by Неизвестный
ISHIKAWA TAKUBOKU
The tanka by Ishikawa Takuboku (1885–1912) are among the most personal statements in Meiji literature, constituting a kind of poetic diary capturing his moods, obsessions, and hopes. The son of a Zen priest, Takuboku eventually went to Tōkyō to try to earn money to support his family. Constantly short of money, he became interested in socialism toward the end of his life, dying of tuberculosis while still a young man. Some examples of his poetry composed in the modem international style can be found in the preceding section.
Never forget
that man, tears
running down his face
a handful of sand
held out to show me ho’o ni tsutau
namida no gohazu
ichiaku no suna wo shimeshisi hito wo
wasurezu
Wrote GREAT
in the sand
a hundred times
forgot about dying
and went on home dai to iu ji wo hyaku amari
suna ni kaki
shinu koto wo yamete kaerikoreri
Like being
stoned out of town
I left—
the hurt of that
won’t go away ishi wo mote owaruru gotoku
furusato wo ideshi kanashimi
kiyuru toki nashi
Give me
the creeps
some memories
like putting on
dirty socks yogoretaru tabi haku toki no
kimi waruki omoi ni nitaru
omoide mo ari
He sees me
as nothing
but a useless poet—
I owe
the man money jitsumu ni wa yaku ni tatazaru kajin to
ware miru hito ni kane karinikeri
Translated by Carl Sesar
Just for fun
I put Mother on my back tawamure ni haha wo seoite
she weighs so
little that I start crying sono amari karuki ni nakite
and can’t walk three steps sanpo ayumazu
On the roadside
a dog gives out a long
long yawn michibata ni inu naganaga to akubi
shimu
I do the same ware mo mane shimu
out of sheer envy urayamashisa ni
I work hatarakedo
and work yet my life
remains
impoverished as ever hatarakedo nao waga kurashi raku ni
narazari
I gaze at my hands jitto te wo miru
Like a white lotus
blooming in a swamp shiroku hasu numa ni saku gotoku
sorrow kanashimi ga
beautifully clear
floats in my befuddled mind ei no aida ni hakkiri to uku
As if in water mizu no goto
my body is submerged
in sorrow karada wo hitasu kanashimi ni
that smells a little
of green onions this evening negi no ka nado no majireru yūbe
Accidentally
having broken a teacup ayamachite chawan wo kowashi
I learned the joy
of breaking something mono wo kowasu kimochi no yosa wo
it’s on my mind this
morning, too kesa mo omoeru
Sorrow
its outlines blurred bon’yari to shita kanashimi ga
at nightfall yo to nareba
sneaks into the room
and sits on the bed nedai no ue ni sotto kite noru
Translated by Makoto Ueda
MASAOKA SHIKI
Masaoka Shiki (1867–1902) became famous as a writer of both tanka and haiku. He and Natsume Sōseki shared an interest in the classics, and Shiki wrote some poetry in Chinese as well. He began his career as a writer for a Tōkyō newspaper. When he was sent as a correspondent to China in the Sino-Japanese War of 1894, he fell ill and eventually died of tuberculosis after a long and difficult illness. Shiki’s interest in reforming tanka helped change the course of modern Japanese poetry.
TANKA
No one to bury
the bodies
of the dead soldiers—
mountain road in spring,
violets blooming mononofu no
shikabane osamuru
hito mo nashi
sumire hana saku
haru no yamamichi
Glass door
in my sickroom
I can peer right through—
I see sparrows darting among
the branches of the little pines itatsuki no
neya no garasudo
kage sukite
komatsu no eda ni
suzume tobu miyu
Pine needles,
each needle strung with its
drop of bright dew,
forming, then falling,
falling, then forming again matsu no ha no
ha goto ni musubu
shitatsuyu no
okite wa kobore
kobore wa oku
The sprays of wisteria
arranged in a vase—
one cluster
dangles down
on the piled-up books kame ni sasu
fuji no hanabusa
hitofusa wa
kasaneshi fumi no
ue ni taretari
Sprays of wisteria
arranged in a vase—
the blossoms hang down,
and by my sickbed
spring is coming to an end kame ni sasu
fuji no hanabusa
hana tarete
yamai no toko ni
haru kuren to su
HAIKU
Tenement house—
mosquito repellent smoldering
in every window down the row mado narabu
nagaya tsuzuki no
kayari kana
Buddha too—
he’s opened his altar doors,
cooling off mihotoke mo
tobira o akete
suzumi kana
I eat a persimmon
and a bell starts booming—
Hōryū-ji kaki kueba
kane ga narunari
Hōryū-ji
Hands so cold
I can’t work the writing brush—
Nearing midnight te kogoete
fude ugokazu yo ya
fukenuran
Amid a jumble of
tanka books, haiku books—
noonday nap kasho haisho
funzen to shite
hirune kana
Swatting mosquitoes—
bloodstains
on the war tale I’m reading ka o utte
gunsho no ue ni
chi o in su
Chilly nights—
at the public bath
someone went off with my clogs sentō de
geta kaeraruru
yosamu kana
The little knife—
sharpening pencils with it,
peeling pears kogatana ya
empitsu o kezuri
nashi o muku
I keep asking
how deep
the snow’s gotten ikutabi mo
yuki no fukasa o
tazunekeri
I think I’ll die
eating apples,
in the presence of peonies ringo kuute
botan no mae ni
shinan kana
Translated by Burton Watson
YOSANO AKIKO
Introduced earlier in this chapter, Yosano Akiko’s first full-length collection of tanka, Tangled Hair (Midaregami), which appeared in 1901, formed her reputation as a poet of a sometimes erotic romanticism completely new to Japanese poetry. She went on to write more poetry of various forms, a novel, and accounts of her travels, as well as translating the classic Tale of Genji into modern Japanese.
A star that once within night’s velvet whispered all the words of love is now a mortal in the world below—See this swirling hair! Yo no chō ni sasamekitsukishi hoshi no ima wo ge
kai no hito no bin no hotsure yo
The temple bell is ringing low this evening
Come now and chant your sutras for the budding peach blossoms in my hair
Dō no kane no hikuki yūbe wo maegami no momo no tsubomi ni kyō tamae kimi
This hot tide of blood beneath soft skin and you don’t even brush it with a fingertip
Aren’t you lonely then you who preach the Way?
Yawa hada no atsuki chishio ni fure mo mide sabishikarazu ya michi wo toku kimi
Pressing my breasts I softly kick aside
the curtain of mystery How deep the crimson of the flower here
Chibusa osae shinpi no tobari wo soto kerinu Kokonaru hana no kurenai zo koki
What I dreamed was a green dream, a thin dream Forgive me traveler I have no tales to tell you
Mishi wa sore midori no yume no hosokiyume Yuruse tabibito katari kusa naki
Spring is short what is there has eternal life I said and made his hands seek out my powerful breasts
Haru mijikashi Nan ni fumetsu no inochi zo to chikara aru chi wo te ni sagurasenu
No words for the Way no thought for afterward not caring what they’ll say here loving, loved you look on me, I look on you Michi wo iwazu nochi wo omowazu wo towazu koko ni koi kou kimi to ware to miru
“Let men pay for their many sins!” So came the words when I was made with my face so fair and this long flow of black hair Tsumi ōki otoko korase to hada kiyoku kurokami nagaku tsukurareshi ware
THE DANCING GIRL (MAIHIME, NO. 11, 1906)
Peony in my hair becomes a flame the sea burns mad with love earth’s child dreams Kazashitaru botan hi to nari umi moenu omoimidaruru hito no ko no yume
SPRING THAW (SHUNDEISHŪ, 1911)
Alone is better nothing sadder than two depressed together Ichinin wa nao yoshi mono wo omoeru ga futari aru yori kanashiki wa nashi
Half-horse half-woman on me red rains of coral fall blue showers of lapis lazuli Mizukara wa hanjin hanba furu mono wa sango no ame to hekiruri no ame
And then one morning surprised I found myself at the brink of wisdom having forgotten love To aru asa koi wo wasurete kenjin no kiwa ni narinu to odorokinu ware
Translated by Janine Beichman
ESSAYS
NATSUME SŌSEKI
Natsume Sōseki (1867–1916) is, by common agreement, Japan’s greatest novelist of this period. His works also are the most difficult to fit into an anthology. Nearly all of Sōseki’s novels and other writings are quite long, and to include only parts of such beautifully crafted works as Kokoro, The Wayfarer (Kōjin), and Grass by the Wayside (Kusamakura) would be a disservice to both the writer and the reader. Because most of Sōseki’s major novels are now available in English translation, it is our hope that readers will seek out for themselves these remarkable accounts of their author’s spiritual journey.
It seems more appropriate, therefore, to introduce Sōseki in this anthology as an essayist. Even though his essays are highly respected and appreciated in Japan, else-where their translations are not as well known. Both the essays excerpted here began as lectures but had a wide circulation when they were printed. Although the first sections are discursive and rambling, the principal issues are stated succinctly and resonate with readers even today.
The first essay is a lecture entitled “The Civilization of Modern-Day Japan” (Gendai Nihon no kaika), which Sōseki delivered in 1911. Once his subject comes into focus, he offers an account of the spiritual pains felt by those living in a shifting society. For many Japanese readers, this essay has remained a crucial statement of the ambiguities of twentieth-century Japanese life.
The second essay is a lecture entitled “My Individualism” (Watakushi no kojinshugi), delivered in 1914. It is as close as Sōseki ever came to a statement about his own life and aspirations as an artist.
THE CIVILIZATION OF MODERN-DAY JAPAN (GENDAI NIHON NO KAIKA)
Translated by Jay Rubin
Well, then, what do we mean by “civilization”? My guess is that you do not understand the civilization of modern-day Japan. By this I mean no disrespect toward you. None of us really understands it, and that includes me. I just happen to be in a position that gives me more time than you have to think about such matters, and this lecture allows me to share my thoughts with you. All of you are Japanese, and so am I; we live in the modern age, not the past or the future, and our civilization influences us all; it is obvious that the three words “modern,” “Japan,” and “civilization” bind us together inseparably. If, however, we remain unconscious of the civilization of modern-day Japan or if we do not have a clear understanding of what it means, this can adversely affect everything we do. We will all be better off, I believe, if, together, we study this concept and help each other understand it. . . .
I believe that this infinitely complex phenomenon we call civilization arises from the advancement, entanglement, and ongoing change of these two parallel mentalities: the conservation of our vital energies as a negative response to the stimulus of duty, and the consumption of our vital energies as a positive response to the stimulus of pleasurable pastimes. The results are immediately apparent if we witness the state of the society in which we ourselves live. The conservation of energy is obvious in the ways we contrive to labor as little as possible, to accomplish the maximum amount of work in the minimum amount of time. These contrivances take amazing shapes: not only trains and steam-ships, but the telegraph, the telephone, and the automobile—all of which are, finally, nothing more than conveniences developed from an unabashed desire to avoid effort. . . .
Thanks to this kind of magic, distances are shortened, time is diminished, bother is eliminated, all compulsory effort is reduced to a minimum, then reduced again, and before we find out how far we can push this process, along comes the opposite, “energy-consuming” impulse, the desire for enjoyment, urging us to do exactly as we please, and this, too, goes on and on, developing naturally, advancing without a moment’s intermission.
The moralists may grumble about the development of our desire for enjoyment, but that is strictly an ethical question, not a practical one. The simple fact is that the impulse to find ways to consume our energies by doing what pleases us keeps working around the clock, developing without a break. Only the existence of society causes a man to have compulsory actions thrust upon him, but give that man his freedom and he will inevitably try to consume his mental powers, his physical powers, on stimuli that please him because it is perfectly natural for him to operate from an egocentric standpoint. . . .
In any case, we have these two intertwining processes, one involving inventions and mechanisms that spring from the desire to conserve our labor as much as possible, and the other involving amusements that spring from the wish to consume our energies as freely as possible. As these two intertwine like a textile’s warp and woof, combining in infinitely varied ways, the result is this strange, chaotic phenomenon we know as our modern civilization.
If this is what we mean by “civilization,” a strange paradox arises, a phenomenon that at first glance seems rather odd but whose truth everyone must recognize. Why, we might ask, has man followed the stream of civilization from its beginnings to the present day, manifesting these two types of energy? The answer is simply that we are born that way. In other words, everything we have today is the result of these inborn tendencies of ours. We could not have survived if we had simply stood by with our arms folded. Pushed along from one thing to the next, we have toiled and toiled for thousands of years, finally developing to the point where we find ourselves today.
As a result of the contrivances wrought by these two kinds of vital energy from ancient times to the present, life should be far easier for us than it was for our ancestors. But is life, in fact, easier for us? I would have to say that it is not. For you and for me, life is enormously painful. You and I both know that we live with pain no less extreme than that which was felt by the men of old. Indeed, the more civilization progresses, the more
intense the competition becomes, only adding to the difficulty of our lives. True enough, thanks to the violent struggle of the two energies, civilization has attained its present triumph, but “civilization” in this sense means only that our general standard of living has risen; it does not mean that the pain of existence has been softened for us to any extent. Just as academic competition is equally painful for both the grammar school child and the university student, though at different levels, there may be a huge difference between people in the old days and people now where energy-consuming and energy-conserving mechanisms are concerned, but when it comes to relative degrees of happiness (or unhappiness), the anxieties and exertions that arise from the struggle for existence are no less for us today than they were for our ancestors. If anything, they may even be more painful. Back then it was a matter of life and death: if you didn’t make the necessary exertions, you died and that was that. You did it because you had no choice. You didn’t think about enjoyment; the means for seeking pleasure had not been developed. People were satisfied just to stretch out their legs or let their arms hang down: It was probably all the enjoyment they could hope for.
Today, we have long since transcended the problem of life and death. Now, it’s more a matter of life and life. I know that sounds funny, but by this I mean that now our most taxing problem is whether to live in circumstances A or in circumstances B. To cite an example of the energy-conservation type, competition now raises the question of whether a man is going to make a living by dragging a rickshaw around the streets or by grasping the steering wheel of an automobile. Whichever he chooses, this will not determine whether he lives or dies. The amount of labor involved, however, will certainly not be the same. He will sweat a lot more pulling that rickshaw. If he drives passengers around in an automobile (of course, if he can afford an automobile, he won’t have any need to drive passengers around), he can cover longer distances in shorter times. He doesn’t have to exert himself physically. As a result of the conservation of vital energy, he has an easier job. In contrast to the old days, now that the automobile has been invented, the rickshaw will inevitably fall behind. Having fallen behind, the rickshaw will have to struggle to keep up.