Riku and the Kingdom of White is my translation of リクと白の王国 (Riku to shiro no ōkoku), Randy Taguchi’s urgent, magical realist tale of childhood innocence lost in the wake of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami disaster. Rates of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) among children of the affected areas continue to run high, as Ms. Taguchi confirmed in the course of her extensive research interviewing the children and parents who continue to live in Fukushima to this day. The story, inspired by the interviews, reveals a soul-searing picture of how children, and even their parents, continue to cope and remain undaunted, finding hope in the midst of so much uncertainty, hopelessness, and tragedy.
After Fujisan, this is the second work by Ms. Taguchi I have had the immense honor of translating. I highly recommend it not only for those who are keen to learn about life in Fukushima for children today, but for all those who are fond of YA novels as well. The book is out from Balestier Press, an exciting independent publisher based in Singapore and London, focusing on Contemporary Asian literature.
TV idols in Japan are usually charming and 17. Twin sisters, Kin Narita and Gin Kanie, are TV idols and charming, but hardly 17. In fact they will be 103 on August 1, making them possibly the world's first twins to make it big at their age. Japan’s idolmakers, at least in this instance, can't be blamed for following a heartless hit formula.
Standing at a dainty height of about four feet and exuding an aura of immaculate politeness, Kinsan and Ginsan, as they are known (Kin means gold and Gin means silver), were discovered when they turned 100. They were invited by Nagoya city's mayor to be guests of honor at the official ceremony of Keironohi (a national holiday held every September to respect the aged), which was televised nationwide.
The rest is history, as major companies enlisted their rare telegenic talents. The first was mail-order company Tsuhanseikatsu, for which the twins appeared in print and TV ads. As many Japanese were initially disinclined to shop by mail, the grandmotherly figures helped to cultivate a sense of familiarity and assurance for an alternative lifestyle.
Next, cleaning-products company, Duskin, featured them cheerfully reminding each other they had turned 100. Incidentally, the company's toll-free number was announced as 100-100. For that appearance, they received five million yen (US$59,000), which they donated to the city and prefecture. The crowd cried out for more.
Now, in addition to their endorsement activities, they make cameo appearances at welfare and public events, shaking hands, signing autographs, and fielding questions from the paparazzi. They take all of this in their stride.
“When they do commercials, they do it on their own terms, more or less,” says Ginsan's daughter, Mineo Kanie, recalling how many of their impromptu remarks while filming made it into the final cut.
PERHAPS their crowning moment happened in May in Taiwan, where they helped Taichung Broadcasting Company (100.7 FM) launch a station whose market position revolves around the themes of "health and happiness", according to its program director, Yea Shin. As a publicity stunt, 1,028 sets of twins, triplets, and quadruplets welcomed the sisters at a gala gathering. Ginsan smiles airily, lost in reflection, as she recalls her cross-cultural encounter with twin Taiwanese gentlemen who spoke Japanese to her and Kinsan. "They were about 90," she says gently.
THE duo has also made promoters very happy. Whether it has been a drum festival at Ise Shrine, an in-house health conference for pharmaceutical company Genmai Koso, or sumo bouts held in Nagoya, the twins have been effective crowd attractors. So effective that a sumo official once reprimanded them mildly for detracting attention away from the players engaged in their bouts.
Raised in a farm on a mountaintop in Nagoya, fame could not have been more elusive for these ladies, who were recently acquainted with sumo superstar Akebono, and the emperor himself. "He was somebody up in the clouds to us," pipes Kinsan.
Before they got married, Kinsan at 19 and Ginsan at 22, working in the fields was the only life they knew. As times changed and farmlands turned industrial, the twins changed as well. Kinsan, being good with her hands, dabbled in knitting, while Ginsan spent her days immersed in flower arrangement and gardening.
Kinsan had 11 children, six of whom are still around – the eldest is 81 and the youngest is 64. Ginsan bore five girls – four of them alive today, aged between 71 and 81.
"Although there isn't any particular secret to long life that l know of, I believe it is the person's will power," says Ginsan.
Their plans still include appearing in the public limelight – the next event will be a fireworks celebration in Sado Shima for their birthday. For Japan, whose future worries include providing for an increasingly aging population, that's good news, as the sisters are sure to keep dispelling a few myths about old age. Among them, the myth that misery is inevitable.
“Paris is a movable feast," Hemingway said about his bohemian days on the Left Bank in Paris. It's no wonder. With the Eiffel Tower and the spires of Notre Dame setting the scene, he could muse metaphysically in a cafe with like-minded companions from dusk ‘til dawn, while fashionable mademoiselles strolled by with their equally fashionable pet poodles. If he got bored, all he had to do was switch cafes and enjoy another feast, whiling away the day on either beer or coffee, depending on his whim. Papa sure had a life.
Like Hemingway's Paris, the English-language scribes who make up the scene here in Tokyo are diverse in their own way. "There are the Sumo groupies, for example, or there are those who follow Buddhism, while there are others who are into the great outdoors, living in the countryside and commuting between places like Tokyo and Gunma, and there are the onsen groupies," according to Mark Schrieber, a free-lance writer/translator/copywriter based in Tokyo, who also pointed out that the scene, while diverse, is compartmentalized.
The scene in Tokyo isn't nearly as vibrant as Hemingway's Paris, though. "The Left Bank scene in Paris in the 20s and 30s had a lot of Americans and English feeding off of the French culture; they were very interested in Paris. People don't get enough spark from living in Tokyo," comments John Cross, editor of The Human Body, a low-budget, high-concept Tokyo zine.
Tom Dow, poetry editor of Printed Matter, a Tokyo literary magazine, has a good reason for this seemingly staid state of affairs. "I'm afraid this environment, like many others, is overwhelmed by middle-class values and lifestyles and appearances, so it tends to put a lot of pressure on people and detracts from, let's say, a real nurturing environment, unfortunately."
For a long time Japan, as presented through the English-language media, was an enigma. "There are these writers whose vision of Japan is somehow frozen in pre-bubble times. The ones that have a fascination with public baths, tea ceremonies or whatever. They're trying to ride the wave that came in with the bubble, inspired by Pico lyer's Video Night in Katmandu," said Louis Templado, the editor of Tokyo Time Out, a publication that went completely online recently.
Dan Papia, an editor and satirist who speaks for the expatriate mindset at Tokyo Journal added, "The Japanese are fond of saying that their country's so different, and people around the world eat that up. They want to know the connection between the tea ceremony and the prime minister's policy on Korea and apologizing for the war."
Mark Schilling, movie critic for The Japan Times and foreign correspondent of Screen magazine, isn't optimistic either, reflecting on this country's deficit of cross-cultural interactions in comparison to a place like Hong Kong. "Japan is so isolated in some ways. I mean, what relationships do you have living here with Korea, Siberia or China? You're in your own head," he said.
But other writers feel that Tokyo couldn't be more conducive to pursuing their craft. "There's something about being a foreigner in Japan. One doesn't really have to conform because one can't conform. I suppose I feel free, and it's easier for the creative juices to flow," says Papia.
In the neoconservative nineties, the literature coming out of Tokyo appears to be taking a more sober look at the Land of the Rising Sun.
A magazine published and edited by Shawn McIntosh, one of the founding members of the Library poetry readings (see Poetry article), is probably exemplary of this new genre of writing. Mclntosh titled his magazine Lost & Alone, a phrase that very likely approximates the predicament of many Tokyo-based foreigners in the nineties, and he believes he's onto something. "I wanted something for people who have lived in Japan, who like Japan, and realize that it has faults, basically like any other country. Sure, there are the ikebana (flower arrangement) kinds of articles in the magazine, but you know, I didn't want the "Oh, look at this weird country, this and that" or for that matter, the kind of hipster's voice that some other magazines have."
This "lost and alone" edge is definitely not lost on Leonard Koren, the author of many books on Japan, including Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers, an exploration of Japanese aesthetics. "The advantages of the peace, quiet and physical amenities in Japan offers the opportunity to turn off the noise from someplace like Berkeley where you're constantly bombarded with trends, and things of fashionable import that might pollute your work in a different way," he said. "So being in a different culture with different cultural priorities helps me to focus on what I'm doing. It's an oblique advantage."
Perhaps Tokyo, the city of neon kitsch and commercial ostentation, does have a thriving literary scene after all, that is, more in the vein of William S . Burroughs' interzone than Hemingway's Paris.
"I think being in Japan is more of a journey of self-discovery than learning about the Japanese per se," Mclntosh said.
Ms. Shiho Kishimoto, the author of the novel I Hear Them Cry, is a strong proponent of neuro-linguistic programming. A therapist herself, she has employed this technique to help women navigate through turbulent divorces while also helping so-called "corporate warriors" of Japan ease into retirement when they tend to have a tough time reinventing themselves at home. According to Ms. Kishimoto, that's the time when they really need to make the transition from left-brain thinking to a right-brain one. But more importantly, she believes that's when empathy and understanding can begin to blossom, a key theme explored in I Hear Them Cry, which won the prestigious Toyo Shuppan Literary Award.
Mr. Koji Chikatani, TranNet’s senior agent, and I met up with Ms. Kishimoto recently in her charming well-appointed apartment overlooking a spectacular view of Tennozu Isle, a vibrant waterfront in Tokyo linked to the rest of the metropolis via the quaint monorail. With insight and passion she gave us an illuminating glimpse into her worldview and so much more, including the reason why the word "understand" is so profound to her.
What inspired you to focus on characters with personal experiences of abuse?
My family, I suppose. Ever since I can remember my home was a battleground where my pre-Meiji era mother in law, my father the serious scholar, and my mother who was constantly bullied, waged their wars.
As a child I was completely baffled. I could understand my father's feelings, I could see why Grandma was possessive over my father. He was her only surviving child after all and she was very proud of him. But I also understood how difficult it was for my mother who was this fish-out-of-water character there. She had to raise three children and we weren't that wealthy. It was odd that I couldn't see anyone who was really bad among them. Essentially, they were all good people. There was no one who was like an arch villain or anything. Yet they hated each other. They just kept fighting, hollering at each other. I thought to myself, what a world adults live in!
So that's the kind of childhood I had, and then I went on to work in a trading company and was stationed in its Hong Kong branch. And what I realized then and was surprised by was how tough it was to succeed in business. How tough the environment of socioeconomics really was. My father had spent forty years in such an environment to provide for us and raise us, making enough money for our education. It was eye opening.
I had seen things more or less from my mother's perspective until then, but once I was out there in the workforce as a working member of society, I immediately came to realize my father's troubles, his hardships. And then when I started to speak in defense of my father-- telling my mother to stop putting him down so much, pointing out that she didn't understand the trials and tribulations of my father, that she was having three meals a day after all--all she could see was that I had become a traitor to her! She really took offense and started to say things like, "Who's responsible for your happiness now?"
Our rapport deteriorated and she began complaining that I wouldn't be leading a happy life if it weren't for her. She'd get really vicious like that. So I was feeling really mixed up, wondering what my mother was all about when I came across a book written by Sayoko Nobuta titled "My Mother is Unbearably Heavy" (Ha Ha Ga Omukute Tamaranai). I came to realize that my concerns weren't unique. There were many in the same position as mine.
Next I read "The Way I See It" by Patti Davis, President Reagan's daughter's insider account of what it was like to have President Reagan as a father. Reading this book, you can clearly see how a relationship enters into a destructive spiral. I very much related to what she was saying. She's basically rejected by her mother, you see. Everything about her, the mother rejects. Now the mother it seems was afflicted with what's called the "Münchausen syndrome by proxy." In other words, a person with this affliction would make her child ill on purpose and take him or her to the hospital. They'll stay close to the child day and night, taking care of the child, comforting the child. The doctors and nurses begin praising what a lovely mother she is and that's when she's most happy, having found her place in the world, feeling her sense of self-worth in such a situation, you know. Then when the child recovers, her work is done right? So she goes on to make the child ill again, slipping some poison into him, see. That's the Munchausen syndrome by proxy. In other words, the child is used as bait to garner attention and appeal herself to the world.
Anyway, in the book it was said that the mother was diagnosed with this affliction, and when I read it, I was reminded of my own mother. She would always say things like I was a good for nothing, and that she really had a hard time raising me, recounting all these incidents that proved her point to my mother-in-law, and in front of my children. The book really showed me that there was a world like this, that I wasn't alone. And then there was another book titled Toxic Parents by Susan Forward. It's really famous and a bible for women in their thirties.
Can you talk about the connection between healing and religion?
The message that God loves you is powerful. That is a fundamental idea that can drive a person's life. Sometimes I feel Japanese people lack this drive and lead shallow existences, cocooned in the trappings of affluence, living in blissful ignorance, see. So the things they say sound shallow sometimes, ha, ha, ha. I've had men who got divorced in their later years visit me for counseling. They find themselves at a loss as to what mode of thinking they should adopt after retiring from their corporate-warrior days, you know. It’s such a shame. All they have to do is stoop to a lower position and understand. Such an attitude will simply relax any marital tensions, you see. The English word "understand" is such a lovely word by the way.
How so?
When I first learned English, I was struck by how odd this word seemed, literally meaning, "to stand under." I was like what's this all about? From my perspective, it seemed like two blocks of meaning just layered on top of each other. In Japanese, on the other hand, the word for understand is rikai, which is formed by combining the character for "logic" and the character for "explain." So I used to think, ‘Oh what a nice word.'
But when I was in my mid-thirties, I read an article in the Asahi newspaper that said it was a mistake for the Japanese to translate the word "understand" as "rikai."It should have been translated more literally to something like "stand under" as in assuming a lowered stance in relation to another person. It's an act of humility at heart, you see. Ms. Michiko Inugai, the granddaughter of Tsuyoshi Inugai, the former Prime Minister, who's a philanthropist, wrote the article. She's active in providing aid to refugees.
Anyway this two-page spread article was a commentary written by her and she was pointing out that in an ASEAN conference the talks that were underway between the First World nations and the Third World nations were at loggerheads. The developed countries were pursuing their own vested interests and the developing nations were there to seek aid. To come to a resolution, Ms. Inugai suggested each party must take a lower stance, or in other words, assume a more humbling standpoint so as to see eye to eye. That's exactly what the word understand implies. Stand lower, stoop if you have to in order to be able to see eye to eye. Without seeing the other person at eye level, understanding cannot arise. It was an aha moment for me. I saw what understand truly meant. You know, I wonder if English-speaking people actually appreciate the true meaning of the word understand when they say it themselves. I'd really like to ask if they're conscious about such a connotation, that to understand, you have to stand under someone, that you have to humble yourself.
In the first part of I Hear Them Cry, Mayu is in France where she is portrayed as a sort of an incarnation of Joan of Arc, or the spirit of crusade—the spirit of rectifying the rampant wrongs in life. Do you suppose this sense of crusade carries through even when she finds herself in Japan in the second part of the story?
Yes, all the more so since Mayu realizes that life can't just be pigeonholed as a romantic notion in the end. At least not until one puts up a good fight. That's got to happen, you see, if you want to show your moral fiber, show the world that you are indeed good.
Mayu is attracted to religion because of its symbolism for purity and piety?
Yes. The thing about religion is that, no matter who you are, it will accept you. Its capacity to do so is huge and such a space is essential in human existence. I really think Japan should have something equivalent as well. I want to say to the Buddhist and Zen priests here in Japan to try harder, you know. I mean all they do is appear now and then just for funerals. What's with that, right? They should hold more events in their temples, events like seminars featuring talks on end-of-life issues. Japan's on its way to becoming an empire of the elderly, and since most people will have a lot of time on their hands, I really think many will go to such events. You see, the priests here don't have many opportunities to make public appearances. But in the case of Christian priests, they have their churches and the custom of confessionals and every week they have mass. Their activity is really focused on sending out the message that they are accessible, that they are always close to anyone who needs them. In Japan, the obo-san, the Buddhist priest, doesn't enjoy such a favorable image.
I suppose art and religion are similar in that they both can help the individual transcend the mundane, all the petty worries that are a part of daily life. Is that how you feel Mayu views religion?
Yes, she had been pretty much self-centered but then she becomes awed by what she sees in Jean, the priest who appears in the story. It's something she doesn't have: a power that's not in her, a big, big, vast reserve of love, if you will. She gets attracted to this. To her it's an eye opener, as an instance of culture shock often can be.
Do you see differences between American and Japanese perspectives when addressing abuse and recovery?
Well you know the thing about these well-intentioned initiatives is that you really need funds to make them work. The civil servant may visit the house of an abuser but more often than not he ends up giving up after trying something like three times, after which he simply reports that the family was absent before closing the book on the case. He should be actually doing a bit more, like actually waiting around for the family to show up or bang on the door loudly or stake out the premises to find some evidence of a crime, like hearing someone cry out and then going in for the rescue. But since they have to work within a limited budget, or an hourly wage of a few thousand yen, it becomes quite untenable.
In America, I think a good amount of money goes into supporting such types of activities. There, religion is in the background, serving as a reminder to people to aspire to be noble, to be charitable and helpful. Such an environment really goes a long way for care workers. In Japan, cases of abuse and such are still seen as just "someone else's problem, not mine." If an abuse occurs, people will say, "Oh how sad, how pitiful," and that'll be all. There are so many incidents that need to be examined.
Mama Chari is endearing on so many levels. It's endearing as a record of a personal journey of an intrepid expat journalist--a "free writer"--and it's endearing as a fish-out-of-water narrative of the life of a gaijin in Tokyo, shedding light on many comical and sometimes cringe-worthy instances of culture shock, such as the dynamic that takes place between the wide-eyed new arrival and a few xenophobic police officers patrolling Tokyo's tranquil neighborhoods. But above all, Mama Chari is endearing as a love letter to Japan.
The name roughly translates to "mommy bike" and--just as it suggests--it's intended for moms (not awe-inspiringly huge foreigners) who want to run errands around the labyrinthine, cluttered streets of Tokyo where traffic jams and a lack of parking spaces can conspire to make the city a motorist's nightmare.
To me, the little red Mama Chari itself--an inanimate object--was one of the most memorable characters in the story. Thanks to the author's brilliant and evocative prose, the bike comes to life on its own (as "a loyal retainer" in fact) and I couldn't help falling in love with it, just as the protaganist of the story does. It becomes charged with so much meaning by the end--after having been lost and found so many times--that it becomes symbolic of what's both good and bad about Japan, I felt.
The vivid descriptions of Tokyo are also very moving. If you know the city, you'll immediately feel a connection, but even if you don't you'll definitely still catch a glimpse of what makes the metropolis so special; a cluttered sprawl with pockets of soul-nurturing beauty, such as "majestic stone temples" neighboring "claptrap apartments and pungently fertilized vegetable plots." If seen with the right kind of eyes--the eternally visionary kind our hero has--Tokyo can become a sort of a spiritual gateway--a zen-like nowhere--where you can lose yourself only to find yourself again, brimming with more new insights into the human condition, gaijin or not.
San Cancion is Yokoyama Maki and Shu Keikin on guitars, Shibata Munesumi on bass, and Mori Takaharu on drums. The band is an instrumental ensemble and its name is a wordplay on the Japanese phrase, san kan shi on, which means a cycle of three cold days followed by four warm ones. It’s also Spanish for Saint Song.
The mystery of this wordplay shines in their performance when it becomes clear that they’re not just a band, but a four-man force of nature, doing their bit to reshape reality with their brand of sonic shamanism.
Covering classic tunes, the ensemble's inspired interpretations showcase their distinctive style, culminating in electronic epiphanies, reminiscent at times of sixties progressive rock at their soul-searching, hypnotic best, and at other times, of some legendary caravan of nomads lost somewhere along the long and winding road of the storied Silk Road.
There’s no question about it. San Cancion is a metaphysical guild of sound alchemists, a living and breathing tribute to the timeless mystery of life, the universe, and everything.
Check out their music videos on Nippop. The band's official site is here.
Nagoya has been home to one of Japan's most vibrant art scenes since the sixties, so it comes as no surprise that this historic port is also home to "OekakiTai" (The Picture Drawing Corp), an art collective of clowns and illustrators led by Masashi Anraku, an award-winning, bearded member of the International Society of Caricature Artists who majored in Chinese literature and seriously considered becoming Chinese himself.
Good thing he didn't because his absence would have been a great loss to not only Japan's art scene in general, but to a number of major TV stations, magazines, and even storefronts, where his talent for phenomenally funny illustrations has found a happy home.
Among his many works,
his pièce de résistance has to be his retro collection that evokes the early years of the Showa era, a simpler, more optimistic time when the country was experiencing rapid economic growth and when Kamen Rider and Ultraman ruled the airwaves. Caricatural in style, his drawings are imbued with an old-fashioned vintage aesthetic, featuring fantastic scenes such as dancing goldfish, pandas getting ready to rumble in a boxing ring, a giant cow robot called "cowenselor," and a woman slurping udon noodles while bathing in a giant bowl of the same herself.
His booth at the 2013 Tokyo International Book Fair had many of his dazzling works on display, and was co-hosted by a delightful clown, who was waxing philosophical about a coiling piece of turd in her hand. Just a few paces behind her, amid the marvelous clutter of Anraku's works, a huge signboard said Clown, with bold brushstorkes of katakana and kanji forming the wordplay, "Kura Un" or "Clown Luck."
I certainly felt lucky stumbling upon Anraku's magical world and his clown helper. And guess what? You can get lucky too. Anraku's collective "Oekaki Tai" (The Picture Drawing Corp) is available for parties and events. Its team of artists will draw caricatures of you and your guests while a bunch of clowns will see to it that your event is filled with as much wonder and belly laughs as Anraku's works themselves.
The author of Fujisan, Randy Taguchi, recently held a launch party for the release of her new novel, “In the Zone (Zone Ni Te in the original Japanese).” The title is a reference to the 20km evacuation zone around the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, decommissioned due to the meltdowns that follwed in the wake of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake andtsunami disaster. Populated with characters based on Ms. Taguchi’s probing, personal interviews with the displaced, the novel sold more than two hundred copies within three days of its release.
The launch party took place at a newly opened airy restaurant-cum-library called Waterras, located in the vicinity of a number of Japan’s major publishing houses in Tokyo. Ms. Taguchi was dressed in a flowing cotton ensemble and a bead necklace, making her reminiscent of a benevolent new age mystic from the island in Lost, the TV series. Petite in stature, she began her talk perched on a stool before a sizable audience of her devoted fans like Ms. Mie, who had come all the way from, as it happened, Mie prefecture, wearing her two little boys in baby slings; one strapped behind her and the other in front. Moments later though, Ms. Taguchi stopped speaking and jumped off the stool to stay true to her Earth Mother persona. “I need to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground,” she said before moving on.
In the course of her lively talk, she announced her tie-up with a local bookstore to help revive more of its kind in this day and age of one-click convenience, introduced “Deserted" by Toshifumi Taniuchi (a vivid photgraphic account of life [or the lack therof] in Fukushima's danger zone), presented a slide show of package tours (led by Ms. Taguchi herself) to destinations such as Sri Lanka, and introduced Chita Grandy, her fan club. With this enterprise, she hopes to not only build a community of fans but also co-author works of literature with them. As if to commemorate the beginning of such an experimental, grass-roots, artistic collaboration, one of Ms. Taguchi’s assistants--an animated young man--appeared on stage and performed a dynamic, improvisational dance. Incidentally, yours truly ended up providing rhythmic accompaniment and had a great time reliving his rock-band days, banging away on a lectern with his bare hands.
The highlight of her talk, however, was an anecdote about her meeting with her late idol, the prominent Jungian, Dr. Hayao Kawai, whose renowned works include, “The Japanese Psyche: Major Motifs in the Fairy Tales of Japan.” Ms. Taguchi's agent was also present at this meeting of the minds and he dropped the question, “How did you like Fujisan?” The psychologist's response indicated that he was more interested in Randy Taguchi the daughter than in Randy Taguchi the author. In fact, he remained terse throughout the sesstion until it became clear that Ms. Taguchi's relationship with her father, an alcoholic, was a tumultuous one. For some reason, this revelation, along with other stories about her father, fascinated the reflective scholar and prompted him to convey one rather enigmatic tip just before parting company. “When you go out meeting people for your research and such, just let your mind get hazy, my dear,” he said to Ms. Taguchi, leaving her annoyed and puzzled.
But many bestsellers later, and after meditating over the years on Dr. Kawai’s message--long after he had passed away--she concluded with teary eyes that she finally understood what the doctor had meant, and that she was truly grateful to him for the wisdom he had shared that day.
The Japanese word the doctor had used for hazy was “bonyari.” While this could also be translated to “vacant” or even “absent-minded,” the word also implies “out of focus.” If a writer’s life could be about gaining a lateral perspective on reality to arrive at resonant truths, Ms. Taguchi has most evidently mastered the art of shifting her mind out of focus from time to time--of slowing down to stop and smell the metaphysical roses.
From left to right: Yours truly, Randy Taguchi, and Koji Chikatani
The inaugural Tokyo International Literary Festival was a fantastic dream come true, treating Tokyo's literati to live readings and panel discussions on various topics, ranging from otaku romance and global travel to jazz writing, monsters, the future of books and reimagining Tokyo. There was even a live writing performance that saw the author Shinji Ishii improvising a short story while riding a train. "It swayed, writing in there," he said, commenting about both the train and his spirit.
And boy were spirits swayed! Junot Diaz, the highly
acclaimed author of "This is How You Lose Her," talked about how the story of love is basically about two people when it works, but about society at large when it fails. Pico Iyer, the inimitable and intrepid postmodern travel writer with skyrocketing frequent flyer miles, talked about traveling to become young fools again in his discussion with John Freeman,the editor of Granta and a true polymath, and Geoff Dyer,an eclectic and delightfully humorous author of many books, whose topics range from the backstories of jazz legends to aircraft carriers.
An open mike session at Super Deluxe, one of Roppongi's most happening bars, featured Power Point enhanced poetry readings by the edgy, iPadwielding Bin Sugawara, a rap session by DJ Misoshiru & MC Gohan, a charming, squeaky clean artist of the"kawaii" school paying tribute to the glory of food, and a poetry reading by Wen Yourou, a vivacious multiculturalwriter who claimed to be neither Chinese nor Japanese, but"Chapanese" (a straddler of both Chinese and Japanese worlds).
Chip Kidd, the exuberant, stylish and trailblazing bookdesigner and author, was also there to talk
about the intricacies and wondersof a good book design that can't be
reproduced on a kindle (yet). JonathanSafran Foer, the highly acclaimed author of Everything is Illuminated, spokeabout "writing to see your thoughts," and Michael Emmerich, the eminent translator of many Japanese works offiction, including Monsters---a wonderfully manic short story by HideoFurukawa---delved deep into a discussion about voice and tone, using theanalogy of an airplane to shed light on the finer points of those literarydevices.
Deborah Treisman, the fiction editor of The New Yorker and JohnFreeman of Granta were brilliant moderators (along with many others), steering discussions with their thoughtful questions and comments,and Lexy Bloom, a senior editor at Vintage and Anchor Books offered some greatinsights into the process of producing works in translation. NicoleKrausstruly shined in the session titled Memory, Love,Words and in an another one titled Encounters at the Crossroads of Culture.
David Peace, an ex-Nova English teacher turned celebratedauthor of works such as Occupied City and Tokyo Year Zero, made an impassionedperformance, while the world-renowned poet Shuntaro Tanikawa recited verses that captured tender and bittersweet moments, but the highlight of the event was the Nobel laureate J.M.Coetzee's readings of excerpts from his upcoming novel, The Childhood of Jesus. Accompanied on stage during his final reading by a Japanese reader---the dashing Japanese actor, Shosuke Tanihara,whose golden voice had that familiar baritone urgency shared by many narratorsof Japanese television documentaries covering UFOs, ghosts, and prehistoricsubaquatic dinosaurs---Mr. Coetzee's eloquent and poignant reading reallybrought the event to a touching finale.
Perhaps the next installation could see the participation of other luminaries as well, such as Haruki Murakami,David Mitchell,Roland Kelts,Banana Yoshimoto and Randy Taguchi (of Outlet and Fujisan fame 😊). But all in all I had a giddy time, feeling like a kid lost in a candy store. Thank you, Japan Foundation, for making it happen. The team led by DavidKarashima---an accomplished translator himself---did an absolutely marvelous job.
Be sure to check out Tokyo-based journalist, ChristopherJohnson's take on the event as well. He provides great context.
Ms. Randy Taguchi, the author of Fujisan, has been hailed as the queen of the Internet for her online writings, and her first novel, Outlet (Konsento in Japan), was commended by a leading light of contemporary Japanese literature,Ryu Murakami, as one of the best novels he had read in a decade. The novel also went on to become a finalist for the prestigious Naoki Prize.
Described in the Japan Times as an Earth Mother figure, Randy cites authors of magic realism and the science fiction writer, Ray Bradbury, as her influences. In addition to being an author and essayist, she is also an activist, a cofounder of an advertising agency, a practitioner of Zen meditation, and a mother. I recently met up with this many-splendored person in Ginza to ask her about her inspiration behind Fujisan, her creative process, and what's in store for her fans.
Can you tell me what inspired you to write Fujisan? What got you started?
I always used to have this vague notion of using Mount Fuji as a theme. Fujisan is a tall mountain and you can see it from various places in Japan. You can often catch a glimpse of it beyond the vista of an ordinary cityscape, looking absolutely surreal and mystical. Perhaps because of such an omnipresence, I’ve always had this sense of being watched by Mount Fuji. In Japan, you’ll find many ancient towns named Fujimi, which literally means “see Fuji.” So these towns were probably ideal places for sightseeing Mount Fuji before modernity set in and obstructed the view with tall skyscrapers and other buildings. At any rate, what this tells me is that the Japanese are a people who have been conscious about Mount Fuji, that they have been feeling since time immemorial that they have always been and continue to be observed by the mountain. I wanted to capture that aspect in my fiction.
What is your favorite story in Fujisan?
Jamila.
One of the recent reviewers of Fujisan on Amazon also mentioned Jamila as his or her favorite. It happens to be mine as well.
Is that right? I’m delighted.
What’s attractive about Jamila? What is it that resonates with people about this character?
When I was little, I used to watch this show called Ultra Q and it was this action monster drama for kids, and Jamila was the name of a monster that appeared on this show. This monster was a really tragic character and I’ve written the backstory about her in Fujisan as well, but the thing is I could never forget about this monster and I even own a Jamila figure, a miniature. What do you call that?
Action figure?
Yes that’s right. So with this action figure in my mind, I constantly wondered how I could make use of the character.
While translating Fujisan, it occurred to me that the image of the hole is a recurring visual motif throughout most of your stories, especially in Jamila and The Blue Summit.
Yes, uh-huh.
On the whole, would you say that this motif was something you intentionally wove into the fabric of your stories?
No, it wasn’t intentional. It just surfaced, unconsciously.
Well that seems quite right. After all a hole is the perfect metaphor for the unconscious, isn’t it? Can you tell me if this imagery in your stories articulates the value of the philosophical concept of mu, or nothingness, as in the idea of the void?
The presence of Fujisan itself is on the one hand something physical and at the same time there’s the Fujisan that’s abstract and transcendent in the mind of the Japanese. Mount Fuji has such a duality you see. In my writings regarding Fujisan, what emerges is this multidimensional aspect; the two qualities of what exists and what’s nonexistent.
I see, so the idea of the hole is a vehicle in you stories to convey this duality?
Yes, the hole to me is basically an entryway into a different dimension, into another world. So while I was writing about Fujisan as a physical object, to also show Fujisan as an event, as a happening, I needed the hole. So you can say the hole in my stories represents a gateway.
Yes, gateway. I hear you loud and clear. It’s a passage. In fact, just like in Alice in Wonderland, it’s a rabbit hole, right?
Oh yes, yes. That’s exactly right. Rabbit hole.
Can you share any personal accounts related to Mount Fuji?
Yes, well, the final story, Child of Light, is based on my actual experience of having climbed Mount Fuji. I actually climbed the mountain and came across these people running the mountain lodges found along the way to the summit there. They were such mean people I tell you. Anyway, my personal accounts of them made it into Child of Light, along with other details of trekking up Mount Fuji.
During your childhood, did you visit Fujisan often?
No. I used to just see it from afar. I was living in an area from where you couldn’t see the mountain.
So I suppose your curiosity for Mount Fuji grew all the more.
Yes, I suppose so. Mount Fuji was also depicted in an ofuroyasan (public bathhouse). We had our own private bathtub and all, but sometimes my mother would take my siblings and me to an ofuroyasan. In most Japanese public bathhouses you’ll find a mural depicting Fujisan.
Do you go hiking often?
Hiking, ha, ha. Well, I used to live out in the countryside where hiking was a daily routine. I mean that’s what I had to do to get to school, ha, ha. It used to take me about one and half hours to reach with my kiddy feet back then. I grew up in a rural area.
Where was this?
Ibaragi prefecture. At the foot of Mount Tsukuba.
Oh right. It’s beautiful out there.
It used to be when I was a child, but now there area lot of residential areas.
Can you tell me how you launch your stories? What inspires you to create one?
Well, I have two approaches. First there’s the title, and the story just unfolds from the inspiration I get from the title. The other way is, for example, in the case of the Blue Summit, what I wanted to do was basically write about the convenience store. So the seed of the story was my fascination for the convenience store. I like that space very much. Well it’s not so much the space of the convenience store that I’m fascinated about but the phenomenon that is the convenience store. It’s such a special and strange environment and I wanted to find an expression for that.
I remember you telling me that it’s a place for people who are clean-freaks.
Yes, yes. It’s a really strange place, and I like it. That was my angle into the story.
Do you carry out research for developing your characters?
Not really. Not for my characters.
But you do carry out research, right? What is it for?
For things like the setting in a story. For example, I visited the Sea of Trees (a forest at the foot of Mt. Fuji notorious for suicides). But as far as characters are concerned, they just appear in my mind on their own. While I may visit the convenience store to gain a better understanding of what an attendant there does to round out my character in my story, I basically let my subconscious come up with the personality and motivation.
You were taking part in a Zen meditation program the last time we talked. You said it was for research, but are you still practicing meditation?
Yes I am and I’ve been doing Tai chi and meditation for about four years now.
Was it for researching a character?
Going to the zazen dojo (seated meditation hall) was for character research but I’ve been involved in meditational practices for personal reasons, for improving concentration and posture too. We writers tend to have back problems, so we need to be careful.
Can you talk about your project, Fukushima Kids?
Sure. Basically I’m participating in two projects that are related to the nuclear incident that occurred in Fukushima. One is Fukushima Kids and this involves taking kids in Fukushima to a forty-day summer camp within the prefecture in an area considered to be radiation-free. The idea is for them to let their mind and body relax. After the incident, the kids in Fukushima have become very nervous, and their parents in particular have become highly-strung, so the kids are leading stressful lives. My hope is that they will have some time to just hang out and have fun among friends in the great outdoors and get cheered up. The other project is holding seminars and workshops on nuclear power. It’s something I’ve been doing since some time prior to the nuclear accident, and it’s held at a university in Tokyo. The audience is made up of the general public and scientists researching nuclear power.
How long has this project been underway?
We started in October 2010, so it’s been two years exactly.
Any progress? Targets achieved?
Actually we’re not aiming for something like that. Our aim is to keep a dialogue going with young people. What’s important is continuing to do that. So as long as I can continue this project, I intend to do it until the day I die.
You were talking about Sakura as a theme for your next short story collection. Can you talk about that?
I’ve had this wish to write about Sakura for several years, but these days I have been preoccupied with the radiation issue related to Fukushima so I’ve shelved the Sakura project for now. After I finish the Fukushima project though, I intend to return to the Sakura stories.
Sakura is really iconic of Japan isn’t it, just like Mount Fuji?
Yes that’s true, but to me what Sakura symbolizes is death. Originally, the flower of Sakura is written as tomuraiboku, which means funeral tree. So Sakura trees were originally trees that were planted where the dead were buried. That’s why Motojiro Kajii said Dead bodies are buried under the cherry trees! They were memorials. So while the cherry blossom is a beautiful sight to see, the deeper appeal of the Sakura tree for the Japanese is the beauty of chirigiwa, or being on the verge of the end like the petal of a cherry blossom that could fall any moment. In essence, Sakura blossoms resonate well with the Japanese view of life and death, and I wished to capture that resonance in my fiction.
Sometime during my grade school years, I wrote a haiku with the image of sakura in my mind, and it won first place.
Oh that’s terrific!
So when you’ve completed your Sakura stories, please think of me again.
(Buoyant laughter)
In my mind the Sakura tree is all about celebrating and having parties, and images of drunken salarymen (businessmen) at hanami (flower viewing) parties come to mind. Hanami is a very Japanese thing, isn’t it?
Ha, ha. Yes that’s right.
What are the stories going to be like? Do you already have some characters in mind?
Oh no, not at all. With me, until I’m on the verge of starting to write a story, I have nothing. It’s a blank slate. All white. But when I sit and start to write down the first line, the story starts writing itself. It’s pretty handy I have to say.
Everything! The beauty of his prose, the raw strength of his prose. He’s overwhelmingly good. Really good. Just wonderful. He’s sensitive, lyrical, poetic, melancholic, nostalgic. Really nice.
As a child, Mount Fuji was an exciting getaway to me, an escape into the
green and airy wilderness far removed from the orderly, plastic confines of Yokohama city. My father, a free-spirited, traveling bard wearing the guise of a
family man and silk exporter, would usher my brother and me on a sunny Saturday
into the back seat of a brown, four-door Toyota Crown, as my mother prepared
some “grasshopper-green” chutney sandwiches. Once she and the tasty morsels made
their way to the passenger seat, my father would sing out a hymn to praise the
Overseeing One in the sky prior to revving the engine and driving off
southbound toward Shizuoka prefecture, home to the world’s most flavorful green
tea leaves and Mount Fuji.
To pass the time on our two-hour
road trip, Father would be crooning Indian classical ditties called ghazals, which were mostly philosophical
musings about life's vagaries and the despair arising from self-pitying broken
hearted romances. They seemed more fitting as soundtracks to sandstorm-swept
desolate expanses of the Khyber Pass than to the straight and relatively narrow
route down the sanitary tree-lined expanses of the Tomei Express Highway, one
of Japan's many visible signs of the “economic miracle” that was gaining
momentum back in those halcyon days. But as we approached the countryside,
where the air was fresher, cooler, and crisper, Father would start singing one
Bollywood number that served as the perfect soundtrack to the majestic sight of
a rather unearthly mountain looming in the distance.
The song was from a Hindi movie titled Aa Gale Lag Jaa (Come,
Embrace Me) and the tune continues to occupy a special place in my heart as
a song that celebrates the warm and fuzzy winsome magic, the sacredness, the
“material and immaterial” beauty of Mount Fuji, Japan's one and only
sacred peak that not only inspired monks and artists of yore, but also my
father to faithfully salute the mountain every time he caught a glimpse of it,
even while driving us kids to school.
Many years later, after doing my
time as mostly a rush-job hack translator of marketing proposals, I came upon
the good fortune of working for TranNet, a literary translation agency that
used to be headquartered in Jinbocho, the heart of Tokyo's used-book stores and
publishing houses, and came across the front cover of a book titled Fujisan. It
featured a caricature of a wide-eyed girl, rendered in a style that was a cross
between the one seen in a shojo manga
and the psychedelic pop art style of Yellow Submarine. For this fan of Alice in
Wonderland, the Beatles, and Haruki Murakami, it was love at first sight. I instantly
envied the person who would get to translate this beauty and wished a plague on
his or her house before moving on with my work-a-day life.
So you can imagine the Jolt-Cola
surprise I experienced when that person I cursed turned out to be myself in the
end, as AmazonCrossing, Amazon Publishing’s imprint dedicated to international
literature, came knocking on my door. At the time I was just grateful that I
actually still had a door that anyone could knock on. Really. It was such an
exciting and woozy experience. But once the contract was signed, I was able to still
my mind and spend some of the most memorable moments in my life up to now——about
four months of it, in fact, losing myself in Ms. Randy Taguchi’s rarefied world
populated by a disillusioned ex-cult follower trying to reengage with society
while seeking refuge in the brightly lit, tabula rasa purity of the convenience
store; three erudite teenagers desperate to catch a glimpse of the other side
before they crossed their shadow lines into adulthood; a cynical Adonis who
discovers truth and beauty in the life of a mysterious, aged hoarder residing
near Mount Fuji; and a young nurse filled with remorse for working at an
abortion clinic. I pretty much lived and breathed these characters, drawing on
my method acting know-how I acquired during my college years to transmute them
from one world to another. In short, I was acting on the page, with the great literary
alchemists at AmazonCrossing illuminating the stage. In the end, my method
acting had taken on an epic earnestness, immersing me so deeply into the world
of Randy’s stories that I’m convinced I was climbing Mount Fuji together with
the characters in the final story, Child of Light, as I was translating. You
see, by the time I finished, my right foot was sprained and I had to limp my way
to the clinic with a walking cane in hand. No joke. But I was elated nonetheless.
Another blessing that transpired
in the course of translating Fujisan was actually getting to meet Randy
herself. It’s one thing to think you know the author through her work and
completely another to know her in person. But she was as amazing in person as
she was on the page. In fact, she struck me as a modern-day Alice, full of
wonder and curiosity, and very open to my out-of-the blue, leftfield suggestions.
I was also thrilled to find out that Randy and I were pretty much on the same
wavelength, discovering that, just like myself, she’s a card-carrying fan of
David Lynch. Once that was settled, the direction for my translation in terms
of tone and style was pretty much set in stone I think.
Without a doubt, Randy’s stories
prioritize characterization over plot, just as many works of contemporary Japanese
short fiction do. Perhaps this stylistic trait can be traced back to Japanese
literature’s haiku roots, where the entire enterprise is geared towards
stimulating your imagination than in delivering a sense of narrative closure: the
staple of the three-act blockbuster fiction. But even so, in translating
Fujisan I was also reminded of what Aristotle said about plot; namely that a
good one is where the character is plot and vice versa. In this sense, I
believe Fujisan——one of many of Randy’s works of deep explorations into the
psyche of modern-day Japan, which is really a festive confluence of both
Eastern and Western memes in my humble opinion——paints a vivid character
portrayal of a majestic, snow-capped, ethereal mountain, sending out life-affirming
signals to all who seek answers, gently singing, “Come, Embrace Me.”
