around the internet on a thursday: Japanese edition

Tin House recently ran a short essay on the Japanese writer Edogawa Rampo (that would be Japanenglish for "Edgar Allan Poe"), which coincides with the recent publication, by Kurodahan Press, of an anthology of Rampo's writings in English.

Edogawa Rampo's brazen
acquisition of Poe's moniker, as well as his prominent place in
Japanese literary history, should have made him a welcome import to
American literary shores by now.

(…) The stories [in Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination]—written mostly
in the 1920s and '30s—are grotesqueries chock full of detectives,
murderers, outcasts, sociopaths, the perverted, the bloodthirsty, and
the insane. Like Poe's “The Gold Bug,” many of Rampo's stories
incorporate cryptograms and logic puzzles for the reader to solve. But
his early work can't be labeled uniformly derivative. Rampo separates
himself by his fixation on the erotic, on the pleasures of the body, an
obsession set uncomfortably against the anxious backdrop of a pre-war
society struggling with identity in the face of Westernization.

The Japan Times has a review, here.

 *
The latest literary sensation sweeping Japan is a "blook" (blog book) called "Breasts and Eggs." Written by Mieko Kawakami, an obscure singer-songwriter from Osaka, the blog turned book was recently awarded the prestigious Akutagawa Prize for new fiction. The Independent summarizes the plot:

Like many mothers and daughters, Makiko and Midoriko don't always get
on. Makiko, a hostess on the cusp of middle age, is worn out from
single-handedly raising her teenage girl. Midoriko lives in fear that
she will end up like her exhausted mum, and communicates only in
writing. Guilt and resentment curdle their lives as Makiko ponders the
move she thinks will restart her life: breast implants.

Okay then.  Anyone with a good command of Japanese want to translate any of the book for us?

*
A new anthology from the University of Hawai'i Press (don't forget the apostrophe, please) collects evidence of a Japanese modernist literature produced in the period 1913-1938 that the author terms "modanizumu."

*
Finally, this past weekend's Japan Times contains a profile of the "literary loner" Nagai Kafu.

The Year of No Money in Tokyo

51UgW3E6AdL._SL500_AA240_ Tokyo is, according to Forbes Magazine, the second most expensive city in the world.  In a town where a cantaloupe costs upwards of $50, a cab ride from one neighborhood to the one next door can run you $15, and rent is twice what it is in New York City, the only thing worse than being a penniless gaijin in Tokyo has to be being an African-American gaijin in Tokyo. 

In his memoir of the lean year he spent in Japan, during the deep recession of the mid-90s, the journalist Wayne Lionel Aponte (who has written for the New York Times, the Washington Post, and The Wall Street Journal) attempts to navigate the strict hierarchies of Japanese society despite having lost his job and run out of money.  The resistance he encounters on the part of the natives is of the kind any foreigner encounters, but Aponte's race makes his situation particularly difficult:  "Almost every day, an officer steps out of the police box on Omotesando Street and stares at me angrily as I pass.  That's the Japanese equivalent of harassment. You'd think I had hit on his wife." 

"Every government protects their own people against foreign people," the head of one Japanese company tells him. This, Aponte writes, "might be a microcosm of what ordinary Japanese think.  I get the impression that locals believe they can treat me however they want, without repercussions."

But ultimately, Aponte finds that it is class which is most determinate of one's treatment in Tokyo.  He sets himself on a rigorous, "puritanical" course toward recuperating his losses and raising himself out of the "coffin" in which he finds himself when the narrative opens.

Although Aponte's training as a journalist occasionally weighs down his prose, his memoir cuts right to the heart of the shame of being impoverished, when you're no longer quite so young, nor quite so promising, as when you started down this road.

Ultimately, Aponte's memoir is less about being down and out in Tokyo, and more a journey of self-discovery: he encounters his limits, and learns to live within them.  What is unclear is why he decides to stay in Tokyo; a trip back to the US three-quarters of the way through the book clarifies what he is escaping, but the picture Aponte paints of Tokyo and of the Japanese is on the whole unflattering. Luckily, Aponte's light humor and basic good-nature rescue the memoir from being a litany of complaints and lift it into the category of instructive, if not dissuasive, travel memoir.

Wayne Lionel Aponte, The Year of No Money in Tokyo. (Watkins & McKay, 165 pp., $19.95)

Excerpt:

The problem with hanging one's ideas of success on superficial hooks is that when those hooks fail–when the address changes, when the income falters–the feeling of defeat is total.  My life is unusually solitary and frugal, and my entertainment is limited to reading, writing, and watching television rather than socializing at restaurants, bars, and nightclubs.  Yet, I try to operate without panic on the hopes that my situation will improve.

When I entered the chambers of poverty, I went through a series of transformations. The first stage brought feelings of self-consciousness and shame.  The second; anger and bitterness. The third; numbness toward my squalor.  I was beyond caring.  The fourth stage introduced a comfort within my humble situation, and I made the most of it.

Through each phase, as I gently descended into the abyss, I developed a fidelity to the art of interpretation.  In other words, I reinvented myself.  In the beginning, I avoided people because they inevitably wanted to learn about my profession and employer.  I hated talking about my condition.  I was too proud to say, "I'm unemployed and am close to being homeless.  Would you happen to know of any work?"

vendredi, poesie

Hiro_fuj In keeping with our Japan theme… there's some playful poetry about the Floating World over at Juked.

From Hello Mt Fuji, My Favorite Mountain by Anjali Khosla Mullany

(…)

I lie in this bed with a scotch-tape Mt. Fuji,

my favorite mountain,

and I eat all the sushi, and I rub my face raw,

and I wait for the teaching silence

at the top of the mountain,

at the bottom of the sea.

(Read the full poem here)

Also, check out this poem about mochi and rabbits on the moon.

Interview: Donna George Storey

Prints22detail
In Donna George Storey's first novel, Amorous Woman, the reader is taken on an erotic journey into Japan, as seen through the eyes of a young American woman. Storey, who has a PhD in Japanese literature from Stanford, has adapted many of her own adventures into her novel, from back when she was a recent college graduate teaching English in Kyoto. Although readers who are (like me) unaccustomed to the conventions of erotica may be shocked by what they find there, Storey's novel opens into a world running parallel to the one the tourists see, and allows us to experience vicariously what we know is beyond our reach.

Storey has published over ninety stories and essays in
such places as Prairie Schooner (the story received
special mention in Pushcart Prize Stories 2004), Gettysburg Review, Fourth Genre, Best American Erotica 2006, and the past five
volumes of Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica and Best Women’s Erotica. Amorous Woman (Orion/Neon) is her first novel. She is also the author of Child of
Darkness: Yôko and Other Stories by Furui Yoshikichi
, a translation with critical commentaries.

DGSimages Maîtresse: Your novel is
based on the classic 17th century novel of the pleasure quarters, Ihara
Saikaku's The Life of an Amorous Woman. I haven't read it– and haven't
had time to get a copy delivered– so I'd like to know, How do you see
your novel in dialogue with that one? How did that book inspire you?
(Did you decide it needed to be updated, or was still relevant, etc.)
Why use the vantage point of a gaijin to tell the story?


Donna George Storey
: I first read The Life of an Amorous
Woman
in preparation for my comprehensive exams for my Ph.D in Japanese
literature.  Although I’d guess the book isn’t really all that
viscerally arousing to a contemporary American reader (or a Japanese
one for that matter), I was immediately impressed by the protagonist,
Oharu, who enjoyed sex and had an adventurous spirit that led her to
experience nearly every role open to women of her time—unheard of
under the repressive Tokugawa regime.  Even then I wondered what
it would be like to write the story of an American woman who experienced
every role open to a gaijin in Japan during the time I stayed
there in the 1980s and early 1990s.  I was definitely drawn to
the idea of exploring that same panoramic view of gender roles and sexual
mores with a cross-cultural twist.

I let that idea simmer for a decade
or so, and when I was approached to write a novel for Orion’s Neon
series, I thought of my modern-day remake of Saikaku and wrote up a
proposal.  I borrowed many aspects of the original, such as the
framing device of the protagonist telling her story to two young men
who want different things from her—in my case a young businessman
who is enchanted with Japan and another who is rather cynical. 
I also used the episodic structure of the original.  In each chapter,
my heroine, Lydia, throws herself into a new role whole-heartedly—wife,
mistress, hostess, prostitute–almost forgetting she was ever anything
else.  Saikaku’s famous jealousy meeting and his live sex show
make an appearance in modern translation as well.  And his theme
of worldly illusion and enlightenment was a touchstone for me. 
At the end of both novels, Oharu and Lydia hallucinate a parade of lover’s
faces that leads to their final epiphanies.

There are plenty of differences in
my retelling, however.  Oharu’s motivation tends to be general
restlessness and boredom with one lover.  In short, she’s a nymphomaniac. 
I tried to make Lydia a bit more psychologically complex with her Freudian
father complex and her search for a spiritual home.  I identify
her as a “Kyoto gaijin,” the type who longs to read the Tale
of Genji
in the original and is convinced she is a reincarnated
Japanese.  I’ve moved beyond that phase, but yes, I was pretty
thrilled when I did manage to read a chapter of Genji in the
original!  There is a lot of autobiography in my book as well.

M: How did you decide to start writing
erotica?

DGS: When I first started writing seriously
about twelve years ago, I merely wanted to write good stories. 
But whenever I sat down at my computer, my fiction seemed to take a
sexual turn, perhaps because I’ve always been fascinated by the mystery
of the erotic life.  I resisted at first, and tried to be a good
girl, but I finally realized I had to follow my passion.

Only later did I formulate a philosophy
of sorts to support the natural leanings of my muse.  Our society
still tends to separate the physical and intellectual, sex and scholarship. 
My goal is to blend erotica’s focus on the characters’ sexuality,
and their enjoyment of it, with the literary aim of getting at the truth
of the complexity of human experience.  One of the greatest compliments
I’ve heard from readers of Amorous Woman is that it provokes
thought as well as physical arousal, that is “it’s a real novel
and not just a stroke book.”


M: The recent "glitch"
over at Amazon resulted in your novel being de-ranked. Did you manage
to get in touch with them to find out why? what did they tell you? Do
you accept the explanation that it was a "glitch"? Do you
think America is still too much of a Puritanical society to enjoy erotic
literature? What about in Japan– all that manga [comic book] porn.  Is that
a society that is more open to reading erotica?

DGS: Amorous Woman was one of the
earlier books to be affected.  Suddenly, as of the morning of April
9, my novel no longer appeared on general searches and the next day
it was deranked.  This is not good for sales because many customers
just assume the book isn’t available and don’t take the necessary
steps to track it down.  I queried Amazon and initially got a clueless
reply suggesting I try to tag my book to make it more visible. 
I challenged that answer and was told they’d passed on my request
to their technical staff.  A few days later, 50,000 books with
tags on sexuality or gay/lesbian themes suffered the same fate. 
On Monday, April 13, I got two replies from them, one was the standard
press release, the other a personal reply saying my book had been reinstated,
but with no further explanation.

I was certainly outraged along with
everyone else on Easter weekend with what looked like an ideological
attack on books that dealt with sexuality in a progressive way (for
example, books on “curing” homosexuality were never deranked). 
Now I believe it could have been a glitch, either the work of an intentional
hacker or insider who mistakenly catalogued all such books as “adult.” 
But it is a lesson to everyone about the arbitrary and dangerous nature
of any kind of censorship.  Under the standards of the “glitch,”
Anais Nin was relegated to the back room as smut and Henry Miller stayed
right up front with the literature.  James Baldwin was too dirty
for primetime, Hugh Hefner’s centerfolds were fine.  It also
points out how vulnerable authors who dare to push conservation boundaries
of sexual expression still are.  In my efforts to market my book,
I’ve faced a lot of prejudice from independent booksellers who refuse
to sell any erotica at all, although I would argue passionately that
my book has as much literary value, and a more nuanced view of sexuality,
than many placed cover out on their shelves.  America is definitely
still quite Puritanical, although I suspect our capitalist system likes
it that way.  You can use sex to titillate and ultimately sell
products more effectively if it is forbidden and repressed in the society
at large.

The Japanese government on the other
hand has traditionally seen sex as a way to channel rebellious energies
that otherwise might be expressed in far more dangerous political ways—thus
their support of licensed brothels, comfort women, and nowadays, ubiquitous
manga
porn as a change of pace, or “kibun tenkan,” for
harried salarymen.

DonnaKimono M: Lydia speaks Japanese very well,
and manages to penetrate (excuse the expression) Japanese society more
deeply than any of us visiting the country could ever hope to.  How can
someone traveling to that country get past the surface and have a more "authentic" Japanese experience? Do you have any favorite places to
recommend?


DGS:
The “real Japan” has two faces: 
an up-to-the-minute trendy side and a timeless traditional side. 
To experience the latest fad, you’d have to ask your concierge or
Japanese friend what’s the coolest happening thing that week, because
it surely won’t be the same as last week. 

However, the traditional side is easier
to track and I have a long list of recommendations from my stays in
Kyoto and Tokyo over the years.  The best way for a traveler to
experience old Japan is to stay in a ryokan or minshuku
rather than a Western hotel.  Laying out your bedding each night,
taking a Japanese bath and best of all waking up to a Japanese breakfast
of rice, miso soup, grilled fish and side dishes will get you in touch
with Japanese cultural on a visceral level.   Yoshimizu Inn
in Ginza is a favorite place and their organic, healthy breakfasts are
fantastic. 

A visit to a hot spring is an even
better route to the sensual side of Japan.  Chojukan, a lovely
nineteenth-century inn at Hoshi Onsen in Gunma has made an appearance
in my novel and many of my stories.  The traditional wooden bathhouse
is as awe-inspiring as a cathedral, and they allow mixed bathing, one
of the few places in Japan that still does.

Other suggestions would be an overnight
trip to Tsumago and Magome, two historic towns in the Nagano mountains. 
Make sure to tour Tsumago at night by lantern light.  On my last
trip to Kyoto, I loved the Sumiya Pleasure House, the last remaining
tea house in the former pleasure quarters of Shimabara.  It really
is a trip back to the elegant side of the seventeenth century.

M: You don't have to answer this
question if you don't want to– I feel funny asking it on this blog,
as it's always been mostly PG-13!– but what's the biggest difference
between Japanese and American sexual mores?


DGS:
I could write a book about this topic—and
I guess I did!—but in summary, I’d say the fundamental difference
is the locus of society’s control of the universal sexual urge. 
In mostly Judeo-Christian America, God is always watching you, so any
sort of activity outside of procreative marital duty is always tinged
with delicious guilt.  In Japan, anything goes in private as long
as you keep up the proper façade.  Affairs are fine as long as
they don’t jeopardize the marriage.  Commercial sex is fine,
as long as it stays within the bounds of the law, although it’s fascinating
to see how creative the sex industry can be in an effort to test legal
boundaries.  As in many Japanese arts, restriction and restraint
really does inspire artistry.

M: What are you working on now?


DGS:
I’m currently plotting out my second
novel, an “intellectual erotic mystery,” which is a peek through
the bedroom keyhole of American history in the 20th century.
The protagonist, a history professor, is fascinated by cultural expressions
of erotic desire including Sally Rand, the famous 1930s burlesque dancer,
Bettie Page and camera clubs in the 1950s, John Updike’s spouse-swapping
suburbia, and the secret (or not so secret) lives of our presidents. 
As her research proceeds, she finds her own life in the bedroom becoming
more and more complex. I’ve been doing my own research on this project
for a while–all my life, really–and I’ve assembled a lot of provocative
material.   Hopefully my passion will come through to my readers!

Illustration:Utagawa Kunisada II, 1823-1880

Michel Tournier au Japon

Livre_Lieux-dits Michel Tournier recounts his first trip to Japan in Lieux dits:

At the airport, an ocean of humanity.  Enormous lines snake around, criss-crossing, in between the check-in counter, customs control, and the exit.  It seems, at least to my Western eyes, to be a disciplined and uniform crowd.  Thanks to the Ambassador of France come to pick up his wife [who happened to be on the same plane as Tournier], we manage to get through rather quickly.  

We have been warned: we have arrived in the middle of spring strike season.  Strikes are regularly planned for specific days; they are orderly and always satisfying. 

On the way here, the sun has never once set, for the entirety of the twenty-four hours it has taken to arrive in Tokyo, producing something like an Icelandic June day with continuous daylight.  We obtain through movement what in Iceland you get through immobility.

That evening, some Japanese friends are waiting for us at the bar.  What is there to drink? Saké, of course.  It's my first time drinking Japanese alcohol.  "Be careful," I am warned, "it's very strong!" I take a sip and immediately feel myself powerfully shaken.  "You weren't kidding! That is strong," I said. "No, no!" my friends said, "That's because there was an earthquake at the exact moment you swallowed!"

[Océan humain à l'aéroport.  Des queues immenses serpentent et s'enchevêtrent ayant à leur tête un guichet, un contrôle, une sortie.  Foule disciplinée et uniforme-- du moins à mes yeux d'Occidental.  Grâce à l'ambassadeur de France venu chercher sa femme, nous passons rapidement partout. 

On nous avertit: nous tombons en pleine grève de printemps.  Grèves régulières, prévues à dates fixes, sans désordre et toujours satisfaites.

Ce voyage au cours duquel du fait de notre déplacement, le soleil ne se couchera pas pendant vingt-quatre heures fournit l'équivalent de la journée de juin islandaise avec lumière continue.  On obtient par le mouvement ce qu'en Islande on trouve dans l'immobilité.

Le soir des amis japonais nous attendent au bar. Que prendre sinon du saké.  C'est ma première expérience.  "Attention, me prévient-on, c'est très fort!" Je bois une gorgée et me sens aussitôt secoué d'une violente commotion.  "Ah pour ça, oui, c'est fort! dis-je. --Mais non, mais non, me disent les amis, c'est qu'il y a eu une secousse sismique au moment où vous avez bu!" (pp. 96-97. My translation.)]

In memoriam.

For two weeks before moving to France in 2004, I sat in on one of Eve Sedgwick's classes.  I don't remember what it was called.  It was not her legendary Proust class, nor her equally legendary "How to make things with words and other materials" class in which students made book art; it was quite a usual thing around the English department lounge to hear students in that class detailing the bizarre ways they were shredding and recomposing books, using any and all materials to help in the process– eggshells, pantyhose, ink, seashells, fake fur–they were on fire with their vision.

But the class I sat in on, whatever it was called, began with an exercise.  Each of us, sitting around the overlarge conference table, had to introduce ourselves by stating our name and the animal we most resembled, and then the names and animals of all the people who had said theirs before it came round to us.  Eve, a panda bear, always went last, and she always knew everyone's names.

Her work was sui generis, unique in its genre, unique all ways; though it shared the concerns of what is referred to, seriously or derisively, as "theory," it had none of theory's defects.  If you read Epistemology of the Closet, whoever you are, academic, book critic, book lover, bystander, you will be struck by its good sense, by its strong heart, and by its commitment to celebrating what escapes categorization, what gets away, what stirs things up.  That was Eve. 

More dedications:
New Yorker
The Nation

Thanks to a resourceful reader named Joe (Thanks again, Joe!), I am happy to provide you with the text of the recent London Review of Books article dealing with the French university strikes, by Mat Pires, a fellow angliciste who teaches in Besançon. Download it in pdf format here.

Maîtresse is temporarily on hiatus, while I put the finishing touches on the first chapter of my dissertation.  This has been unlike any academic exercise I've ever undertaken, be it seminar paper, journal article, or conference paper.  A fellow graduate student and dear friend who is more advanced in her thesis than I am told me that she now believes you really "earn" your dissertation with the first chapter.  Maybe that explains why I'm having such a tough time.  But I'm fighting for it, and I am going to make it through to the other side.

I'll be back next week.  And the week after, I'll be in Tokyo, running a special Tokyo version of the blog.  We'll be talking about erotica, and money, and Miyazaki, and Barthes, and lots of other good stuff.  So don't forget to check back!

Meanwhile, if anyone has the full version of this article, I'd be much obliged if you could send it to me.

vendredi, poesie

Instead of posting a poem this week, I invite you all to check out the poetry site Rewords, to which I contribute very, very occasionally.  (Twice, to be exact.)  There are, however, real poets writing on this site, and it's for their work that you should read it.*

Started by the poet Jennifer K. Dick, Rewords is a collaborative poetry project in which the site's participants rework– reword– each others' poetry.  Each poem posted on the site has been inspired by and includes some or much of the language of a previous poem on the site (or some other text).  The result is a playful contrast of voices and ideas that is sometimes sharp, sometimes seamless, and always surprising. 

Ok, go there now.

*Not to make fun of mine, je veux dire.