by Неизвестный
I am not suggesting that we take England as a model. I simply believe that freedom without a sense of duty is not true freedom, for such self-indulgent freedom cannot exist in society. And if for a moment, it did, it would quickly be expelled, stamped out by others. I sincerely wish for all of you to be free. At the same time I want to make very certain that you understand what we mean by “duty.” I believe in and practice individualism in this sense, and I do not hesitate to declare this before you now.
There must be no misunderstanding in what I mean by “individualism.” I ask your undivided attention on this point, for it would be particularly unforgivable of me to instill misunderstanding in young men such as yourselves. Time is running short, so let me explain individualism as simply as I can. Individual liberty is indispensable for the development of the individuality that I spoke of earlier. And the development of your individuality will have a great bearing on your happiness. Thus it would seem to me that we must keep for ourselves and grant to others a degree of liberty such that I can turn left while you turn right, each of us equally unhindered so long as what we do has no effect on others. This is what I mean when I speak of individualism.
The same is true of power and money. What will happen if people abuse these things, if they exploit their wealth and power to attack men they happen not to like? This will surely destroy individuality and give rise to human misery. For example, what if the police commissioner had his men surround my house for no better reason than that the government did not take a fancy to me? The commissioner may actually have that much power, but decency will not permit him to use it in this manner. Or again, what if one of the great magnates—Mitsui, say, or Iwasaki—were to bribe our maid and have her oppose me in everything? If these individuals have the slightest bit of what we call character behind their money, it would never occur to them to commit such an injustice.
All such evils arise because people like that are incapable of understanding ethical individualism. They try, instead, to aggrandize themselves at the expense of the general public, to use their power—be it financial or otherwise—to further their own selfish ends. Thus it is that individualism—the individualism I am describing here—in no way resembles the danger to the nation that ignorant people imagine it to be. As I see it, individualism advocates respecting the existence of others at the same time that one respects one’s own existence. I find that a most worthy philosophy.
More simply stated, individualism is a philosophy that replaces cliquism with values based on personal judgment of right and wrong. An individualist is not forever running with the group, forming cliques that thrash around blindly in the interests of power and money. That is why there lurks beneath the surface of his philosophy a loneliness unknown to others. As soon as we deny our little groups, then I simply go my way and I let the other man go his unhindered. Sometimes, in some instances, we cannot avoid becoming scattered. That is what is lonely.
Back when I was in charge of the literary column of the Asahi shinbun, we ran an article with an unflattering remark about Miyake Setsurei. It was a critical commentary, of course, not a personal attack, and it consisted of a mere line or two. I don’t remember exactly when it was printed—perhaps while I was sick, or possibly I was the one who gave the go-ahead—but in any case, this bit of criticism appeared in the Asahi literary column, which made them very angry over at Setsurei’s magazine, Nihon oyobi Nihonjin. They didn’t deal directly with me but approached a subordinate of mine, demanding a retraction. Setsurei himself, of course, had nothing to do with this. It was something that a few of his henchmen took it upon themselves to do. (Perhaps I should call them his “colleagues.” “Henchmen” makes them sound like a bunch of thugs.) Well, these “colleagues” of his insisted on a retraction. We would have been happy to oblige them, of course, if it had been a question of factual error, but this was a critique, after all, and there was nothing we could do but insist on our right to publish what we wanted. Their demand was surprising enough in itself, but then some of these men at Nihon oyobi Nihonjin started writing negative comments about me in every issue, which truly came as a shock. I never dealt with them directly, but when I heard what was going on, it made me feel very odd, for while I was acting out of individualism, they seemed to be functioning strictly as a clique. At times, I had gone so far as to publish negative reviews of my own novels in the literary column that I myself controlled, so it shocked me and made me feel very strange to see these “colleagues” of Setsurei angered by a little criticism. I know this will sound disrespectful, but I could not help feeling that they were living in the wrong century. They were like something out of the feudal age.
But even as I concluded this of Setsurei’s men, I myself could not deny a sense of loneliness. Differences of opinion, I know, are bound to arise between the closest of friends. That is why I may have given advice to the many young men who frequent my home but have never—unless for some other substantial reason—tried to keep any of them from expressing their views. I acknowledge the existence of others; I grant them this degree of freedom. Thus I can never hope for another man to support me against his will, however wronged by someone I may feel. Herein lies the loneliness of individualism. Before the individualist will take a stand based on what others are doing, he chooses a course of action based on the merits of the case. Sometimes, as a result, he will find himself quite alone. He will miss the comfort of having allies. And that is as it should be: even matchsticks feel secure in a bundle.
I would like to add just another word to prevent any misunderstanding. Many people seem to think of individualism as something opposed to—even destructive of—nationalism. But individualism in no way justifies such a misguided, illogical interpretation. (Actually, I don’t like these labels I’ve been using. People are not to be neatly defined by any single “ism.” For clarity’s sake, however, I am forced to discuss a variety of subjects under one heading.) Some people nowadays are spreading the idea—and they believe it—that Japan cannot survive unless it is entirely nationalistic. Many go so far as to assert that our nation will perish unless this terrible “individualism” is stamped out. What utter nonsense! All of us, in fact, are nationalists and internationalists and individualists as well.
Freedom is the essential substance of individualism, which, in turn, forms the foundation of individual happiness. Each man’s share of freedom, however, rises and falls like a thermometer in accordance with the relative security or insecurity of the nation. This is not so much an abstract theory as a generalization determined by the facts; it is the way things happen in the natural course of events. The individual’s liberty contracts when the country is threatened and expands when the nation is at peace. This is all obvious. No man of character is going to aim solely at the development of his individuality when the very survival of the nation is at stake. On the other hand, do be sure you see that the individualism I am talking about implies a warning against becoming the kind of fellow who insists on keeping his helmet on even after the fire is out, the man who wants to keep in lockstep when that is no longer necessary.
Here is another example. When I was in higher school, some of the students organized a club. I’ve forgotten now what they called it and just what its aims were, but the club was a particularly severe advocate of nationalism. There was nothing wrong with this club, of course; it had plenty of support, including that of the school president, Kinoshita Hirotsugu. All of the members wore badges on their chests. I did not intend to wear any badges, but I was made a member nevertheless. Not being one of the club’s originators, I knew that many of my opinions were at odds with theirs, but I joined because I had no good reason not to. When it came time for the inaugural meeting in the big lecture hall, one of the students apparently decided that the occasion deserved a speech. I was, to be sure, a member of the club, but there was much in it that conflicted with my opinions, and I recall having strongly attacked its aims. But here, at the opening meeting, everything this fellow had to say was a
rebuttal of what I had said! I had no idea if he was doing it on purpose or by coincidence, but in any case, I was going to have to answer him, and when he was through I stepped to the podium. I suppose I handled myself very badly, but at least I said what was on my mind. My remarks were quite simple, and they went something like this:
The nation may well be important, but we cannot possibly concern ourselves with the nation from morning to night as though possessed by it. There may be those who insist that we think of nothing but the nation twenty-four hours a day, but, in fact, no one can go on thinking only of one single thing so incessantly. The bean-curd seller does not go around selling bean curd for the nation’s sake. He does it to earn a living. Whatever his immediate motives may be, he does contribute something necessary to society, and in that sense perhaps, the nation benefits indirectly. The same might be said of the fact that I had three bowls of rice today for lunch and four for supper. I took a larger serving not for the nation’s sake but, frankly, to suit my stomach. These things might be said to have some very indirect influence on the country, and indeed, from certain points of view, they might bear some relation to the entire drift of world affairs. But what a horror if we had to take that into account and eat for the nation, wash our faces for the nation, go to the toilet for the nation! There is noting wrong with encouraging nationalism, but to pretend that you are doing all of these impossible things for the nation is simply a lie. This was more or less what I said.
No one—and I do mean no one—is going to be unconcerned about the nation’s safety when one’s country is in danger. But when the country is strong and the risk of war small, when there is no threat of being attacked from without, then nationalism should diminish accordingly and individualism enter to fill the vacuum. This only stands to reason. We are all aware that Japan today is not entirely secure. Japan is a poor country, and small. Anything could happen at any time. In that sense all of us must maintain our concern for the nation. But this country of ours is in no danger of suddenly collapsing; we are not about to suffer annihilation; and as long as this is true, there should be no need for all the commotion on behalf of the country. It is like running through the streets dressed in firefighting clothes, filled with self-sacrifice, before any fire has even broken out.
Finally, however, this is all a matter of degree. When war does break out, when a crisis involving the nation’s survival does arise, anyone with a mind that can think—anyone who has cultivated sufficient character such that he cannot help but think—will naturally turn his attention to it. Nature itself will see to it that he gives his all for the nation, even if this means placing restrictions on his individual liberty and cutting back on personal activity. Thus, I do not for a moment believe that nationalism and individualism are irreconcilable opposites engaged in a constant state of internecine warfare.
I would like to say more on the subject but time does not permit, so I will limit myself to these remarks. There is just one other point that I would like to bring to your attention—namely, that a nationalistic morality comes out a very poor second when compared with an individualistic morality. Nations have always been most punctilious over the niceties of diplomatic language, but not so with the morality of their actions. They swindle and cheat and trick each other every chaotic step of the way. That is why you will have to content yourself with a pretty cheap grade of morality when you take the nation as your standard, when you conceive of the nation as an indivisible monolith. Approach life from a foundation of individualism, however, and you arrive at a far loftier morality; the difference between the two deserves a good deal of thought. To me, therefore, it seems obvious that in a time of tranquillity for the nation, we should place the greater emphasis on individualism with its lofty moral sense. I am afraid I have no time to say anything further on this subject today.
I want to thank you for inviting me here. I have tried my best to explain to you how necessary individualism will be for young men such as yourselves who will have the opportunity to live lives of individual fulfillment, and I have done so in the hope that it might be of some use to you once you have gone out into the world. Whether or not I have, in fact, made myself understood, I of course cannot know, but if there should be points that are still unclear to you, it is because I have expressed myself insufficiently or poorly. If you do find that something I have said remains vague, please do not assign some random meaning to my words, but come to see me at my home whenever you wish and I will do my best to explain. Of course, nothing could give me greater satisfaction than to have gained your understanding of my true meaning without this extra effort.
* * *
1. Dōshisha was founded in 1885 in Kyoto by Niijima Jō (1843–1890), also known as Joseph Neesima. An alumnus of Amherst College and the Andover-Newton Seminary, Niijima was an influential educator and a Christian. Dōshisha was founded on the principles of Christianity and was given university status in 1912.
2. A well-known passage from the Analects (Lunyu), one of the four Confucian treatises.
1. Satsuma biwauta are songs from Satsuma accompanied by the biwa, the Japanese lute.
1. “V narod!” means “To the people!”
Chapter 3
THE INTERWAR YEARS
The period between World War I and Japan’s increasing involvement in its own wars in the 1930s contains a bewildering variety of influences and counterinfluences on the literature written during those two decades. The stimulation of contemporary European art and literature became even more important, particularly in the case of French writers such as Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Gide, whose works were translated and eagerly read. With their concern for the poor and disenfranchised, socialism and Marxism might be considered European influences as well, and they greatly helped reshape the consciousness of Japanese artists and intellectuals. Any public expression of these convictions, however, because of the mounting suppression by the government, was muted by the early 1930s.
Another way to examine the literary accomplishments of this interwar period is to observe the development of a genuine popular literature. Such varieties of entertainment had a long heritage dating back to the Tokugawa period and earlier, but now with a more literate population and the use of sophisticated printing techniques, modern mass communication had become possible. The result was a sharper division between what was sometimes called pure literature and mere “entertainment,” whether romantic tales, detective fiction, or adventure stories. The differences between the two may seem obvious at first, but the hidden reciprocal relationship between them helped move Japanese literature away from the earlier confessional modes toward a rebirth of artistic storytelling.
The great masters, writers like Mori Ōgai and Natsume Sōseki, were gone but had been replaced by such grand figures as the greatest of all modern Japanese storytellers, Akutagawa RyunosŪke; that master of patrician eroticism, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō; the poetic and sometimes nostalgic Kawabata Yasunari; and Shiga Naoya, who combined earlier literary techniques of self-revelation with an acute and ironic eye for social detail. It was writers like these who defined for Japanese readers what was “modern” about their literature. Although the careers of some of these writers were halted or at least muted by the advent of the war, most resumed their creative work after that period. A few, however, notably Shiga Naoya, continued to remain silent.
FICTION
AKUTAGAWA RYŪNOSUKE
For many readers, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892–1927) is the most celebrated writer of short fiction during the interwar years, and his works were among the first examples of modern Japanese literature to be translated into English. He drew on stories from the Japanese, Chinese, and European traditions as well as his observations of contemporary Japanese life. Akutagawa remained a masterful storyteller until his celebrated suicide, which seemed to many to reflect the unease felt by artists and intellectuals at a troubling moment in Japan’s political, social, and artistic history. Two of his stories are included here.
“
The Nose” (Hana), published in 1916 when the author was still a student, already shows Akutagawa’s skill at investing classical works with a sardonic and altogether modern sensibility. The second, “The Christ of Nanking” (Nankin no Kirisuto), written in 1920, is a particularly trenchant example of the author’s sophisticated irony.
THE NOSE (HANA)
Translated by Ivan Morris
In the entire town of Ikenoo there was no one who had not heard of Father Zenchi’s nose. It was six or seven inches long and hung from his upper lip all the way down to his chin. It was so shaped that its tip was as thick as its root and it gave the impression of a sausage dangling aimlessly from the center of his face.
Father Zenchi was now past the age of fifty and had attained high ecclesias-tical rank as one of the Chosen Priests of the Imperial Palace Buddhist Center. For many years—ever since he had been a lay deacon—the matter of his nose had weighed constantly on his mind. On the surface, of course, he had always succeeded in dissimulating his concern, and even now he was careful to keep it secret. This was not simply because it seemed to him morally wrong for a priest, who should by all rights be thirsting day and night after the future Paradise of Buddha, to be exercised by such a trifle as a nose. More important was the fact that he detested the idea of other people’s knowing that it worried him. In his daily conversations he feared more than anything that the word “nose” would suddenly intrude.