Do you think that your hopes and those of someone else coincide, that your hopes can be smoothly realized for you by someone else? People live for
Do you think that your hopes and those of someone else coincide, that your hopes can be smoothly realized for you by someone else? People live for themselves and think only of themselves. You who more than most think only of yourself have gone too far and let yourself be blinded. You thought that history has its exceptions. There are none. You thought that the race has its exceptions. There are none. There is no special right to happiness and none to unhappiness. There is no tragedy and there is no genius. Your confidence and your dreams are groundless. If there is on this earth something exceptional, special beauty or special evil, nature finds it out and uproots it. We should all by now have learned the hard lesson, that there are no ‘elect.’
Like a knife. So… the last volume of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy. It tells the story of an elderly Honda and Tōru, a 16-year-old he adopts after noticing that the boy had a certain characteristic that led the old man to believe he was in the presence of Kiyoaki’s third reincarnation, the protagonist of Spring Snow, the first volume, which, despite my previous doubts, is still my favorite of the series. This book is far from mediocrity, however, I can’t say, even while having the same rating, that it matches the first installment’s excellence.
I have to admit that I suffered. I was expecting repulsion, mostly. I didn’t imagine I was going to be this disoriented, fluctuating between annoyance and boredom. So I suffered for almost the entire book. It only takes one allusion to abuse – in any way, shape, or form; in this case, toward the elderly – for me to feel incredibly sad. I can’t describe the feeling when such situations stop being fiction. In any case, Honda’s vulnerability made me forget, from time to time, the disgust I felt in The Temple of Dawn, the previous volume. My ultimate cause of suffering was the adopted son, who symbolized the vastly unoriginal juxtaposition of external beauty and internal ugliness. Clichéd to the point of boredom, if this isn’t your first novel of the kind. As I told someone before, I think I reached the limit and can’t tolerate more stories involving handsome and aloof boys/men who think girls/women are shallow and fairly unnecessary if it weren’t for lust. Aside from that, Tōru is the embodiment of evil. In that sense, the story felt forced and rushed. It took forever to start and then, quite abruptly, we find a diabolic adolescent whose mission in life is to injure - among others - his adoptive father. By the end, we are given some explanations we all heard before but it was too late to revert the process. I was already looking forward to a conclusion.
Having read a fair amount of his books, Mishima remains a conundrum to me. A delightful enigma endowed with the ability to attract and repel. As ever, his writing is painfully poetic, and when it clashes with obnoxious ideas or disgusting actions, the counterpoint has an enthralling effect. The search for beauty – something that never leaves the sphere of the flesh, a word the author loves, as well as self-respect – still continues and everything that interferes with the narrator’s visions of what’s pure and beauteous is severely ridiculed. The aversion to aging is almost insulting. Moreover, the idea of rising against not a machine but a natural and inexorable process is an absurd way to experience life. Too many signs of decay.
This book was meandering toward the 3-star realm, but the last few chapters struck a chord. The following quote is part of one brutal rebuke. The little cloud of evil had found an implacable opponent.
[…] All puffed up by illusions born of abstract concepts, you strut about as the master of a destiny even though you have none of the qualifications. You think you have seen to the ends of the earth. But you have not once had an invitation beyond the horizon. You have nothing to do with light or enlightenment, there is no real spirit in flesh or in heart.
Honestly, there was nothing special about the previous 'reincarnations' either, as they were all brimming with selfishness, the most ordinary of qualities. From a practical point of view, humanity is defined by a self-absorbed, completely narcissistic nature; nothing more commonplace. A trite old joke with an air of uniqueness, with delusions of grandeur. The truly remarkable is the opposite; kindness, empathy, altruistic acts amid so much filth.
His brain took a turn and headed toward poetry. Toward the ecstasy of the moment. The plenitude of that loneliness. Its extraordinary lightness. EveryHis brain took a turn and headed toward poetry. Toward the ecstasy of the moment. The plenitude of that loneliness. Its extraordinary lightness. Every inch of his body was intoxicated with lucidity. The harmony between the outside world and his inner life...
Blood and flowers were alike, Isao thought, in that both were quick to dry up, quick to change their substance. And precisely because of this, then
Blood and flowers were alike, Isao thought, in that both were quick to dry up, quick to change their substance. And precisely because of this, then, blood and flowers could go on living by taking on the substance of glory. Glory in all its form was inevitably something metallic.
When I was much younger, I had some grim thoughts involving heights. Now, I'm scared of balconies if they're not fenced off. They should be enclosed with something - wires, net, a lovely lattice pattern. It pretty much feels like a prison cell. Some prefer the word "catio" when they have a cat to take care of - it's a cell, folks. But it makes one feels safer. I can't control external factors, but my brain does anything it can to postpone death: don't put your hands on fire, use knives carefully, don’t watch reality shows, don't read Coelho again, etc.
The point of this inarticulate introduction is that I see people around me clinging to life as hard as they can and, in a moment, the persistent fascination with death turns into something that barely rises above the level of banality. I felt something similar while reading a poetry collection by Trakl - I ended up slightly bored. Lately, I don’t seem to be able to control this sense of weariness when it comes to certain topics, or the extreme version of those topics. In the end, I don't find morbidity so charming as I did in my impressionable youth.
...when one reality crumbles, another crystallizes and a new order comes into existence.
It’s not by chance that I’m reviewing this book now, before I can even think of discussing Spring Snow, the first volume of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy which involves the lives of Kiyoaki and his friend Honda, among other equally complex characters. Honestly, I didn't care much about the protagonist's story, his obsessions, the excessive patriotism I wasn't able to identify with (as I experienced while reading Patriotism) or (view spoiler)[the perfect scene for committing seppuku (hide spoiler)]. I did enjoy reading about the real Shinpūren rebellion, which inspired that fateful book of his that changed his views forever. I think I prefer the historical context to the main plot line, and Mishima really did his homework: his attention to detail is remarkable. It's rather difficult for me to separate the two first volumes of this tetralogy from the author and his bleak thoughts regarding the transformation Japan went through, the richness of its past and the tradition that linked honor with death. Perhaps I don't even need to. Nevertheless, he brings to the reader another masterful portrait of the impact of the Meiji era along with a relentless sense of nostalgia for the past - in this case, through the figure of Isao, a young man whose vanity sometimes seems to be focused on having a picturesque death whereas the message he is trying to convey becomes incidental.
It was a shame that came from the conviction that Sawa, and Sawa alone, had seen in him both the pleasure and the arrogant pride of a young man luxuriating in the sweet feeling of having made up his mind to die.
The different versions of Isao with fluctuating levels of eloquence also felt strange, especially by the end of the book. On a different note, far from politics, a kiss is what makes this runaway stallion break free of the yoke, and yet, his love story with Makiko didn't resonate with me either. Not to mention the hideous portrait of yet another female character - though that's never a surprise.
I remember reading about Mishima's own death and how it became an object of ridicule since seppuku was outdated by then. That's something that completely ruined the sense of beauty and greatness he always wanted - it's heartbreaking. That’s the image that comes to mind whenever I find these kinds of characters seeking a graceful death. Dying in one’s sleep would be ideal; simple... and cleaner. In any case, I was more interested in knowing about Honda and his impressions. And that's where Mishima's pen stood out, demonstrating why I find it so captivating despite its fatal obsessions.
In human relationships, good and evil, trust and mistrust appear in impure form, mixed together in small portions.
Nothing is ever pure.
*
I will lower my expectations for the next volume. As Plath says, the way not to be disappointed.
Far to the south. Very hot... in the rose sunshine of a southern land...
Even when we're with someone we love, we're foolish enough to think of her body and soul as being separate. To stand before the person we love is not Even when we're with someone we love, we're foolish enough to think of her body and soul as being separate. To stand before the person we love is not the same as loving her true self, for we are only apt to regard her physical beauty as the indispensable mode of her existence. When time and space intervene, it is possible to be deceived by both, but on the other hand, it is equally possible to draw twice as close to her real self.
Delectable writing, disturbing characters; what a mixture.
Falling in love was a special privilege given to someone whose external, sensuous charm and internal
"Everything is in constant flux like a torrent."
*
Falling in love was a special privilege given to someone whose external, sensuous charm and internal ignorance, disorganization, and lack of cognizance permitted him to form a kind of fantasy about others. It was a rude privilege. Honda was quite aware that since his childhood, he had been the opposite of such a man.
On -isms It seems that I had some issues with this novella. And the reasons, as usual, are completely personal and thus, irrelevant to your reading exp On -isms It seems that I had some issues with this novella. And the reasons, as usual, are completely personal and thus, irrelevant to your reading experience. Beyond tradition, beliefs, fear and indignation at the imminent prospect of Imperial troops attacking Imperial troops, I can't find a story breathtakingly infused with romanticism. I can't relate to the concept of patriotism. To a sort of world citizen, the attachment to a portion of land is somewhat feeble. Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire, says Lord Byron in his Letters and Journals; something about this made me think of that quote. My connections (abstractions to which I aspire, at least) are with people, not with theories involving nationality, and I'm against any kind of generalization that such notion engenders. Certain values and beliefs, the religion I was raised in – the first origin, a matter of geography. I still can’t feel pride for the doings of chance or let's say even fate, juggling with the concept of a plan designed by someone else. The degeneration of patriotism is a debate for another time, so I will refrain from expanding on nationalism and such, a reality that it is being forced on many of us, now more than ever. In any case, patriotism might be foreign language. I dislike most terms which end in the suffix -ism that don't involve my favorite writers.
On licking blades and finding it remotely erotic Another issue – the real theme in this novella – which prevented me from greatly enjoying this story was the excessive fascination for the concept of death, the morbid enchantment by the blade which was juxtaposed to a sense of beauty and sensuality; elements that when combined, I usually fail to identify with. The leitmotifs of this story, and of its creator’s life. I watched a part of a documentary a couple of days ago where the narrator explained how Mishima’s last actions in the form of a coup might have been, above all, an excuse to achieve the aesthetic death he always dreamed of. The last artistic manifestation of will.
It struck him as incredible that, amidst this terrible agony, things which could be seen could still be seen, and existing things existed still.
On writing A brief yet tough read. Despite the lack of connection between the story and me, the beauty of Mishima's prose remained intact. I’m more and more impressed by the care with which he described the remarkable, the inconsequential, by means of his contemplative and delectable writing. The scenes of love between husband and wife were beautifully portrayed. Regardless of my thoughts on the subject, with the precision of a surgeon, the author associated the concepts of patriotism and death with a sense of eroticism, until they were one single reality. The beauty of skin. The brutality of blood. The rite of love and death. I failed again.
Thus, so far from seeing any inconsistency or conflict between the urges of his flesh and the sincerity of his patriotism, the lieutenant was even able to regard the two as parts of the same thing.
On myths The red string bringing these characters together.¹ At one point, one is honestly thinking how the sublimity of love actually feels, the act of giving oneself fully. Unreservedly. Sharing perspectives on life. Breathing somebody else’s air. Thinking about words to express feelings. Voicing those words. Not knowing what to do at the thought of the absence of such words. Following the fate of those words. And then, the fear. He who gives himself up like a prisoner of war must give up his weapons as well.² And deprived of any defense, not convinced by the fusion of words, voices and individuality, the fracture of self, the fear of loss, the constant feeling of being another one’s burden, one stops thinking about it, until the next day. I imagine it might be simpler to make decisions when people return their gaze and silence is no longer a wall.
On random thoughts This novella became even more vivid once I watched Yūkoku, a 1966 short film “produced, directed, acted and written by Yukio Mishima.” I watched it at night. A sleepless night. The night the bell jar broke.³
With regard to Mishima’s works, nothing is ever certain. This is the third book I read by him – apart from two short stories. Fortunately, I don’t know what to expect, but I already look forward to the wonders of the second volume of his tetralogy. I long for another deep contemplation of my reactions to every one of his words.
1. Allusion to a review of Anna Karenina 2. Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Part Three: Words Misunderstood 3. I wrote this the same night I wrote something about The Bell Jar 4. Oh, who's going to read this far.
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