Finished reading this book, Kawabata’s last, and I think my primary reaction is to recommend one of his others. Not that this book wasn’t, as usual, beautifully written (well, as much as one can assert such a thing when reading the translation: the descriptions of the works of art, of the paintings and novels, are excellet), but the story was rather unsatisfyingly enigmatic. The story is such: a novelist in his fifties, a married man with a son and a daughter, on a whim, decides to visit his former mistress in Kyoto, who has since become a famed painter. The novelist started his affair with her when she was fifteen and he about thirty, and during their affair she became pregnant, but the baby was stillborn, after which they parted, and he wrote a famed novel about their relationship, which ironically became the basis of the prosperity of his family. His meeting with his former lover is anticlimactic. She takes a philosophical view of the circumstances, even though she has decided since then never to marry; her protegee (and lover) Keiko, an abstract painter, becomes obsessed with the thought of avenging her teacher, despite her teacher’s pleas to give up such an idea. Although some readers found Keiko fascinating, I think I was more irritated by her shocking statements and insane plans; perhaps this is because she vaguely reminded me of one of the sadistic fatal women in Tanizaki’s works, but less blindingly perverse. The novel is quite short, and the ending very sudden, and slightly unexpectedly so.

This is a short book set in Kyoto in the postwar period, but at times one almost believes it’s Taisho or even Edo-period Kyoto; the heroine, Chieko, is a foundling raised by a traditional fabrics wholesaler, and the social structure surrounding the kimono business has an almost medieval feeling, as one must pick up the delicate threads of the social relations involved. Although her parents construct an elaborate lie about how her birth parents left the infant Chieko out of their site for a moment, and they spontaneously decided to snatch her, in reality, she was a twin, abandoned by her poor woodcutter parents outside the wholesaler’s. (It’s never explicitly explained just why they did this, but I think it was to spare her from the thought that she was abandoned; most of the human relationships in this novel work on a similar principle of understatement) The other twin, Naeko, was kept, but soon after, her parents died, and she is now herself a woodcutter’s apprentice. Naeko has always yearned to meet her twin sister, and one day, they meet at a temple, but now the difference in their social statuses is such that Naeko always refers to her sister as “Miss” (probably ojousan?), although Chieko offers to take her in, but must settle simply for bestowing upon Naeko a magnificent obi and kimono. There’s more to the plot than this, but it’s actually somewhat difficult to summarize.

The main attraction of the novel, though, is its setting. Yes, you guessed it, Kawabata is working somewhat in the elegiac mode. The prosperous shop of Chieko’s eventual fiance sells Sony radios to American tourists along with Japanese fabric souvenirs, and so the story reads like the evocation of a vanishing, anachronistic world. The events take place during the late summer, around the famed Gion festival, and the myriad other festivals following it (the novel does become more vivid if you do look up some info on what exactly takes place during this festival), so although the events of the novel may not sound very explosive, the prose, restrained imagery, and the cultural details manage to retain the reader’s interest. (Indeed, actually, you don’t need to have iconic characters or blockbuster plot to sustain a narrative, but if not, you need to be very good, or drawing from a deep well.) [Also, the general purity of the novel and the wholesomeness of the personages makes me equate this somewhat to Mishima's Sound of the Waves, meaning that both are Japanese novels that don't, as someone of my acquaintance put it, feature horrible and depressing events. Not that Kawabata's fiction contains anything nearly as disturbing as Mishima's, but this novel feels more positive than some of his other works.]

It’s always odd to read a book or watch a movie about a sport or game I have no idea how to play. Somehow I managed to watch twenty-six episodes of Akagi while only having the slightest inkling of how to play mahjong. Perhaps it is also shameful to confess that I also don’t really even understand the basic idea behind cricket. Anyway, this is the third novel by Kawabata that I’ve read, the others being Snow Country and A Thousand Cranes, but the others I read for a class; perhaps what is intimidating about Kawabata is that despite, or because of the apparent simplicity of his style and diction, the ‘clean, transparent feeling’ (as one character says of the Go in this novel) is somewhat enigmatic. Like many writers of the 20th century Kawabata focuses on aesthetics and the distinction between the traditional and modern. (Sort of like Mishima, whom I’m trying to read in the Japanese now, of course, the focus on this kind of purity is perhaps exactly the opposite of the shocking and visceral within Mishima’s works.)

The novel is partially based off of real events. Kawabata covered a match between a Master of Go (in the novel, Shusai), and a representative of the younger forces (in the novel, Otake). The Master’s career has spanned three Imperial reigns; he is written as having simultaneously a vague and focused character, representing the artistic and traditionalistic form of Go. Throughout the marathon match, his health is failing, and there is at one point a months-long recess during which he convalesces. The opponent, Otake, while seeming at some points to be insensitive and taking advantage of the rules, is also likeably portrayed as the representative of the modern methods (characterized by the rigidity of the rules and contracts, and practice of sealed play.) The narrator also plays an important role in the plot, at one point giving a long speech to Otake in which he insists the match must continue because of its historical importance. Even, like me, if you do not understand the subtleties of Go, the descriptions of the surroundings, the drama surrounding the play, and above all, the atmosphere make this worth reading. (Also, FWIW, it’s much more straightforward than A Thousand Cranes or Snow Country.)