The question Japanese people like to ask me most frequently is why I study Japanese. I thought I’d address the matter here, clearly, once and for all. It gives me a chance to tell you about one of my favourite authors, Mishima Yukio, who was one of the most decisive factors in my decision to learn Japanese. It was mainly out of a desire to one day read his novels the way he wrote them, in Japanese, that motivated me early on.
(this post will not feature any images, because companies like Getty and or Alamy will sue me into poverty)
Mishima is a complex, difficult, and controversial figure in Japanese literature. I do not deign to know his inner thoughts, so don’t rely on me too much. Be that as it may, I admire him for a couple of reasons. His prose is elegant, inventive, and intricate, describing life in ways that feel both startlingly new and eternally true. I also love the way many of his stories are deeply symbolic, and convey multiple meanings, depending on your own insight and understanding. However, perhaps most impressive was his ability to continually reinvent himself, a trait I would say is crucial in an artist. It is miraculous how different, both stylistically, thematically, and substantially all of his novels are. It takes real Genius to produce such a wild variety of achievements.
Controversially, Mishima also embraced some far-right ideas. He feared that a modernising Japan was losing its own values, amongst which he counted loyalty, dedication, and self-sacrifice. Despite multiple Nobel prize nominations, he never managed to win one, and some point to his extreme personal convictions to explain why.
He was often ridiculed as all talk, no action, and as a flamboyant character out for attention. But he lived true to the samurai ideal of both mental and physical development, spending much of his time training and perfecting his appearance. At forty, the day he wrote the final page of his final novel, at the height of his mental and physical ability (by his own judgement), Mishima staged a coup at the Japanese Self Defence Forces. More a stunt than anything else, he made a case for Japan as it used to be, and then retired from the balcony to ritually kill himself.
Fifty years later, I’ve been travelling all around Japan, visiting the country’s many onsen. The Natural hot springs are rich in minerals, and help the muscles relax after a difficult hike. In Yamagata Indi and I bathed in gold-tinted waters of a spiritual complex, whose adherents actually believe the spring to have godly connections. And in Wakayama we found a hot spring flowing straight into a small mountain stream, where both temperatures flowed into natural ponds to form comfortable baths. In a wooden hut, shielded from outside eyes, we could relax after our seven day pilgrimage.
But most often onsen are public, secreted between men and women. After showering thoroughly, you share the cold, mild, and hot baths with everyone else. Occasionally someone walks in with his back covered in a magnificent dragon, tiger, or carp tattoo. Many men shave their bald heads at the mirrors, or trim their elegant beards. But also the oldest members of a community frequent the onsen, people nearing a century in age. To put it politely, a fear of growing old myself, a fear of death, crept up on me like it had never before. I’d prefer to stay twenty two forever.
Mishima often wrote about continuous improvements, inventing better stories, captivating audiences, and rooting out new truths. And just the same, he constantly aimed to grow stronger, more athletic, and feared the inevitable encroachment of time. Unwilling to admit defeat, he’d rather quit while he was ahead, rather go out in a blaze, than wither away slowly and quietly. I sometimes think that if Japan weren’t a country of onsen, Mishima’s confrontation with time might not have felt so unbearable, and his ‘solution’ not so extreme.
Anyway, start with Spring Snow. You’ll see what I mean.
