Natsume Soseki's Kokoro

I have read little Japanese literature, but have generally found it interesting, and similar to the Japanese films I have seen. There is something in the Japanese character and culture as portrayed in the literature and film I have known that strikes me as both profoundly human and also disturbingly marked by sadness and a sense of inevitable loss. Oddly, this holds true even for the few examples of anime I've seen. There seems to be a mysterious longing for understanding that eludes characters who find themselves caught up in circumstances and driven by forces beyond their control. Of course, it could simply be that I'm looking at the wrong stuff, and I should cast a wider net, or perhaps what I'm seeing is just commonplace.

Another of the qualities that stands out in the Japanese literature I have read is the pervasiveness of formalism and ritual, especially when manifested in some form of ritualized violence. Of course, American culture is saturated with violence, but it lacks the undercurrent of art and profundity I've detected in Japanese culture. American violence is as casual as everything else in this country, there is little of formality or meaning attached to it. It's a little like comparing a fondness for chainsaws and shotguns to an appreciation for a well honed Samurai sword. 

One of the other elements I've often noted in Japanese literature is the focus on what is hidden from view, the mysterious and unknown meanings lurking beneath the surface reality which is usually portrayed with extreme attention to details of what is most apparent or visible in the setting and characters, and especially in descriptions of the natural world. Very likely my sample is much too small to draw any significant conclusions, but Natsume Soseki's novel Kokoro (1914) certainly fits some of my preconceptions.

The novel is divided into three unequal parts. In the first the narrator, a university student, befriends an older man he first encounters while on summer vacation at a beach resort. As the relationship develops into a serious intergenerational student-mentor friendship, the younger man falls under the influence of the older man, who frequently appears a reluctant companion subject to fits of melancholy or depression, the cause of which he will share with neither his young friend nor even with his wife. In the second part, the young man is called home to be with his father who is slowly dying of kidney disease. While away from Tokyo and the university as well as his friend, the young man attempts to remain in touch through an unsuccessful and one-sided correspondence. Eventually, a long letter arrives from his friend, but is not what he had expected. The third part, much longer than the other two, is the testament of the older man, the story of his life, and the explanation for his profound sadness and disappointment with himself and the world.

The novel is philosophical in tone and theme and, in the course of unfolding its interlocking stories from the points of view of both men, reveals insights into the forces of human nature that can defeat even the most determined and self-confident individuals. Without revealing too much of the actual plot, suffice to say that these forces turn out to be rather typical and even predictable: greed, selfishness, love, and the desire for respect -- self-respect, but also the respect and even admiration of those we love. Soseki's story is set early in the twentieth century, when Japanese culture was undergoing profound changes and many were experiencing the dislocation that came with greater contact with European and American cultures. Such changes always bring a sense of loss and disappointment as older values and traditions seem to be giving way to a newer, more superficial world view. 

But there is more happening in Kokoro than the experience of culture shock, although that provides part of the setting for the novel. What I found appealing about the interlocking stories was the way Soseki allows them to develop, first from the perspective of the younger, less experienced, less worldly wise student, and then from that of the older man he calls Sensei, a Japanese word suggesting something like "teacher" or "master." Soseki lets his reader come to know the characters and discover their motivations gradually. It was similar to, although not quite the same as, the technique in the famous Kurosawa film Rashomon.  Although we are not left struggling with multiple perspectives and versions of the novel's actions, we are left with the task of understanding what has happened. When the novel comes abruptly to an end with the conclusion of Sensei's letter, I was a little disappointed and surprised that Soseki had not returned to the young man and told us something of his reaction. But then I understood that was unnecessary and would have undercut the dramatic and emotional effect of the novel's revelation, which at first seems predicable, but grows in significance as the reader looks back over what has happened and interprets some of the elements of the story that may have been overlooked or misunderstood when first encountered in the student's narrative.

This was another good book from my men's book club. Next up is the very different 1493, but in the meantime, I'm returning to Henry Green; I'm reading Party Going, which will likely be the last of his novels I will read for a while. When I'm done I may do a bit of summing up, since I've found Green a very interesting writer, and one who should probably be better known, but I suspect that isn't likely to happen in the world we now inhabit.