Sōseki’s second novel is experimental and dense in structure. There is hardly any narrative. A pampered, middle-class kid runs away from home. He gets recruited to a mine, he realizes he can’t hack it as a miner’s assistant, and the novel ends abruptly. The novel is comprised chiefly of the kid’s inner thoughts over four days. The minute attention to the boy’s individual thoughts, which swing from naive to cynical and back again, remind me of my own thought processes, but the novel becomes rather indigestible after 100 pages.
The best writing in the book concerns the nature of identity:
"In fact, there is no such thing as character, something fixed and final. The real thing is something that novelists don’t know how to write about. Or, if they tried, the end result would never be a novel. Real people are strangely difficult to make sense out of. Even a god would have his hands full trying. But maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, presuming that other people are a mess just because I’m put together in such a disorderly way. If so, I should apologize."
The book’s central thesis is that identity is bullshit. People are shaped by factors in their environment and socialization. There is no hope for people in corrosive environments. There is no rising above degradation. There are only social environments that allow for self-maintenance or degeneration. People are malleable with no fixed identity. Good and evil, people are made solely by the quality of their surroundings. A person is a purely opportunistic being, taking advantage of the good or bad things offered by his station, becoming an amalgam of his experiences and sensations. This is similar to my own philosophical bent, but allowances must be made for Sōseki being Japanese.
Japanese live in a shame-based culture. Personal morality is much less a concern than a group-based avoidance of behaviours that do not meet group consensus. Most times group consensus and conventional morality overlap (Don’t kill, do unto others, etc), but individual morality on its own is an oddity or an impediment to group functioning.
For instance, have you ever read about an actual crime where a Japanese perpetrator went off the rails and decapitated someone or played with their guts or kept a sex slave for years? Something extensively fucked up. Maybe these perpetrators were kicked too many times or realized at someone point that nothing matters beyond discerning the group drift and following. For whatever reason, they unplugged from the matrix. They stepped out of line. In for a penny, in for-- some seriously fucked up shit. If nothing matters, the thinking goes, one should make a rather large nihilistic splash. Very few Japanese in harsh circumstance are like this; surely some Japanese people in corrosive scenarios live lives of quiet desperation. For the record, I think something similar goes on in North America, but the process is obscured by our cultures’ praise and love for individual identity. In Japan, this dynamic is much starker since personal identity is not prized and is always something to be sublimated for smooth societal functioning.
Also, there is more of a chance for social mobility in North America. Japanese are born into the cells of their culture’s social and philosophical honeycomb with very little mobility. Hence, this is may be why Sōseki thinks all people are raw material to be shaped like jelly in a mould.
Following Sōseki’s reasoning, since humans are living material shaped by their environment, nothing matters beyond staying in a positive environment. If one is born into a terrible situation, he has little hope of rising above it. He can either go out in a blaze of glory (1. By committing suicide, which curiously lacks the sort of taboo found in North America, or 2. By killing others, which is frowned upon because that just hurts the group) or let his environment steadily corrode him. The lucky are those that get a headstart and do not waste it. We are talking about social Darwinism. This is the race that Sōseki says we are all running. If you are ahead, do not waste your edge.
I think Sōseki is dead-on about identity but overstates the case. People are malleable, shaped by their social circle, their family’s means, and slightly by their education. I think the majority of people are opportunistic, but I would peg this group at 80%. And 10% of people are good and 10% are evil, despite their environment, even when they are finally crushed by their station or life events. Spend time in a kindergarten or any group of people and a reference frame appears. A few good, a few bad, and the rest a mass, the latter ready for a push in either direction as long as that is what they think the majority are doing. Then again maybe it is a question of vantage point: there are few like you, a few antagonistic to your personality, and a large mass that lies somewhere in between.
Usually when a writer begins speaking positively about the nature of identity, I tune out. Sōseki is one of the few writers I agreed with and kept reading, until he uniformly applied his materialistic nihilism. Still, I was happy to read a work that posited this view of identity. It is rare thing, probably because this sort of determinism does not make for compelling reading. One only needs to gather a bit of data about a character and then watch as he goes the way of his stereotype. Dramatic tension is only created by an oddball with a modicum of mobility who slums it. The big question being “Will he pull his golden parachute or won’t he?” Who cares. The arguments for Sōseki's bleak take on identity are what matters here.
While reading, a Don Delillo quote kept coming to mind:
"The term itself--my life--is a desperate overstatement."
Who would have thought Delillo could have trumped a Japanese master for minimalism in a craft? But Don aptly summarizes The Miner in one line.