün bir kurgu bulmuyoruz, ama yaşanış ve anlatılış biçimine eğilince işler değişiyor. Eşini yitirmiş ve 30’larının başlarında bir iş kadınına aşık bir denizci, bu adamın aşkına karşılık veren iş kadının kendisi ve 13 yaşındaki oğlu arasında geçiyor bölümler. Oğlanın denizciyi idealize etmesi ama adamın hayat tercihi değişince olanların “korkunç” bir örneği. Evet, korkunç. Çünkü Japonlar yazılı eserlerinde de yapacağını yapıyor :) Şiirsel olduğu kadar sert kültürlerini burada da ortaya koyuyorlar.

Kara ve deniz, yaz ile kışın (ki kitabın iki ana bölümü yaz ve kış adını taşıyor) dualitesinde geçen bu kitap, bana bir kez daha kötülük kavramı üzerine düşündürdü. Eserin belki de en güzel yanı bu: hayatın içinden bir şeyler anlatırken gerek denizcinin düşünceleri gerekse oğlanın (ve arkadaşlarının) idealize ettiği alternatif hayat sizi düşünmeye zorluyor. Sadece bir kurgu okumanıza izin vermiyor.
Örneğin, babalar ile ilgili olan kısım. Çok ilginç bir tespitti. O kısmı okuduktan sonra kitabı kapatıp bu kurumu gözden geçirdim.

Kitapta pek çok duyguyu öyle güzel yaşıyoruz ki; aşkı da, dehşeti de, aile bağlarını da bu kısa eserde gerektiği gibi hissediyoruz.

[Chris Via]

Video review now available: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IOI9Fth...

[luce (cry bebè's back from hiatus) · Rating 2 out of 5]

This is the second work that I’ve read by Yukio Mishima and I’m afraid to say that, unlike Star, I found an unappealing read. I was expecting the story to focus on Noboru Kuroda and the gang of boys he hangs out with but most of the narrative is dedicated to the romantic & sexual relationship between Fusako, Noboru’s mother, and Ryuji, a sailor who has so far lead a rather untethered lifestyle (happiest at sea, keeping his fellow crew members at arms’ length, not settling down, etc.). Noboru meets Ryuji and seems to instantly dislike him, he also spies him and his mother having sex through a peephole. His animosity melts somewhat when Ryuji returns to the sea. Noboru, like the rest of his ‘clique’, seems to appreciate apathy, lack of feeling, a refusal to sentimentally, so, Ryuji leaving his mother behind seems to resonate with Noboru’s ‘feelings=being weak’ mentality. Alas, Ryuji returns and after one unintentionally hilarious encounter between him and Noboru involving a wet shirt, well, Noboru decides Ryuji is persona non grata and seems to view him as the embodiment of everything that is wrong with his contemporary Japanese society (just because this man was being nice to him…). When Ryuji decides to change his lifestyle and settle down with Fusako, Noboru and his gang decide to take matters into their own hands…

First things first: there is an explicit scene depicting the killing of an animal that could have been made shorter and seem to exist only in order to shock. Shock it did not but annoy it did. These kinds of gratuitous descriptions do nothing for this particular reader. Second: the ideology of this boy gang. It seems on the same level as the ‘we live in a society’. They are as angsty and self-righteous as Light Yagami. Which, I might have found compelling had I been aged 14 or so but I’m not. Joker stans maybe into their brand of ‘fuck society’ but I was not. Their detachment and contempt of social norms are exaggerated to the point of ridiculousness. Like, the whole Ryuji thing? I did not really believe that Noboru admired him in the first place so I couldn’t get behind his feeling betrayed by being ‘confronted’ with what he perceives to be ‘moral’ weakness (being friendly towards him and lying about how he got his shirt wet? wtf). Also, if he and the boy were truly apathetic they wouldn't have cared about Ryuji in the first place, let alone be so angered by him not fitting into their ideal of 'man'.
The elements of eroticism within this narrative were incredibly yucky and made me want to scratch my eyes out.

In short, I did not get this but not in a good-way that would inspire me to reread it in order to better understand it. Quite the opposite in fact. If I could unread it, I probably would.

I’m almost disappointed in myself for not liking or appreciating this novel as I do find the author to be an interesting figure (i mean, cosplaying Saint Sebastian? now that's something) and I did find Star to be a thought-provoking and surprisingly relevant read. While I probably will read more of his work, I can only hope that I will find it more absorbing than this.

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[Radioread · Rating 5 out of 5]

''Vücudunu kıvırsa o boşluğa sığardı'' cümlesinden, çocuk çetesindekilerin kimliklerinin numaralarla belirtilmesine (isimlerinden ve hatta dünya-boşlukta kapladıkları yerden soyunmaktadırlar. Annenin alt edilemezliği, en yakın düşman olarak ‘baba’ figürünü billurlaştırmaktadır),
Ryuji’nin karaya çıktığı anki nafile çalkantı beklentisinden (demir atmış kıpırtısız dünya), Noboku’nun katılaştırmak istediği yüreğini demir atmış bir gemiden kirli suya kayıtsızca inen, parlak, dev bir çapa olarak hayal etmesine; tarifsiz tarihsiz, okuyanı korkunç yalınlığının girdabına çeken aşmış bir eser.

[Sinem A. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dehşetin bu kadar romantik bu kadar duygusalını belki de ilk defa okudum. o kadar naif bir anlatim o kadar berrak ve sade ama bir o kadar da başdöndürücü. Muazzam bir eser.

[Brian · Rating 5 out of 5]

Knowing the story of Yukuio Mishima's life, and its tragic end, leads the reader of this novel into some dark parts of the author's mind. The characters in this novel are thinly veiled allegorical figures of Mishima's world view: his distaste for Western influences on Japan, his need for rigorous fastidiousness in his personal life, his desire to see Japan return to its ultra-conservative glory of yesteryear. Mishima was so consumed with this vision that he staged a failed coup attempt in 1970 and then performed seppuku when it was not successful.

The three main characters of the novel: the 13 year-old boy Noboru, his beautiful mother (and widow) Fusako, and her new love interest Ryuji, a lifelong sailor. Ryuji represents everything Noboru wants from the future - his desire to become a mariner one day is the single most important thing in his world. His mother is the owner of a store that provides wealthy Japanese (and expats) expensive Western clothing and baubles. When Ryuji enters their life, a love triangle forms that quickly dissolves into one of hate. How will Noboru, the clear alter-ego of the author, resolve the conflict? You'll have to read the book to find out just how low Mishima can go. And knowing how he ended his life, you can probably guess how brutal it will be.

One last thing: there is a scene of terrible violence against a kitten. I love cats, and this was a very hard part of the book to read.

[Roman Clodia · Rating 4 out of 5]

The dark passions of the tides, the shriek of a tidal wave, the avalanching break of surf upon a shoal... an unknown glory calling for him endlessly from the dark offing, glory merged in death and in a woman, glory to fashion of his destiny something special, something rare.

I've only read some of Mishima's short stories before this, including his Patriotism, but it already feels like there's a distinctive aesthetic to his vision that merges graceful prose with a violent desire for annihilation that includes an almost Wagnerian liebestod, even if, in this book, it's not the woman who shares in the final climactic death (off the page, if that's important to you).

I find it hard to parse Mishima's death scenes: I'm never quite sure whether he is wholeheartedly throwing himself into the idea of glorious death as the ultimate form of manliness (and the gender here is deliberate) and existential power in a world which tries to subordinate, repress and contain - or whether there is also a part of him which is at least troubled by acts of brutality as envisaged here. It's perhaps this tension that gives his work such force, as well as the way he both eroticises death and lays down a challenge to his reader.

In this book, the pursuit of 'glory' is split between two male characters: a 13 year old boy and the sailor whom his mother is planning to marry. Both are enthralled by the sea, wonderfully used throughout the text as a symbol of wild and uncontrolled grandeur. These male relationships are triangulated via a woman whose sexuality is both embracing and almost shameful, depending on which male gaze is focalising her, and at times the narrative reduces to an almost primitive sense of man-woman-sex-death.

But, of course, Mishima is not writing in a cultural vacuum and this book cannot be disentangled from the complex depiction of Japan under Occupation in a post-WW2 world. There's an acute sense of masculine dispossession whether that feels organic in the case of the boy, or self-induced by the sailor who leaves his life at sea for domestic comfort on land - and the importance of the values being associated with 'sea' and 'land' are important here in making sense of this text.

It's especially interesting to see the use of an Oedipus motif, where ideas of 'the father' have to be killed in order for the sons to come back into power - and here it feels like that also applies on a national basis to the 'fathers' who surrendered and allowed Japan to be occupied and at least partially westernized. That the renewal of some kind of quasi-fascist nationalistic past can only be achieved through violence is part of what makes Mishima such a challenging writer, though his ideology of what is termed here 'absolute dispassion' indicates that cruelty is not something to be enjoyed but something to be endured as a mark of self-mastery and self-control - themselves indicators of what the book promotes as masculine values.

All tied up with this personal and political vision is a replacement of the Christian trinity with an eroticised alternative: 'whenever he dreamed of them, glory and death and woman were consubstantial'. The abbreviated ending - though we know what has to happen - is both punishment for the sailor who has cast himself off from the wild freedom and self-determination figured by the sea ('the things he had rejected were now rejecting him') but an almost theological ascension of the boys coming into their own nihilistic power as a new generation of soon-to-be men.

[Murray · Rating 3 out of 5]

🌊 🇯🇵 All his works are strong side bushido and disturbing. It was a merciless vision that he lived and died by (seppuku) and sworded into all his fiction. A brilliant yet troubling author🗡️ 🎌

🌊 This book is like another version of Lord of the Flies only the victim this time is not a boy but a man.

[Evan · Rating 5 out of 5]

HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION!

"If I were an amoeba, he thought, with an infinitesimal body, I could defeat ugliness. A man isn't tiny or giant enough to defeat anything."

Ryuji, the "emasculated" sailor in Mishima's great novel, thinks such thoughts on long sea voyages, standing watch on deck; his only friends being the stars. His vague notions of glory -- that something great awaits him at the next port -- allow him to avoid his sense of powerlessness and the reality of his aimlessness. His idea of romantic completion is an unconsumated coupling that is destroyed utterly in instant oblivion -- a kiss and the lovers' lives brought to an end in a tidal wave, for instance. To him, this is the idea of a perfect marriage. His lifestyle of staying on the move and not becoming attached ends soon after he meets a well-to-do widow, Fusako, in the port of Yokohama.

The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea shifts its narrative foci deceptively. As it starts it, we think it might be a novel about burgeoning adolescent sexual discovery, as Fusako's 13-year-old son, Noboru, discovers a peephole into his mother's adjoining bedroom, well hidden in a cabinet inside the closet. It allows him to study his mother's naked body and later the coitus between she and Ryuji. The focus then shifts to Ryuji, and over time we learn his backstory, and how Noboru's interest in ships and maritime trivia lead to the eventual hookup of his mother and sailor. There's a lovely sentence in which Ryuji thinks about how his great quest across every corner of the Earth ends on a point of exquisite sensation: the tip of his finger caressing a woman's nipple. The book is filled with countless wonders of such poetic beauty, but eventually it leads into darker territory about what it means to be a man, about the lies of fathers (or more accurately, the fear of growing up into a world where there is no real control or heroism for a man), and the seductive violence of groupthink. Noboru, as it happens has joined a group of proto-fascist youths who pervert the Nietzschean idea of the Superman. Their hatred of weak men, which all of them consider their fathers to be, drive the characters to a fate about which I cannot elaborate. Let's just say that the moment Ryuji morphs from a sailor-hero to a mere father figure in Noboru's mind is a pivotal one. There's a very disturbing passage in the book where the gang practices their "manly" cleansing ritual of cold violence on a poor kitten. To them, in their warped idea of real manhood, such violence brings some kind of order to the universe. The book accurately essays the dangers of social conformity in extremis and along the way somehow manages to mix in equal portions of romantic longing, family dynamics, the workings of port cities and international import and export, the pull of the sea vs. life on land, and the lure of ritual -- the latter being something of great appeal to the traditionalist Mishima. I suspect that Mishima's concerns about the Japanese man as an emasculated being might also stem from the sense of Japanese defeat after World War II. The novel takes place after the war, more or less contemporaneous to its publication in the 1960s.

I also love how the novel enters the thoughts of the characters as they internally edit themselves when they verbalize bland platitudes and chitchat to one another -- chastising themselves for not saying what they really want to say. The physical descriptions of the living quarters, the environs and the sights of Yokohama are masterly. Rarely have I encountered a book in which so much poetic and langorous space co-exists within such a fast-moving, concise narrative. The book seems to be going in one very romantic direction and then shifts gears to something disturbing and ominous. It takes a deft hand to make such a change of emphasis work. Mishima, it seems, possessed the mastery to pull it off. This is a great book and a super fast read. Another one for my favorites category.

[Emilio Berra · Rating 3 out of 5]

Quanto è amaro il sapore della gloria

In questo romanzo Mishima ci presenta tre protagonisti: una ancor giovane vedova, il figlio tredicenne e un Ufficiale di Marina.
La storia segue due linee : l'amore fra i due adulti ; le vicende del ragazzo e del suo inquietante gruppo di amici. Nello svolgimento dei fatti, i due 'percorsi' hanno più momenti di contatto, uno dei quali determinante nella trama del racconto giapponese.

Mi soffermo in particolare sulla figura dell'adolescente con relativo gruppetto di coetanei.
Per vari aspetti le vicende inducono ad un confronto con "Agostino" di Moravia. In entrambi i romanzi infatti abbiamo protagonisti di classe borghese, colti nella delicata fase della pubertà, che dolorosamente scoprono la donna nella propria madre a causa dell'intrusione di un uomo. Nei due romanzi poi c'è la presenza di un gruppo di coetanei.
Emergono però significative differenze. In Moravia, l'insicuro Agostino incontra giovanissimi sottoproletari maleducati e volgari, in perenne lotta fra di loro magari per un pacchetto di sigarette. Qui invece il ragazzo, freddo e anaffettivo, frequenta amici con famiglie benestanti ; sono bravi studenti apparentemente inappuntabili, ma coltivano un'ideologia nichilista pericolosissima : si sentono piccoli 'superuomini' che detestano i genitori e ne odiano gli atteggiamenti; vogliono 'educarsi' all'insensibilità verso tutto (nel giovane protagonista l'unico sentimento che alberga è la rabbia) ed elaborano uno strano e astratto concetto di gloria. Astutamente conoscono le leggi: vogliono 'fare qualcosa' prima di compiere 14 anni.
Anche il marinaio, amante della madre, ha impostato la vita sull'onda dei sogni di gloria, ormai frustrati dalla realtà dei fatti ; ma il sogno talvolta ancora trapela e lo renderà più vulnerabile.

Il romanzo, anche se non fra le migliori opere dello scrittore giapponese, è rappresentativo della sua scrittura e della sua controversa ideologia. Qui, inoltre, ci conduce di fronte ad una generazione di giovanissimi terribilmente idealista per contrapposizione e frustrazione, di un idealismo distruttivo, pieno di odio, i cui sfumati contorni paiono riscontrabili nelle nostre attuali società del benessere, ove 'per noia' si progettano disastri.