Sei Shonagon was born approximately a thousand years ago (965 is a likely date) and served as lady-in-waiting at the Court of the Japanese Empress during the last decade of the tenth century. Her father was a provincial official, but is best known as a poet and a scholar. It is possible, though unlikely, that Shonagon was briefly married to a government official, by whom she may have had a son. Her life after her Court service came to an end is totally obscure. There is a tradition that she died in lonely poverty: but this is probably an invention of moralists who were shocked by her promiscuity and thought she deserved retribution. Our knowledge of Shonagon’s life and character rests almost exclusively on the Pillow Book itself.
The Tale of Saigyo is a poetic biography of the late Heian poet Saigyo (1118-90), one of the most loved and respected poets in Japanese literary history. Its anonymous author followed the venerable poem-tale tradition by using 128 of Saigyo’s finest and best-known poems and weaving around them facts and legends about the poet. The result is a biographical journey through his life. Saigyo moves from the life of a brilliant and favored young poet at the Heian imperial court, through a Buddhist awakening that leads him to cast off his worldly life and family ties and to transform himself into a wandering monk in search of salvation, through the vicissitudes of his long hard life on the road, to a final apotheosis as Buddhist saint in his famous death. While The Tale of Saigyo is on one level the story of the making of a Buddhist saint, it is also a biography of the trials and sorrows of an idealized poetic sensibility during a tempestuous time that saw the death of the Heian period, the Genpei Wars, and the beginning of the turbulent Kamakura period. The moving portrait of the wandering poet-monk that emerges through this tale crystallized the image of Saigyo and is felt in such later literary figures as Basho, who acknowledged Saigyo as his model and master.
A fresh translation of the classical Buddhist poetry of Saigyō, whose aesthetics of nature, love, and sorrow came to epitomize the Japanese poetic tradition.
Saigyō, the Buddhist name of Fujiwara no Norikiyo (1118–1190), is one of Japan’s most famous and beloved poets. He was a recluse monk who spent much of his life wandering and seeking after the Buddhist way. Combining his love of poetry with his spiritual evolution, he produced beautiful, lyrical lines infused with a Buddhist perception of the world.
Gazing at the Moon presents over one hundred of Saigyō’s tanka—traditional 31-syllable poems—newly rendered into English by renowned translator Meredith McKinney. This selection of poems conveys Saigyō’s story of Buddhist awakening, reclusion, seeking, enlightenment, and death, embodying the Japanese aesthetic ideal of mono no aware—to be moved by sorrow in witnessing the ephemeral world.
Natsume Soseki’s Kusamakura—meaning “grass pillow”—follows its nameless young artist-narrator on a meandering walking tour of the mountains. At the inn at a hot spring resort, he has a series of mysterious encounters with Nami, the lovely young daughter of the establishment. Nami, or “beauty,” is the center of this elegant novel, the still point around which the artist moves and the enigmatic subject of Soseki’s word painting. In the author’s words, Kusamakura is “a haiku-style novel, that lives through beauty.” Written at a time when Japan was opening its doors to the rest of the world, Kusamakura turns inward, to the pristine mountain idyll and the taciturn lyricism of its courtship scenes, enshrining the essence of old Japan in a work of enchanting literary nostalgia.
Set at a pivotal point after the turmoil of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Liu Xinwu’s tale weaves together a rich tapestry of characters, intertwined lives, and stories within stories.
An Excerpt from The Wedding Party, by Liu Xinwu, translated by Jeremy Tiang (Amazon Crossing, Nov 16, 2021)
To many adults, the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution feels like it happened just yesterday. Ten years of turmoil put a sudden stop to many developments that had been well underway. When the chaos was over and people tried to pick up the threads of the past as they righted themselves, they had no choice but to treat the last decade as a blank, as if time had frozen in the summer of 1966 and thawed in the fall of ’76. For the last few years, newspapers have been referring to writers in their late thirties, or even those pushing fifty, as “young authors.” Most people, including the writers themselves, feel they deserve to have ten years deducted from their actual age.
But what about those born just as the Cultural Revolution was kicking off? Aged sixteen in 1982, they’ve lived through infancy, childhood, and their teenage years, and are now about to enter young adulthood. They’ve been quietly growing up.
One of them is now walking north along Drum Tower Street.
His name is Yao Xiangdong—“Xiangdong” as in “facing Dong,” meaning Mao Zedong. Many people his age have “Dong” in their names: “defending Dong,” “establishing Dong,” “praising Dong,” and so on. (Names referencing more controversial individuals, such as Weibiao—“protecting Lin Biao”—or Xueqing—“learning from Jiang Qing”—were swiftly changed after their namesakes’ fall from grace.) In kindergarten, their minders sang lullabies about “defeating turncoats, traitors, and thieves of work.” Toward the end of elementary school, their teachers told the story of Grandpa Liu Shaoqi’s great achievements. During the time of “open-door schools,” they took part in activities to “further the journey of Socialism and block the road of capitalism,” and the teachers raised their awareness by screening the Maoist film Pine Ridge and calling a session afterward for them to denounce the character Qian Guang’s selfish, corrupt behavior. When they were about to graduate from middle school, the national obsession with grades was at its height, and in order to help get them into a good high school, the teachers worked on their writing abilities by screening Dawn of New Hopes and getting them to write critiques of the extreme leftists violently trampling the reasonable hopes of country folk. Society told them love and money were shameful, but now love is everywhere, and households with more than ten thousand yuan are lauded, sending a signal that having more money is glorious. At this young age, having barely experienced anything, central nervous systems still not fully developed, they had to deal with these enormous, constant dramatic reversals. What psychiatric problems and mindsets did they develop as a result?
Anyway, Yao Xiangdong is idly walking north along the street, hands in the pockets of his pale-yellow padded windbreaker.
He’s just been kicked out of his home. The reason? That pale-yellow windbreaker.
Yao Xiangdong’s father is a former army man; in the late 1960s, he switched to being a security guard at a district-level government department. He’s always been very strict with Xiangdong. Ever since Xiangdong was four or five, his father’s been filling his brain with the notion that he should join the army as soon as he’s old enough. Xiangdong’s mother is a typist and naturally also hopes her son will grow up quick and become a soldier. When he was a kid, she sewed him a little uniform in army green, complete with red trim on the collar, and of course a tiny soldier’s cap adorned with an authentic five-pointed red star—his dad asked an old army buddy to take it off his own cap. Until he was ten or so, Xiangdong’s heart brimmed with a sense of superiority, pride, and confidence. “My dad was in the People’s Liberation Army, and I’m going to join up when I’m grown! My dad has so many old army buddies. If I live to be grown, he just needs to say a word to them, and I can enlist!”
When Xiangdong was in first grade, he was on his way home from school when he saw a ruffian stealing someone’s hat. A high school student was walking down the sidewalk when out of nowhere a guy on a bicycle sped past, reached out, and grabbed his army-green cap. The high-schooler yelled after him, but the guy turned into an alleyway and was gone. This exhilarating scene left Xiangdong feeling the hat thief was very cool and made him treasure army-green objects even more.
When he was in fourth grade, society began changing all around him. Street thugs no longer stole army-green caps, and high school students gradually abandoned the fashion of dressing in army uniforms or caps. At some point, everyone had started wearing blue: blue shirts, blue trousers, and snow-white sports shoes—the very definition of stylish. In the winter, there was a fad for leather jackets—or “pleather,” if they couldn’t get hold of the real thing—and round woolen hats with ear flaps. Ruffians started stealing these woolen hats. The next winter, wool was out and shearling hats were in, so of course the thieves switched targets yet again. Fashions kept evolving, and now, the winter of 1982, windbreakers are the latest thing. No one aspires to join the army anymore. Anyone whose grades aren’t completely hopeless wants to go to college. Those like Xiangdong, who didn’t get into a key high school after he failed to get into a key middle school, those whose grades are going from bad to worse, are clearly not going to get into college, but they no longer dream of being soldiers either. They end up sitting at home waiting to get a job, their minds in a fog, with nothing to hold on to.
Xiangdong’s parents haven’t relaxed their strict discipline. His father despairs of the boy’s poor grades and frequently rages at him, or worse, takes off a slipper and whacks Xiangdong. Inevitably, it takes his mom weeping, screaming, and holding him back before he’ll stop. This lesson never takes hold, partly because he’s teaching it all wrong, and partly because he doesn’t understand this swiftly changing society himself, nor can he cope with it. He has a bellyful of torments and anxieties, which makes him say strange things in front of his son, although his son isn’t allowed to talk back. When his son asks a question he can’t answer, he takes his rage and confusion out on the boy. The theories he’s spouting to his son have grown more and more abstract and out of date. That’s the main reason Xiangdong is becoming harder to raise. He’s learned to be a phony and only shows his parents what they want to see.
Although Xiangdong is not at a so-called key school, his teachers still work fairly hard. On one hand, they put a great deal of energy into supporting the few students who’re actually interested in learning, helping them navigate the choppy seas of academe to surpass all expectations and get into college, thus vindicating themselves and bringing glory to the school, which may then be able to get coveted “key” status if it’s able to produce enough such success stories. On the other hand, they try to keep “backward” students such as Xiangdong under control, so they don’t cause too much disruption during school hours or get arrested after class. Education has never been a panacea, though, and perhaps these educators are a little too harsh in disciplining Xiangdong. He’s learned to lie to them too.
Today, just before lunch, Xiangdong’s mom noticed her son’s windbreaker wasn’t the acrylic one she’d bought him, but a padded cotton one—though the color and style were similar. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Swapped with a classmate,” he said nonchalantly.
“How could you do that?” she lectured. “That’s padded cotton, it must have cost half as much again as yours. If you ruin it, how will you pay your friend back? Isn’t your acrylic one just as warm? Why do you need to be so fashionable?”
Xiangdong’s father happened to walk into the room just then. Overhearing, he glanced at the windbreaker and flew into a rage. Xiangdong had already owned a padded jacket, made out of his father’s old army coat. After wearing this over his blue duds for a while, he began clamoring for a new one. “Who’s still wearing ragged old jackets like this?” he’d wheedled. “All my classmates have windbreakers!” His father had held his temper. It’s certainly true that kids go around in windbreakers these days—it seems their parents have money to burn. Some even buy their children genuine leather coats. The Yaos are probably among the poorest of the parents—they both work for meager wages with no side jobs, and send their parents money each month. Xiangdong’s elder sister graduated from teaching college and now works at a kindergarten. She isn’t a Party member yet, so she only earns enough to support herself. Given their financial situation, when Xiangdong pestered his parents for a windbreaker, the best his mom could manage was an acrylic one. Rather than being content with that, he’s now somehow managed to acquire a classmate’s more expensive garment. Will he never be satisfied?
Seeing his useless son slouching around in a borrowed windbreaker, Xiangdong’s father hollered, “You shameless boy! Take that off at once!”
His mom hurried over and tried to soothe her husband. “Your blood pressure! No need to get worked up, let’s talk this over, nice and calm.” Then, to Xiangdong, “Tell your father you know what you did was wrong. After lunch, go find your friend and swap back. You hear me?”
Feeling like he had his mom’s protection, Xiangdong sat fearlessly at the table and said, “What’s the big deal? All we did was swap clothes.” With that, he picked up his chopsticks.
This enraged his dad beyond measure. Stamping his foot, he declared, “Don’t touch that food! This house has no room for someone like you. Get out of here right now!”
Xiangdong stood, shrugged, and walked out the door, ignoring his parents’ screams.
He wandered eastward to the Shicha Seas and squeezed into a crowded pavilion—a few local residents often gather here to sing Beijing opera. Naturally, Xiangdong isn’t actually interested in opera, he just enjoys making fun of how stupid the musicians and performers look. Next, he went to the Front Sea, currently frozen over, and menacingly “borrowed” a pair of ice skates from another guy his age. After some skating, he suddenly felt ferociously hungry, and that’s how he ended up on the wide avenue leading to the Drum Tower.
About the Author
Liu Xinwu was born on June 4, 1942, in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China, and has lived in Beijing since 1950. His short story “The Class Teacher” appeared in People’s Literature magazine in November 1977 and is regarded as the first instance of China’s “scar literature” genre. Liu’s other stories include “I Love Every Green Leaf,” “Black Walls,” “White Teeth,” and “The Wish.” His novellas include Overpass and Little Dunzi. The Wedding Party, was the winner of the Mao Dun Literature Prize.
About the Translator
Jeremy Tiang has translated novels by Yan Ge, Zhang Yueran, Yeng Pway Ngon, Chan Ho-Kei, Li Er, Lo Yi-Chin, and Geling Yan. He also writes and translates plays. His novel State of Emergency won the Singapore Literature Prize in 2018. Tiang is also the author of a short story collection, It Never Rains on National Day. He lives in New York City. Visit is website www.jeremytiang.com.
In Where the Wild Ladies Are (translated by Polly Barton) author Aoko Matsuda serves up eerie but uplifting feminist ghost stories. Each narrative has an original rakugo story, folk legend or kabuki play as its inspiration. The collection is enjoyable even without knowledge of the original stories, although luckily the US edition has a full appendix detailing the original tales. Unfortunately, the UK edition does not.
As the stories unfold, we slowly learn that Matsuda’s fierce and daring women are ghosts, each with a special skill or power. Matsuda challenges the tradition of the angry female spirit and shows us another side of her. This contemporary ghost is strong, but also independent, uninhibited and often upbeat. Matsuda gives these women a backstory so that their ghostliness and actions are understood in context, and any negativity associated with their behavior can be understood. They move through the world interacting with both the living and the dead. Death frees them, and as spirits they have more agency than they had alive.
Matsuda uses their stories as commentary on the gender disparity in Japanese culture, on the beauty standards imposed upon women, and on the unreasonable lengths women go through to live up to those standards.
A woman whose story, “Smartening Up,” opens at a depilatory salon, learns to transform into a hairy monster when she finally rejects the societal imposition that light-colored hair or no hair is more desirable. In a later story, we learn in passing that she has become more assertive and confident.
In “Quite a Catch,” a woman fishes a skeleton out of the river and later finds herself visited by the ghost of the skeleton. She bathes her visitor each night and they become lovers. She revels in how perfect the arrangement is, but also remembers how inflexible living with her boyfriend had been. In that relationship, she had stopped being herself and had become more concerned about gauging his needs and moods. This is one of the many instances in this book where women are rescued by other women.
In “Having a Blast” we are privy to a marriage from the perspective of both the husband and wife after death. First the husband confesses.
I don’t have any exceptional talents. After my death, I came to see that very clearly. It made me wonder what on earth I’d been playing at while I was still alive. People treated me well because I was a man – they treated me the way that men are treated. (p.218)
But the wife reminisces in a different way.
…I did go through a proper grieving period…But at some point I realized that it was actually easier being alone. It also meant a lot less housework. (p.223)
One of my favorites is “What She Can Do,” about a babysitting ghost. The mother has no support system in her family or community since she is faulted for leaving her bad marriage and selfishly “prioritizing her own needs.” The mother is forced to leave her child alone in order to go to work. The maternal ghost in this story slowly insinuates herself in the life of this single mother. A little at a time, so that the mother can get acclimated, she secretly cares for the child and cleans the house. Eventually, the mother comes to understand that her child is being cared for while she is away.
The main character in “A Fox’s Life” has a vulpine look and spent her early years following the most traditional route in her life choices. She never tried to outshine the men in her life even though she was brighter and more capable. She refused to further her education, took jobs catering to men, and looked the other way at their untoward advances. Later in life, as an empty-nester, she falls off a cliff and discovers upon landing that she is indeed a fox with all the freedom that affords. She realizes that she had been betraying herself, and embraces her newfound liberty.
The interlinkage of stories makes the collection feel much like a novel with a larger narrative arc and some revealed secrets. At first, it is not obvious that the stories are connected. Eventually, the layers peel away so that secondary, even tertiary characters in one story become the center of another. Once this pattern is noted, it adds an additional layer of pleasure as the reader searches for connections.
Japanese culture is known for the great paradox of embracing modernity while still respecting and partaking in the traditional culture. This is evident in Matsuda’s collection, where familiar ghosts are treated as commonplace. They are neither surprising nor frightening as they comfortably situate themselves in the modern world. By the end, you may decide that living with ghosts might be pleasant, and you may find yourself wishing to share your life with some, particularly such modern and relatable specters.
Get to know the inhabitants of a tiny Japanese island—and their unusual stories and secrets—through this fascinating, intimate collection of portraits.
When American journalist Amy Chavez moved to the tiny island of Shiraishi (population 430), she rented a house from an elderly woman named Eiko, who left many of her most cherished possessions in the house—including a portrait of Emperor Hirohito and a family altar bearing the spirit tablet of her late husband.
Why did she abandon these things? And why did her tombstone later bear the name of a daughter no one knew? These are just some of the mysteries Amy pursues as she explores the lives of Shiraishi’s elusive residents.
The 31 revealing accounts in this book include:
The story of 40-year-old fisherman Hiro, one of two octopus hunters left on the island, who moved back to his home island to fill a void left by his brother who died in a boating accident.
A Buddhist priest, eighty-eight, who reflects on his childhood during the war years, witnessing fighter pilots hiding in bunkers on the back side of the island.
A “pufferfish widow,” so named because her husband died after accidentally eating a poisonous pufferfish.
The ex-postmaster who talks about hiking over the mountains at night to deliver telegrams at a time when there were only 17 telephone numbers on the island.
Interspersed with the author’s reflections on her own life on the island, these stories paint an evocative picture of the dramatic changes which have taken place in Japanese society across nearly a century. Fascinating insights into local superstitions and folklore, memories of the war and the bombing of nearby Hiroshima, and of Shiraishi’s heyday as a resort in the 1960s and 70s are interspersed with accounts of common modern-day problems like the collapse of the local economy and a rapidly-aging community which has fewer residents each year.
In this episode of the Books on Asia Podcast, sponsored by Stone Bridge Press, host Amy Chavez talks with Kathleen Burkinshaw in the U.S. about her book The Last Cherry Blossom, and about hibakusha, the Japanese word that refers to victims of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that ended WWII.
