The fourth writer of this series is one who is likely to be familiar to readers who enjoy modern literature set in Kyoto. Two books from his Kamogawa Food Detectives series have recently been translated into English by Jesse Kirkwood. You may remember that Matsuda Michio, the third author in this series, was a noted pediatrician. Interestingly, Kashiwai is also in the field of medicine as a practicing dentist. Is there something about the medical profession that encourages the art of writing? Kashiwai does not yet have an English wikipedia entry, but I’d expect one would appear soon.

Kashiwai’s fiction falls into the category of light reads and the beloved “coffee/cat/food” genre that readers around the globe are immersed in right now, judging from the number of translations coming out of Japan that fall into this category. But my initial purchases of his books were a few of his nonfiction books on Kyoto — of which there are more than you can imagine. Some are guidebooks, some are very specific guidebooks, some are essays and some are a combination of the two. They are very readable and his likes and dislikes come through clearly. If you enjoy learning about Kyoto, they are must-reads. I do not see that any of them have been translated into English. I hope that they will be.

Biography

Kashiwai Hisashi was born in Kyoto in 1952. As of this writing, he is still alive. He grew up in Kyoto and graduated from Osaka Dental University in 1976 and opened a dental clinic in the Kita Ward of Kyoto City. Biographical information about him is scarce, but a glimpse at a few websites for his dental clinics reveals that the Kashiwa family have been dentists through four generations.

He started writing a series of short stories that later were published as the Kamogawa Shokudō books in 2013. One can easily infer that he is a foodie. In 2016 NHK aired the stories from the first two books as a television series. In addition to his novels and essays, he writes mysteries under the name of Kashiwagi Keiichiro.

Books on Kyoto

Kashiwai is a prolific writer and with new books coming out in both October and November of this year (2024). I’m simply going to tell you about the books of his that grace my own bookshelf.

Fiction

Here are a few from his most popular series.

Nonfiction

I enjoy nonfiction more than fiction and I love reading about Kyoto and filing away tidbits of information. If you are this type of reader, Kashiwai has written and continues to write about every single corner of Kyoto that you can imagine. Here’s what happens to be on my own shelf. I look forward to the day when they are translated into English and/or other languages. They are meant for the average reader and are not particularly profound.

Resources

Kamogawa Shokudo – the Japanese wikipedia entry on the series. A very complete list of the books and stories and a listing of the particular dish that each story features.

Discover Japan articles – This is a link to the articles tagged with his name that he wrote on Kyoto for this journal. They include articles on travel, food, hotels, and traditions of Kyoto.

Entry point for the NHK dramatization – This is a Daily Motion link where I found the aforementioned series, subtitled in Chinese. Access may be limited by location, but I was able to view them from the USA. They are visually quite beautiful. They have that NHK feel to them.

The Kashiwai Dental Clinic – It looks like his son is currently in charge and he would be the fourth generation of dentists in this family. If you need a good dentist.…

For this third profile I’m veering away from novelists and writers actually born in Kyoto. Matsuda Michio is a transplant to Kyoto and he always qualified any writing he did about Kyoto by stating that he was not “Kyoto-born,” though his family moved to Kyoto when he was just six months old. It is evident that he developed an appreciation of Kyoto and he wrote a few books that expressed that. He may be an unlikely choice; none of his works seem to be translated into English, though it appears they’ve been translated into both Russian and Chinese. Matsuda doesn’t even merit an English Wikipedia entry. But when I first came to Kyoto in 1976, Kai Fusayoshi, a manager at the now defunct Honyaradō, plucked a copy of 京の町かどから(From the Corners of Kyoto) from the second-floor bookshelf and handed it to me, with the suggestion that I improve my Japanese reading ability by tackling some of the essays in said book.

I found it much too difficult to read and to this day I have not read all of this book. But I went on to read a few of this Kyoto-ish author’s other books which were intriguing to me due to their unexpected and sometimes bold content. For example there was an essay entitled “Women Have No Place in the Academic World.” This sounds dreadful, but if you read through the essay you realize that it is a bit of a click-bait title, because what he is actually saying is that academics must totally immerse in their studies and it would be impossible for any professor to do that if he didn’t have a wife at home taking care of and supporting his daily needs. Since women as a rule, don’t have wives (at that time) or that kind of support system, they would not be able to equally immerse; in this way it is an ode to the role women self-sacrificing-ly play in supporting others.

Biography

Matsuda Michio (October 26, 1908 – June 1, 1998) was born in Ibaraki Prefecture. However, his family moved to Kyoto when he was six months old, so he was thoroughly immersed in Kyoto life, at least outside of the home. He comes from a long line of physicians as it was the custom for doctors to inherit the family trade of medicine. His father was a pediatrician in Kyoto. Many of the medical doctors at that time were respected and prestigious as their practice was almost an act of charity. Matsuda followed in his father’s footsteps as a pediatrician, but also became a writer. His politics tended to be radical as he flirted with both Communism and Socialism, and in that sense I often think of him as comparable to our American Dr. Benjamin Spock. Both of them wrote bestselling books on baby and child care and had views that were ahead of their respective times.

During World War II, Dr. Matsuda was extremely conflicted internally over the practice of medicine in the war time system. He could not escape from serving the state that executed the war while his colleagues were exhausting themselves as they devoted themselves to working in the slums or in the laboratories.¹

In 1967 he left his pediatric practice to become a full-time writer. Though most of his books had to do with pediatrics, they were largely geared towards the average parent and reader, rather than fellow physicians or academics. Climbing the ladder to become an esteemed academic was never his goal; he was always focused on being a neighborhood doctor, good citizen and free thinker. Two of the books he wrote were written in the voice of the child and one of them, 私 は二歳 “Being Two Isn’t Easy” was even made into a popular movie, directed by Ichikawa Kon. You may be able to find it on certain movie sites or you can rent or buy a copy from Amazon etc. It is quite interesting, especially if you are intrigued by danchi life in the Showa period.

Should any student want to take on a complete examination of his life and works, there is a Matsuda Michio Collection at Kumamoto University that houses his personal book collection and other documents. Personally, I think he is a Master’s thesis just waiting to happen.

Books on Kyoto

The first book I mentioned that is solely focused on Kyoto is called 京の町かどから and is an unusual collection of his essays that seems primarily geared towards explaining the habits of the people of Kyoto to outsiders. Contents include an essay on the well-known bubuzuke (ochazuke) story where the Kyoto host politely offers bubuzuke to a guest which is really a signal that it is time for that guest to leave.

Another book of his on Kyoto is called 『花洛—京都追憶(岩波新書, 1975) and examines some of the historical anecdotes of Kyoto. It was retitled and re-released in 1995 as 明治大正 京都追 憶.

His other books, while not focused on Kyoto per se, offer anecdotes and thoughts about the people of Kyoto in the context of childrearing or academics or broadly on everyday life. His views on women and relationships are oddly both behind and ahead of his time and are interesting to read. He is not shy about addressing controversial topics.

He also had a best-selling book using the dagashiya or traditional Japanese candy store as a vehicle for talking about how to live one’s life. It’s meant as a starting point for discussions about the future and the past and what lessons are offered.

The counterculture intellectuals of Honyaradō gave me a copy of 自由を子どもに “Give Children Freedom” which was published in 1970. Matsuda seemed especially taken with the opportunities the children of Kyoto had for all types of play on the banks of the Kamo River based on what he himself enjoyed in his Kyoto youth. Imagine, if you will, that Matsuda, in the late 1960s was already bemoaning and writing about the freedom children had lost–-the freedom to explore on their own, cruise the neighborhood and beyond, and hang out without parents. He is probably turning over in his grave at the state of things today. I can’t help wondering what he’d think about the impact of smartphones and the like that we live with today. One almost wishes he was alive to share his thoughts.

Finally, I will add that the two books 私は赤ちゃん “I’m A Baby” and 私は二歳 “I’m Two Years Old” should be of interest to parents–and they are fairly easy to read.

Footnote

1. Nakao, H. (2024) Based on a personal email to Sara Aoyama, August 30, 2024 ︎

Resources Consulted

• 松田道雄 – Wikipedia — Japanese entry
• Being Two Isn’t Easy — English wikipedia entry on the film
• Matsuda Michio Collection — at Kumamoto University
• The Ideology of Matsuda Michio — An excellent and thoughtful examination of his life as it connects to his writings and action
• An Essay On The Thoughts Of Dr Matsuda Michio Concerning The Infant Education — From the Kyoto University Research Information Repository
• Personal Correspondence from Professor Nakao Hajime — Author and past president of Kyoto Seika University

In this second entry in the series, I’m introducing a woman writer, Yamamura Misa. She is well known as a mystery writer and a very prolific one at that. Many of her books have been adapted for television mystery series and a few of them have also been made into video games. She has been translated into Chinese, Russian, French etc. but I was unable to find any of her books currently available in English. While many of her books are set in Kyoto, she has also set her mysteries in other parts of Japan, both near and far. Additionally, there are a few of her mysteries set overseas in such places as Paris and Guam.

Biography

Yamamura Misa (August 25, 1934 – September 5, 1996) was born in Kyoto City proper. During the war, her father served as a principal of a college in Korea, so she spent some time there as well. After graduating from college with a degree in Japanese Literature, she went on to become a junior high school teacher in Fushimi. Upon marrying at the age of thirty, she retired from her teaching position. She took up writing a few years after that and quickly found success as both a novelist and a writer of screenplays and drama. But her mysteries were what she was most well known for and perhaps unique for the times, one of her favorite recurring characters was an American woman named Katherine who was the daughter of a fictional American vice president. The ‘Katherine’ novels were adapted for television quite frequently and the role has been played by both Japanese and Western actresses, the most recent being Charlotte Kate Fox, an American actress and singer from New Mexico, who also appeared in the NHK morning drama, Massan.

Yamamura was also well qualified in Japanese arts such as flower arranging, tea ceremony and traditional dance, and this enabled her to incorporate traditional arts into her Kyoto mysteries. She passed away of heart failure, leaving behind her daughter, Momiji, an actress. In her will she requested that Momiji be given a role in any future dramatizations of her work.

I was drawn to Yamamura Misa’s works purely for her Kyoto settings, but I wondered if I could really read a mystery in Japanese and be able to follow the plot lines and pick up on the clues. Yamamura is a clever writer and her success is due to her so-called tricks that she employs when she writes. But with an American character, I found it easy to relate to her adventures and though it may be impossible for a budding Japanese language student to pick up on every clue, they are quite readable; it should be quite easy to find a copy of many of her books in a used bookstore. Should you happen to catch an airing of one of her dramas or find one on the internet, that will aid you in understanding her storytelling style. And finally, a few of her works have also been published as manga.

It is very difficult to find photos of this author. And she seems to have been somewhat of a mystery herself. Despite being a very popular author of her time, there is little written about her and it seems that this is how she wanted it to be. Although the Wikipedia articles are written decisively, it is possible that even her real age at death is unknown. Seeking to remedy this, a more contemporary Kyoto author, Hanabusa Kannon published a book in 2020 entitled ‘The Famous Mystery Writer of Kyoto that Nobody Really Knew.’ At one time there was an official website for Yamamura Misa, but it has (mysteriously) disappeared.

Books set in Kyoto

The number of books set in Kyoto is so extensive that rather than list them here, I will list the Kyoto locations or events that are featured in a sampling of her Kyoto works. My suggestion is that you pick a locale that you are familiar with and dive in. There are also a number of works that at least partially take place in Kyoto but don’t refer to a location in the title. Examples would be Kyoto Gourmet Journey, Kyoto Engagement Journey, Kyoto Honeymoon Journey and Kyoto Divorce Journey etc.

The books that feature the fictional Katherine Turner may also be of interest as they reflect some of the gaijin experience in Kyoto. The Japanese wikipedia entry for Misa Yamamura has a list of the books in that series.

General Resources Consulted

• Yamamura Misa — Wikipedia entry (English). A rather brief entry.
• 山村美紗 — Wikipedia entry (Japanese) Includes a list of her complete works.
• 山村美紗のおすすめ作品5選！ドラマ化も多くされたミステリー作家 (2021) — An introduction to five of her novels.
• 山村美紗おすすめ８選をご紹介～衝撃のトリックに酔いしれる～ — An introduction to eight of her novels.
• 山村美紗の作品一覧 — An annotated list of her books. Very useful.

Almost every member of WIK has written something about Kyoto and while there are many famous authors writing about Kyoto both in the distant past and the present, there are also many that remain unknown to us simply because they haven’t (yet) been translated into English. Like many other readers, I love to immerse myself in a book with a setting that is familiar. So when I was learning to read in Japanese, I would search for books set in Kyoto. My criteria was not necessarily great literature; for me, this was purely reading practice. Through trial and error, I found that a setting in Kyoto and/or a novel with ample dialog was my best bet. I did not try to understand every word or look up each unknown character. The only time I picked up my dictionary was when an unknown word or character made multiple appearances and I felt a compulsion to know the meaning or the reading.

In this short series, I want to introduce a few authors who used Kyoto as their setting for a number of their books. Once you understand an author’s style, it becomes easier and easier to read their books. My hope is that this will encourage intermediate and beyond Japanese language learners to try some of these books out. They are, for the most part, older books, so it should be easy to find copies in used bookstores. Most of all, I hope this encourages you to browse a few bookstores and find other wonderful authors that are still unknown to most English readers.

I begin with Mizukami Tsutomu. Or, Minakami Tsutomu. There seems to be little consensus on how to read his family name, or even his first name. I have heard Kai Fusayoshi refer to him as “Ben-chan” and I believe he was, at one time, a patron of Honyarado. He is certainly a prolific and colorful author. Surprisingly, I found his books on the contemporary geisha world and bar hostesses in downtown Kyoto fairly easy to read.

Biography

Mizukami Tsutomu (March 8, 1919 – September 8, 2004) was born in Fukui Prefecture in a small village. He was the second son of five siblings. At the age of nine, he was sent to live with a relative in Kyoto and to become an apprentice priest at a sub- temple of Shōkoku-ji called Zuishunin. However, the hard life of an apprentice priest didn’t suit him and he ran away at age thirteen.

He was brought back, this time to Tōji-in and the library he found there drew him into the world of literature. In 1937 he entered the Department of Literature at Ritsumeikan University. Having had tuberculosis, he was not assigned to active duty in the military during wartime, but instead was assigned to an army unit stationed in Fushimi.

After the war, he moved to Tokyo where his first book was published. He worked in many different fields (he claimed to have held 36 different jobs) to support his family. In 1959 his first mystery was published and sold quite well, establishing his name as a writer. From then on he was quite prolific and often wrote mysteries taking place in Hokuriku and Kyoto. He addressed a wide diversity of issues in his writing depending on where his interests took him. His family life was also quite colorful. His literary works won him a great number of awards and stretched into just about any genre you could imagine, including works for children. Though his works have been translated into both Russian and Chinese, he is oddly ignored by English language publishers. Only a few of his stories have been translated thus far.¹ I note that there was also a translation published of a selection from his book called ‘Eating the Seasons’ in the Kyoto Journal Issue 83 on Food.

Mizukami’s works set in Kyoto are by no means considered to be his best books or the most representative, but I present them here because they are not terribly difficult for a student of the Japanese language to read. In fact, they provide an excellent introduction to the Kyoto dialect spoken in the geisha quarters and by some Kyotoites today. The story lines are quite simple and the settings provide a good introduction to different areas of Kyoto. Here are a few that I read many years ago when I was learning the Japanese language. It should be easy to find copies of them in used bookstores in Kyoto or elsewhere in Japan.

Books on Kyoto

五番町夕霧楼 [Gobanchō Yūgirirō] Published in 1962. Considered to be his representative work on Kyoto, it was written as a contrast to Mishima Yukio’s The Temple of the Golden Pavilion. A young girl from Tango is sold into servitude to the Gobanchō District in Nishijin. In fact, she is sold into prostitution. There are love triangles, suicides, and misbehaving priests, all culminating in a fire at Hōkakuji Temple. With all of these elements it is no surprise that it was made into two different TV dramas (1968 and 1974) and a Shochiku film in 1980.

沙羅の門 [Sara no Mon] “Sara’s Gate” Published in 1964. It’s a tearjerker of a story about an unwanted pregnancy of a woman lodging in a temple near Yasaka Shrine. There was also a film adaptation made the same year and directed by Seiji Hisamatsu.

京の川 [Miyako no Kawa] “Kyoto River” Published in 1965. The life and troubles of the geisha world in Kyoto. This was also serialized for the NHK Ginga Drama in 1969 with a total of 25 thirty-minute episodes.

女の森で [Onna no Mori de] “In the Forest of Women” Published in 1969. A two- volume work on the lives of the Gion geisha. This was serialized for the NHK Ginga Television Novels series in 1975 and has a total of 20 twenty-minute episodes. It’s an excellent book to immerse in.

波影・貴船川 [Namikawa Kibunegawa] Published in 1969. A collection of five short works. A good starting point as the works are shorter and you can pick and choose.

出町の柳 [Demachi no Yanagi] “The Willow of Demachi” Published in 1989 Another collection of five short works.

Also notable is 土を喰ふ日々, published in 1978 which was made into a film starring Sawada Kenji as recently as 2022 entitled The Zen Diary in English about a writer living in the mountains and what he cooks throughout the seasons. See the trailer.

General Resources Consulted

• Mizukami Tsutomu — Wikipedia entry (English). A rather brief entry.
• 水上勉 — Wikipedia entry (Japanese) Includes a list of his complete works.
• 戦後の京都と「赤線」の町 ―水上勉「五番町夕霧楼」論 — An article on post-war Kyoto and the red-light district where Gobanchō Yūgirirō takes place.

1. The Temple of the Wild Geese and Bamboo Dolls of Echizen. Translated by Dennis C. Washburn in 2008. ︎

Writers In Kyoto aims not only to bring together members of the local literary community to focus on writing, but also to support each other’s activities. WiK member Rebecca Otowa exhibited her watercolor paintings between January 10^th and 15^th at Papa Jon’s Café Rokkaku in downtown Kyoto, a venue well-known for providing exhibition space for local artists, as well as a place for Writers in Kyoto (WiK) meetings. On January 13^th, Rebecca was present to welcome visitors and answer questions, and some WiK members came in to enjoy her company and a slice of the café’s delicious cheesecake. Rebecca spoke with me about her paintings and creative process, and some of her direct answers are shared below.

Rebecca is known not only for her literary works but also her mesmerizing images, created mainly with Holbein watercolors (directly from the tube) and aquarelle pencils. From 2011 to the present, she has been particularly productive, having created and preserved approximately fifty pictures. This exhibition at Papa Jon’s is Rebecca’s third, with two others having taken place in and around her town in eastern Shiga Prefecture.

Myxomycetes (Watercolor, 2020), one painting which was on display, is an abstract and colored version of tiny fungi (also called “slime mold”), which live in forest networks. Rebecca became fascinated by their existence when visiting the Wakayama Prefecture-based museum of renowned Japanese naturalist Kumagusu Minakata. This painting, as well as another titled Fun with Kanji II Enjoyment (Watercolor, 2012), have various colorful patterns within outlined shapes, a technique Rebecca often uses. As the creative process unfolds, Rebecca largely allows the image itself to guide her, instead of leading with preconceived ideas.

Another strong focus of Rebecca’s work is the four elements of Western philosophy: fire, earth, water and air.

“I’ve made a lot of mandala, all based on four elements. Because there are four elements and four seasons, this lends itself very well to square paper because you have a shape which you can divide into four. One of the first pictures I made was a mandala of four elements based on Mexican art. That was an inspiration I got from a Kyoto Journal exhibition of yarn art by the Huichol Indians of Mexico, but I used paint instead of yarn, with the same visual elements. I also love geometry. Anything that has something to do with geometry is something that I like to play around with. For me, geometry comes from the natural world. You look at plants – you look at the way that stems go, or the way the flowers are set up. All of it is geometrical. It’s very interesting to discover that, and to bring it into your life, as just a fun thing to think about. Also geometric progressions – how a circle becomes a triangle, and how a triangle becomes a pentagram. These things were figured out by the early Greek mathematicians Pythagoras and Euclid. They set up the rules for how you can get from one shape to another. With colors too – I like to notice the difference between very small gradations of color. When I’m painting, I think, a little bit bluer, a little bit redder, or a little bit yellower. Sometimes I mix them, sometimes I use them straight. I have a feeling it has something to do with some sort of mathematics, but it’s just really fun to watch that process.”

Rebecca explained how another painting, “Down the Rabbit Hole” (Watercolor, 2015), demonstrates spiritual themes through a process of unfolding. Merging colors form different levels of being, with the center being the lowest and densest of all, the material world in which we live. Rebecca demonstrates this through the symbolic use of color gradations.

“Some of the things grow out of ideas or some of the things I learned. For example, with color there are the primary, secondary, and tertiary colors, and before that is black and white. In a certain thought system those combinations of colors gradually represent different worlds. Black, grey, and white represent the top and the primary colors represent primary energies. They mix together to form the secondary colors, which mix again to form the tertiary colors, which is where we are, at the bottom. “Down the Rabbit Hole” starts with black, grey, and white around the outside and sort of edges in towards the material world. I was taught that this material world of ours is the densest and lowest of all the worlds, where we’re always interacting with material things. For example, these days I’m always dropping things on the floor. I think, ‘Oh, there goes that pencil again.’ That’s gravity. That’s a material thing that we have to figure out how to handle in our lives. It’s all part of the material world where we live. This material world is very rigid and seems inflexible. Take stones on a wall, for example. Physicists tell us that within the stones there is lots of space between the atoms, but the reality is that if I bump into that wall, I’m going to hurt myself. Human beings are always encountering this material stuff. Now I have to take my coat off, now I have to put my gloves on, now I have to take my shoes off, now I have to do this or that. I think it’s a tremendous lesson for us to deal with this particular kind of world.”

The themes in Rebecca’s boldly colored work are often drawn from dreams, visions, and her past studies in spirituality and the occult. The Pilgrim (Watercolor, 2013) was inspired by the Omi Shonin (traveling merchants) of the Edo Period. At the upper left is a Middle Eastern hamsa (protective charm), and at the bottom right corner is a Man in the Maze motif from the indigenous culture of the southwestern United States. Another framed work, Corn Maiden (Watercolor, 2014), has a painted image of three Hopi kachina dolls: sun mask (left), rain dance Longhair (right) and Corn Maiden (center). In the center of the Corn Maiden’s robe is a Glass Gems corn cob, which Rebecca grew in her own garden and patiently took time to paint kernel by kernel, so accurately portrayed that it gives the impression of a photograph. The painting’s concept is that of a ritual drum with decorations of feathers and motifs. “In the cultures of the Southwest US,” Rebecca writes, “corn is sacred and corn flour is said to have been used to fashion the first human beings.”

During our discussion, I became curious to know if, as a successful writer, Rebecca applies the concept of “unfolding” to her own storytelling, in explaining her characters’ thought processes and feelings. Also, does she feel that creating art, whether through writing, painting, or her long-time experience of playing musical instruments help Rebecca transcend the seemingly rigid world to a higher awareness or consciousness? After all, we need to make use of the physical world – our bodies, our hands, our brains – to create art.

“It’s similar. It’s a kind of building. The things that I paint are, quite often, things that make me think of something besides what’s in the material world, and some of them are delving deeper into the material world. You’d go deeper and you can find places in there that are not so rigid, not so complicated. There’s a simplicity underneath all of this stuff. you have to use a material thing to get something that’s not material. When a musician is a very good musician, or an artist, or a writer is very good, the art seems to lift itself up from the material equipment that one needs, like a musical instrument or notes on a page, and it goes higher. It goes somewhere else. And that’s a really amazing experience. Maybe you feel like you want to draw something more complicated, But you are not in control. I think that control is actually irrelevant. It’s a power. It’s channeling. You have to use your hands and your eyes. You have to use various physical things in order to get there. That’s the reality. That’s the place where you go in… and then you go up.”

My personal favorite amongst the paintings which were displayed is The Transformer (Watercolor, 2016). As described by Rebecca, this picture “shows how the sun takes the strong energy of the Universe and transforms it into a form that can be used by living things on Earth. It is based on the Kabbalah Tree of Life.”

Thanks to Rebecca for sharing her insights and her paintings. We look forward to more of her artistic expressions, in a variety of mediums, in the future.

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Rebecca Otowa is the author of The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper, At Home in Japan, My Awesome Japan Adventure, and the creator of 100 Objects in My Japanese House. Her many contributions to the Writers in Kyoto website can be read at this link.

Karen Lee Tawarayama can also be found here and there on the WiK website.

Papa Jon’s Café Rokkaku: 115 Horinouecho, Nakagyo Ward, Kyoto 604-8117

The prodigy worth such high praise was Bin Ueda. Born in 1874 at Tsukiji, Tokyo, he enriched his knowledge at Tokyo Eigo Gakko (Tokyo English School) and the First Higher School (precursor of University of Tokyo and Chiba University), before entering the top university in Japan.

Remarkably Ueda had a good command of French, German and Spanish as well as English, and he began to rise to fame after graduation. He came out with Kaicho-on (The Sound of the Sea Tide), a collection of translations of works by French poet Paul Verlaine, German poet Carl Busse and English writers such as William Shakespeare and Robert Browning.

In 1908, he was appointed to be a professor at Kyoto Imperial University, the current Kyoto University. Initially, he stayed at Shigaraki, a ryokan that stood near the Sanshi Suimeisho arbor in Kamigyo-ku, and afterward settled in the northern vicinity of Heian Jingu.

Ueda was one of the earliest readers of Jun’ichiro Tanizaki, and invited the novelist in 1912 when he was on a business trip to Kyoto. The professor was recollected by the literary giant about two decades later:

Judging from the erudition shown in my favorite books of his, such as Shisei Dante [Ueda’s translations of the poetry of Dante], I imagined that he must look like a very aged and fashionable Western professor. Apart from his dark moustache, however, [Bin Ueda] Sensei looked like neither a typical scholar nor a typical man of letters. Rather, he appeared to be either the owner of a large store in shitamachi (old downtown area) or a proper gentleman like a merchant.
― Extract from Seishun Monogatari (My Adolescent Days) by Jun’ichiro Tanizaki

Meanwhile, Ueda was such a strong magnet for bibliophiles that some students enrolled in Kyoto Imperial University just to listen to his lectures. Among the listeners was Yoshio Yamanouchi, who, in later years, formed a friendship with French diplomat Paul Claudel as well as translating André Gide’s Strait is the Gate (La Porte Étroite) into Japanese.

Another remarkable student of Ueda was Kan Kikuchi, who later founded the publishing company Bungei Shunju. The professor greatly supported Kikuchi with his research on Irish playwright John Millington Synge.

The distinguished scholar must have been expected to assist up-and-coming students for more years to come. However, illness dashed his hopes; he had a fit during the end-stage of renal disease in July, 1916, which claimed his life. He was only 41 years old.

Ueda’s passing was mourned by his academic colleagues and former students. For example, one of his juniors sorrowfully conveyed the distressing news as follows:

[Bin Ueda] Sensei was practically the most precious figure amongst present-day Japanese. The loss of Sensei is the loss of a greater part of Kyoto Imperial University’s raison d’etre.
― Extract from ‘Ueda Bin Sensei no Koto’ (Regarding Professor Bin Ueda) by Kan Kikuchi (1916)

Indeed Ueda’s sudden death caused an enormous shock, but Kyoto Imperial University successfully handed on its academic torch by inviting professors such as Tatsuo Kuriyagawa and Edward Bramwell Clarke.

Ueda rests in Yanaka Cemetery in Tokyo. Like the capital, Kyoto has lost many of the places associated with the professor. That said, if you visit the vicinity of Keage Incline, you can find a good reminder: Hyotei is a 400-year-old restaurant, where the professor went with Tanizaki and his friend Mikihiko Nagata, lyricist of the song ‘Gion Kouta’. The elegant dining establishment is for sure the place to go if you hope to enjoy the way Ueda spent time with his friends.

• Further reading
  Lafcadio Hearn on Bin Ueda
  Bin Ueda and Jun’ichiro Tanizaki:
  Seishun Monogatari (1932-1933) by Jun’ichiro Tanizaki:
• “Ueda Bin Sensei no Koto (About Professor Bin Ueda)” by Kan Kikuchi in August issue of “Shin Shicho” (1916)

Links to the photos:
Photo of Bin Ueda
Photo of Jun’ichiro Tanizaki in 1913

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In After Act, Stephen considers virus related literature in a pandemic world.

In Metropolis Stephen writes about Japanese cities.

For a review of his life in writing, given as a lunchtime talk for WiK, see here.
For a review by John Dougill of his book, Stone Gardens, click here.

For a short treatise on light and dark in Japanese culture, see here. For a review by Josh Yates of Stephen’s book on Tokyo: A Biography, see here.

For Stephen Mansfield’s review of the WiK Anthology 3, Encounters with Kyoto, please click here.  For his amazon page with a list of his books, please see this link.

This interview celebrates David Joiner’s new novel Kanazawa, published by Stone Bridge Press.

1) Why Kanazawa?

Kanazawa has a rich literary history, and as a resident there I encountered it often while exploring the city. It boasts museums not only to several of its most famous writers, but also to the city’s literary history; a literary hall where events are sometimes held; temples that commemorate famous Kanazawa writers and poets; streets and parks named after Kanazawa writers; statues erected to these writers and even to some of their more famous characters. I’ve even seen sweets named after Izumi Kyoka, Kanazawa’s most famous writer. Some local ryokan also proudly display photos and writing implements of Kanazawa writers who stayed there. I was aware of many of these things before my wife and I moved to Kanazawa, but once we became residents of the city this respect for literature really seeped into my consciousness. And I soon decided I’d try to write something that might bring me closer to the city’s literary history and contribute what little I could to the cultural life of where we lived. I also thought it worthwhile to try to write and get published the first literary novel in English to be set in Kanazawa. Because it had never been done, I was lucky to have had the chance to write about whatever I pleased without worrying over what anyone else had done before.

2) This is your second published novel. How does it compare with the first?

It’s a little hard to compare them since my first novel, Lotusland, was set in Vietnam and made use of the decade I lived there. I suppose there are similarities, though. Particularly in telling a story in third person from the point of view of an American man deeply immersed in, and appreciative of, the foreign culture where he lives. And also being romantically involved with a local woman who helps him delve more deeply into her culture. Both novels focus on bringing aspects of those cultures onto the page. In Lotusland, I explored Vietnamese lacquer painting to a great extent. In Kanazawa, the cultural focus falls on, among other things, Japanese literature, specifically the life and work of Izumi Kyoka. I also devote space in the novel to the sculptures that grace the city, and my characters also create ikebana and draw and paint. Lotusland also focuses on the lingering effects of wartime Agent Orange use on the Vietnamese population, but Kanazawa shines no equivalent spotlight on such important societal issues.

3) How has the reception been so far?

Thankfully, no reviews I’ve read (yet) have indicated that readers detest it, and no readers have cursed me that I know of. Some readers have complained that it’s too slow for their tastes, whereas others have expressed an appreciation for how I’ve allowed the story to deliberately and quietly unfold. The Japan Times, Books on Asia, The Foreword Review, and Asia Media International have all recently reviewed Kanazawa. I’m happy to say that all of those reviews have been positive. People seem to appreciate that my novel is set outside Tokyo and Kyoto, settings which tend to dominate books on Japan written by foreigners.

4) You gave a talk to WiK about marketing an earlier book. Is that something you thought of doing for this book?

I think it’s unavoidable if one wants to be read. My publisher, Stone Bridge Press, has its own publicist, and he’s done an incredible job of reaching out to people in the publishing world and literary sphere to try to promote the novel. Small presses, however, have a difficult time attracting the attention given as a matter of course to books – sometimes very bad ones – published by the Big 5 publishers. In any case, my publisher has done a lot in terms of marketing, and though I’ve done my part as well, it’s been difficult for me, on my own, to bring much attention to Kanazawa. But I view this sort of marketing as a long-term commitment, so I’m not done yet trying to increase the novel’s readership over time.

5) What is the most difficult part of being a novelist, would you say?

In terms of writing, just finding the time and space to immerse myself in my work. I have a lot going on now that’s become a distraction, things that I’m not used to dealing with. But in and of itself, writing a novel isn’t particularly difficult. (And if I can do it, anyone can.) Probably the most difficult part is finding readers. If you spend years writing a book, what’s the point of it all if no one ever reads it? That can be a difficult hurdle to overcome. Without big money to advertise my novel, many readers will never know that Kanazawa even exists. It can also be hard to find readers who are open to stories set in foreign cultures, and readers open to someone such as myself who chooses to set his stories in them.

6) What advice would you have for budding novelists in WiK?

Persist. Persist in whatever you’ve decided to write and persist also in trying to find the right publisher, if you want a traditional publisher. And by “right,” I mean a publishing team that really appreciates what you’ve created, what it’s taken you to create it, and who shares the same vision for putting it out into the world.

7) What next?

Two or three things. I’ve finished and have out on submission a second “Ishikawa novel” called The Heron Catchers. It’s quite a bit darker than Kanazawa and is set both in Kanazawa and Yamanaka Onsen (where my wife and I have a home). I’m also still working on a novel I’ve been writing off and on for 20 years, which is set in Vietnam and Cambodia in the early 1990s. And I’d like to write another “Ishikawa novel” soon. I’ve started a third one but have set it aside until I can devote more time and energy to it.

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Read David Joiner on Izumi Kyoka here. For the opening chapter of The Heron Catchers, click here. For a 14 minute video feature about his Vietnam novel, Lotusland, see here. For more about David and his writing, please see his author website.

KJ 100 / ‘100 Views of Kyoto’
By Ken Rodgers

A very special celebratory print issue of Kyoto Journal

No one on the Kyoto Journal production team has been watching the virtual Olympics. We’ve been too busy wrestling our next issue into shape, for a strict print deadline.

 (Yes, print!)

Since it also happens to be our one hundredth issue—a milestone we never foresaw reaching—we set out to compile a kaleidoscopic compendium in the tradition of ­the many “100 Views” woodblock series, presenting a diversity of perspectives on a specific theme. In this case, a fresh assemblage of views, voices, reminiscences, personal observations and descriptions (many written or adapted especially for KJ100), sketches, photographs, historical and literary quotes (including brief excerpts from KJ back issues and other relevant sources), all intended to evoke by their juxtaposition the unique spirit of Kyoto. (While also intentionally avoiding the all-too-familiar tropes of ‘ancient capital,’ and ‘cultural heart of Japan’…)

Kyoto is of course both Kyoto Journal’s hometown and its overall defining influence. Since our first issue, published in 1987, KJ has explored and depicted innumerable aspects of Kyoto, honoring the city’s rich heritage while also attempting to envisage Kyoto both within its historical context in Japan, and within the bigger picture of life in Asia.

One of the most difficult parts of presenting KJ100 to our mostly intensely Kyotophile readership has been the search for a cover image that represents the essence of this entire city, an entity that remains almost indefinable in its diversity. We’ll be posting our final choice on KJ’s Facebook page (www.facebook.com/kyoto.journal/), in advance of release.

We expect the magazine to be published in September, in bookstores and through our website, www.kyotojournal.org. (A page for pre-orders is under construction.)

Did I mention that this will be a limited edition, of over 140 pages? Or that it will be printed by Kyoto’s pre-eminent art printer, SunM, meaning the image quality of this very visual issue will be phenomenal? Or that with Japan currently closed indefinitely to visitors, this may be one of the best ways for anyone residing elsewhere to encounter and experience present-day Kyoto? (Great value as a present, too!)

You’ll find at least a hundred (and probably more) different reasons to enjoy this issue. We like to think it will be more tangible, and lasting, than the Olympics. We think you’ll like the cover, too.

—Ken Rodgers, KJ managing editor

A native of Kyoto city, Tatsuo Kuriyagawa (1880-1923) honed his knowledge on Western literature, studying under Lafcadio Hearn and then Soseki Natsume at Tokyo Imperial University (now the University of Tokyo). In 1904, when he graduated as the top student, Kuriyagawa began his writing career by contributing an article on W. B. Yeats, which is deemed Japan’s earliest formal theory on the poet and his works.

While he introduced Western literature systematically to readers in Japan, Kuriyagawa kept focused on what was going on in the world of Irish letters. For example, the themes of his writings in the 1910s ranged from the Irish Literary Revival to authors including G. B. Shaw. In fact, he was so conscious of the literary trend that he wrote in 1917 about Lord Dunsany, whose dramas had started to gain popularity in the U.S. in parallel with the Little Theatre Movement.

In addition, Kuriyagawa was also intrigued by love marriage – his curiosity was piqued by Soseki Natsume – though the practice of miai-kekkon (arranged marriage) was prevalent throughout Japan in his days. Kuriyagawa contributed his views on romance to the Asahi Shimbun, and the serial was turned in 1922 into a best-selling book Kindai no Ren’ai-kan (Modern Views on Love).

The Kyoto native wasn’t just a critic, however. He started to teach at the Fifth High Middle School (now Kumamoto Prefecture) in 1904 and then in the Third High Middle School (predecessor of Okayama and Kyoto universities) in 1907. His teachership culminated with the English literature department of Kyoto Imperial University in 1917, when he was appointed as an assistant professor  –  he was promoted to professor two years later. He delivered lectures to many students, among whom was drama director and filmmaker Akira Nobuchi. According to another of his students, Kuriyagawa often said in a persuasive manner, “The young are just eager to read new books, but they must pore over old ones, too.”

The well-read educator put out more than five books, and would have certainly released more publications and shared a portion of his vast expertise with a larger number of students at Kyoto Imperial University or somewhere else had it not been for the Great Kanto Earthquake, which struck Tokyo and its surrounding areas hard on Sept. 1 in 1923. The 43-year-old professor was staying with his wife Choko at his vacation home in Kamakura, but his physical disability – he had had his left leg amputated in 1915 – made it so hard to avoid the tsunami that he was washed away despite her help and breathed his last the following day.

His unexpected passing was mourned by many, including his academic colleagues and former students. Several books were posthumously published, not to mention his complete works. In 1929, when the six-volume collection was issued, there took place a ceremony of nanakaiki (a traditional Buddhist ritual to celebrate the sixth anniversary of someone’s death) at the Rakuyu Kaikan hall of Kyoto Imperial University. The deceased was commemorated by his wife (she miraculously survived the violent sea wave) as well as several Kyoto Imperial University scholars including Izuru Shinmura, author and editor of Japanese dictionary Kojien.

Kuriyagawa’s fame and achievements have slipped out of the public memory, particularly as his former students pass away, some of whom had written about him after the end of World War II. That said, Kyoto remembers Tatsuo Kuriyagawa in the form of one of his former residences which remains near Okazaki Park – the building is now used as the main store for traditional Japanese novelty retailer, Ayanokoji. Moreover, he rests in peace together with his wife in one of the graveyards of Kurodani Temple.

On Jan 20, 2021, notice of the obituary of Mary Smith (1930-2020), former wife of Donald Richie, was posted on the Writers in Kyoto Facebook public page. This prompted discussion of the renowned Japanologist, which led to personal reminiscences by Alex Kerr and Everett Kennedy Brown.

John Dougill initiated the discussion: Donald Richie once recommended me to read his former wife’s portrait of him in a novel called A Romantic Education. I only got round to reading it last autumn, and was surprised by the unflattering characterisation. Brutally honest is how I would describe it, and you could say there are one or two passages in The Inland Sea too that hint at awkward truths. Now comes word that Richie’s former wife has died, apparently on Christmas Day last year. She had an obituary in the NY Times on Jan 10.

There followed comments about Richie’s sexuality, to which Alex Kerr responded as follows:

Donald Richie was a complex character. He was a scholar and intellectual who played harpsichord, read widely in all the literature of east and west, and devoted himself to the craft of writing, publishing dozens of books as well as a book review column in the Japan Times for years. At the same time, he was indeed sex obsessed, and his kinks included not only voyeurism, but a kind of exhibitionism, in which he delighted in showing people the grungy side of his own nature – which is why he wouldn’t have been offended by his wife’s book. He loved to shock, and was amused when proper people found his comments offensive. He reveled in the contrast between his Dr Jekyll literary self, and his Mr Hyde sexual adventurer. As a gay man with a curious bisexual side, his adventures were as complicated as he was.

Donald followed in the footsteps of French intellectuals such as Proust and Genet, who loved the “nostalgie de la boue” (nostalgia of the mud). In Japan, he was fascinated not by “high culture” like Noh, Kabuki, tea ceremony etc, but the low life, the soft underbelly of society, which he described like no other. He used to take me and other friends on his personal “Tokyo tour” of slums near Ueno, Shinjuku, and other places, where he was fascinated by gangsters, homeless, sex workers, foreign laborers from Iran, and so on. Nobody has written more eloquently about this seamy, usually well-hidden, side of Japanese life.

Finally, there’s another aspect to Donald Richie, which was his love of the Japanese avant garde of the 1950s through the 1970s. That led him to champion Japanese film, become a close friend of Mishima, a supporter of Butoh’s Hijikata, and many others. Few foreigners – nay no other foreigner in the 21st century achieved the kind of friendships that Donald had with the leaders of what was at the time, “counter-culture.” The Japanese avant-garde of those days was sexually liberated but also truly bizarre and kinky (see the writings of Ian Buruma, who was one of Richie’s disciples). Donald was fascinated by the way Japan ran against all the accepted life-trueisms of the West, with sex especially, but with everything else. He remained a Western intellectual to the end of his days, but he was also a product of Japan.

Everett Kennedy Brown then wrote….

I found Donald Richie very forthcoming with his stories of his experiences with gay culture in Japan. It was particularly interesting how he would describe the qualities of young men from different regions of Japan in epicurean detail. I asked him to write these stories down, maybe not to be published while he was alive, but for posterity. I don’t know if he ever did that. We first met at his apartment overlooking Ueno. He wanted to show me photos he had of Yukio Mishima standing in the snow, nude and beautiful with a samurai sword in his hand. The photos were taken by Tomotsu Yato, a talented photographer and former flamenco dancer who lived with Donald Richie and Meredith Weatherby in a fine old house near Roppongi crossing. The house and garden became the setting for many of the nude male photos Yato took during his short career.

Alex Kerr: That house belonged to Meredith Weatherby, founder of Weatherhill Books, which published some of the great books about Japan. Urasenke’s Tankosha bought out Weatherhill and also the house which was later torn down. I used to stay there some times.

Everett Kennedy Brown: Donald and I worked on a project to make Yato’s work known. He entrusted me with Yato’s negatives to make prints that we published in the 44th edition of Kyoto Journal. Donald wrote a fine essay that I recommend anyone interested in this subject to read.

I printed the photographs in the days before negative scanners were available and I deeply regret that I did not refuse to give those negatives back to Donald. Those negatives are now gone. Nobody knows of their whereabouts. A fascinating chapter of Japanese history is again being forgotten.

Alex Kerr
What a pity! Donald talked a lot about those negatives, and I was wondering where they had gone.

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In respect of the above, John Einarsen, managing editor of Kyoto Journal, was kind enough to provide a link to a conversation with Donald Richie from the April 2014 edition, in which Richie describes himself as a self-revelatory writer. There is a strong sense of Lost Japan about the interview.

Quote: “Japanese have many times told me that they consider Tokyo to be a very cold city, compared to, say, Osaka. Of course, the coldest city is Kyoto. It’s like Boston unless you are well-connected there. This is true, not particularly of foreigners, but of the Japanese themselves. Unless they’re born there, they simply don’t want to live in Kyoto. So if Kyoto is zero degrees, we get up to a sort of livable heat in Osaka, then someplace in between is frigid Tokyo.”

Also thanks to John Einarsen for drawing our attention to Notes on Tamotsu Yato, pictured below, the photographer mentioned by Everett Kennedy Brown. The feature appeared in Kyoto Journal, no. 44.

“Yes, it has been a bad dream… but a beautiful one will begin.’ So ends Monna Vanna, a 1902 drama by Belgian playwright Maurice Maeterlinck. The phrase influenced Akira Nobuchi (1896-1968) so strongly that he contributed a short essay to his graduation yearbook, which ends as follows:

“Real life will begin.” As Vanna cries out at the end, this is nothing less than my voice.

A high school student from Nara Prefecture, Nobuchi began his real life in Kyoto, after he was admitted to Doshisha University for theology studies. In 1916 he stopped studying there, however, and entered Kyoto Imperial University (now Kyoto University) to deepen his knowledge of English literature, in particular Irish dramatist John Millington Synge whose play The Shadow of the Glen (1903) the undergraduate chose for his graduation thesis.

Nobuchi started his stage management career from around the time of his graduation in 1919. During the next fourteen years, he helped shingeki (Western-style drama) thrive in Kyoto Prefecture and neighboring areas while Tokyo experienced a similar theatrical change led by influential figures such as literary critic Hogetsu Shimamura, actress Sumako Matsui and authors Shoyo Tsubouchi and Kaoru Osanai. Nobuchi headed his own drama troupe Elan Vital Shogekijo, and they performed mainly at theaters in Kyoto, not only plays by Japanese dramatists but also Western counterparts including Arthur Schnitzler, Lady Gregory and Lord Dunsany.

Among the presentations was Juno and the Paycock (1924) by Irish playwright Sean O’Casey, which was performed at the Okazaki Kokaido hall (predecessor of the Kyoto City Museum of Art Annex). This was the earliest show of the play in Japan. Nobuchi also performed the drama at the Pontocho Kaburenjo theater, which was completed in 1927.

The year 1927 also brought him a meeting with future actress: Takako Irie (1911-95). She was introduced by her brother to Nobuchi, who cast her in such plays as Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov and The Living Corpse by Leo Tolstoy. Some of her performances were seen by film director Tomu Uchida, who enabled her debut as a movie star in 1928.

However, Nobuchi suffered from various problems, ranging from poverty to censorship. There was also the rise of proletarian dramas from 1929. Nobuchi chose to leave the Elan Vital in 1933 and went on to make a foray into filmdom the following year by joining the Shinko Cinema. One of its studios was based in Kyoto, and Nobuchi’s first film was a talkie released in Nagasaki Ryugakusei.

At this time Kyoto was a centre of film making and known as “Japan’s Hollywood”. Nobuchi contributed 32 films, from his maiden work to his swan song Kaidan Botan Doro (Peony Lantern Kaidan) in 1955. At least 22 pieces were shot at studios in Kyoto. Many of the motion pictures put an emphasis on actresses and their beauty, as well as meiji-mono, or films that re-enact the atmosphere of the Meiji Period. He succeeded in both genres, notably Yoshida Goten in 1937 and Fufu Nise in 1940. The former, giving prominence to the flamboyant ambiance and the magnetism of femmes fatale, became particularly popular, as filmmaker Kaneto Shindo recalls in a 1993 book Shinko Cinema Senzen Goraku Eiga no Okoku (Shinko Cinema: The Kingdom of Entertainment Films).

Among the large number of actresses to become famous was People’s Honor Award-winning actress Mitsuko Mori (1920-2012). About half a century later, she recalls the experience:

Since it’s natural that male actors play a leading role, few taught acting to female actors except for one person – film director Akira Nobuchi who kindly told me, ‘Acting is learnt through form.’
(Nihon Keizai Shimbun, December 8, 2007)

It goes without saying that Nobuchi suffered from the growing censorship just before and during World War II. At least two of his films fell victim – the 2,000mm film of Murasaki Shikibu (Lady Murasaki, 1939) was cut by 40 percent, and he was forced to add changes to his 1943 work Hozutsu no Hibiki (Vibrancy of Artillery).

Japan’s defeat in the Allies-Axis war was followed by the loss of Nobuchi’s mother in September of the same year (his father had died in June 1934, a few months before his son’s debut as a filmmaker). In 1946, however, he resumed shooting films, directing stage plays, writing for magazines and creating his own original works. The years 1949 and 1950 were marked by revival of the Elan Vital at some of Kyoto’s theaters, and he also worked with the Shochiku Shinkigeki comedy troupe, which performed a dozen plays of his at theaters including Minamiza. In addition, he worked with Gion Higashi, one of Kyoto’s five geisha quarters, in the autumn of 1952.

On February 1, 1968, pneumonia took the life of Akira Nobuchi. He still lives on in the memory of shingeki researchers and fans of early Showa Period movies (also I hope of those who kindly read this article). If this write-up interests you, I humbly recommend you to visit Kyoto Prefectural Library and watch video editions of his post-WWII films Koi Jamisen (1946), starring actor Kanjuro Arashi, and Taki no Shiraito (1952), which features Machiko Kyo and actor Masayuki Mori.

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For Nobuchi’s IMDb page, please click here. For details of six of his films, see here.

Up now near the Kamogawa delta on the west bank of the river there are some large boards exhibiting black and white photos by local photographer, Kai Fusayoshi. whose name will be known to many because of his involvement with Honryado coffee shop and Hachimonjiya bar. The blown-up photos cover the side of a building selling plants called Tanegen and were originally part of the Kyotographie exhibition in October, 2020.

The event follows Kai’s previous outdoor exhibitions, over 20 in all, dating back to 1978. On former occasions, the Tanegen owner’s son would sit outside roasting yams, and it would be a gathering spot for prominent scholars, musicians, streetwise students and middle school girls. Policemen and the homeless would drop by to check if they could find themselves in the photos.

The photos also acted as background to events by the river, such as a Black Tent Theater performance, popular singers Goro Nakagawa and Wataru Takada, and a talk by the Buddhist nun and literary figure, Jakucho Setouchi.

As well as the walls of Tanegen, the Kyotographie exhibition took in the small Benten Shrine next to the plant shop plus the sidewalks at the east end of Kawai Bridge.

In years past, according to the exhibition notes, the Kamogawa Delta was repeatedly flooded and the surrounding houses washed away. Nonetheless it was an important transportation hub, marking the southern end of the Saba Kaido (Mackerel Road). Along with the fish, other products such as rice and other goods arrived here from the town of Obama in the north of Kyoto Prefecture.

In the Edo times cheap inns lined the streets and there were lodgings for travellers and migrant workers. It was indicative of the way Kyoto has had to regenerate itself after disaster.

About the photographer
After dropping out of Doshisha University, Kai Fusayoshi has spent over 50 years photographing everything about Kyoto. Born in 1949, year of the Ox, he was instrumental in setting up Honryado, the noted alternative cafe and intellectual hub of the 1970s. (It was sadly burnt down a few years ago.)

In 1977 he held his first photo exhibition, and in 1985 he opened a bar in Kiyamachi called Hachimonjiya that became the haunt of academics and artists. He has produced over 40 publications with themes like Alleys of Kyoto, Beautiful Women of Kyoto, Children of Kyoto, and Kyoto Neko Machi Blues. In 2009 he won the Kyoto Art and Culture Award.

(Apparently the present exhibition was part of an autumn Kyotographie event featuring ten artists in fourteen venues. This included the Demachi Masugata Shopping Arcade, in which is located the Delta Kyotographie’s permanent space.)

Hello. I’m honored to be one of the members of Writers in Kyoto. I’m Yuki Yamauchi, a translator of English and Irish literature and part-time event writer for The Japan Times. I have written about events in Kyoto, such as annual performances of Kyoto’s five kagai (geisha districts), Kyoto Experiment and Nuit Blanche Kyoto.

I was born in 1991 in the city of Osaka. In 2013, I graduated from Kansai University in the Department of English Linguistics and Literature with a thesis on The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924) by Irish fantasy writer Lord Dunsany.

My serious interest in Kyoto was aroused twice. About a month before graduation, I came across a stunning passage in Lord Dunsany’s semi-autobiographical novel The Curse of the Wise Woman (1933) — “I have seen in Japanese temples the carvings of little gods with drums and harps and flutes, running and flitting through clouds.” Somehow I could speculate that the writer might have been describing the statues of bodhisattvas inside Hoo-do (Phoenix Hall) of Byodo-in temple in Uji, Kyoto Prefecture. The discovery gave me the first boost in my interest in Kyoto and its Buddhist temples.

The second opportunity came to me in 2016, when I was preparing to translate The Darling of the Gods, a Japan-themed American melodrama in 1902 that Lord Dunsany saw the following year in London. The play, giving prominence to bogus geiko and maiko, piqued my curiosity in the traditional entertainers. For some reason, the interest reached a peak that autumn, which coincided with the 59th edition of Gion Odori. Since then, I have never spent an autumn without seeing the annual event (excluding this year).

In 2018 I self-published a small booklet titled Irish literature in Pre-WWII Kyoto and this year completed a chronology of film and stage director Akira Nobuchi, who had much to do with the inaugural performance of Gion Odori in 1952. I am also the Japanese translator of a booklet by Eric Johnston about the history of media images of Japan, which will be published in 2021.

Hans Brinckmann: Born in 1932 in The Hague, Hans grew up during the German occupation of Holland. Due to the dismal post-war conditions, he had to suppress his hope to become a writer. In order to make a living, he joined a Dutch bank after high school, for a one-year in-house education, in preparation for work in Asia. In 1950 he was assigned to Singapore, and four months later to Japan, where he lived for the next 24 years. In 1959 he married Toyoko Yoshida, a Japanese literature graduate. After reaching the position of area executive, Hans left banking and moved to Buckinghamshire in England, in 1974, to finally devote himself to writing. Economic necessity forced him to return to banking two years later. In 1986 Queen Beatrix made him an Officer in the Order of Orange-Nassau for ‘cultural and professional achievement’, notably in Japan and the US. In 1988, aged 56, he quit banking for good and after living in Amsterdam, London and Sydney, he returned with his wife to Tokyo again in 2003, where Toyoko died in 2007. In 2013 Hans moved to Fukuoka.

His publications so far include The Magatama Doodle, One Man’s Affair with Japan, 1950-2004 (Global Oriental, 2005), and Showa Japan, the Post-War Golden Age and its Troubled Legacy (Tuttle, 2008), both books also published in Japanese, in Hiromi Mizoguchi’s translation. And three books of fiction: Noon Elusive and Other Stories (Trafford, 2005); The Tomb in the Kyoto Hills and Other Stories (Strategic, 2011); and In the Eyes of the Son (Savant Books, 2014), as well as an English-Japanese book of poetry, The Undying Day (Trafford, 2011), with Brinckmann’s English poems shown side-by-side with Hiromi Mizoguchi’s Japanese versions. Also, The Monkey Dance, a brief memoir of the Winter of Starvation in Holland, 1944/1945. All books were very positively reviewed.

His most recent book, published in 2020 by Renaissance Books in the UK, is The Call of Japan: A Continuing Story – from 1950 to the Present Day. It has attracted many laudatory reviews, including by Roger Buckley for the Japan Society; by Stephen Mansfield for The Japan Times; and by Henry Hilton for Japan Today.

For further information, go to his website https://habri.jp.

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For Brinckmann’s ties with Kyoto, and for his presentation on 1950s Kyoto, please click here. For his amazon page, click here.

For a talk Hans gave at the Japan Writers Conference in 2021 about his lifelong ties with Kyoto, please see this youtube video…https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkQccshzyBOV0ILtCoHmBZA

fall wind
takes the unknown road
spreading wings

秋の風 未知の道行く翼伸ばす
aki no kaze, michi no michiyuku, tsubasa nobasu

People often ask me why I came to Japan and what its like to make a home in a different culture; it has always been difficult to tell the “long story.” My life here parallels my personal journey of growth. The key to learning has always been listening, seeing, and feeling with my heart. Certain things in life are universal, others are dependent on place and time. Through my photography and writing I try to capture both worlds.

gingko leaf
floats to the ground
homecoming

銀杏の葉地上に散りて里帰り
ichō no ha, chijō ni chirite, satogaeri

Fall 1979. My first home and furusato in Japan was in Ono, a non-descript village near Shuzan in the Keihoku-cho mountain area of Kyoto-fu. Various introductions and paths led me there and I ended up doing a month long impromptu homestay with an expat organic farmer and his Japanese wife and children. He was a student of Masanobu Fukuoka’s method of Natural Farming as related in the book One Straw Revolution. Reading that book in 1979 while homesteading in the woods of Virginia had kindled my interest in Japan. I came on a vagabond whim without knowing any Japanese language and very little about the culture. Never did I imagine I would still be here 40 years later.

I went from the usual backpacker life to living in Tokyo where my first job was working as Japanese gardener apprentice for three years, learning skills I still use today, both philosophically and physically. It blessedly kept me connected to nature while living in city. I also somehow managed to get a missionary visa for three years to teach meditation and a modern universal version of Sufism. Most likely, I was the first and only person to do so!  

In 1988, I moved to the Boso Peninsula in Chiba Prefecture where I once again took up the country lifestyle, turning it into a profession. As a photographer and writer, nature and the Japanese countryside were my main themes. Over the years my partner, author Tsuruta Shizuka, and I have collaborated on many vegetarian cookbooks and other natural lifestyle books for the Japanese market. During the 1990’s we held many Earth Day events, workshops and charity events, and hosted more than 30 children from Chernobyl in a healthy immune-system building homestay program.

Photography and writing blended seamlessly with my interest in meditation and the spiritual life. Doing meditative slideshow presentations or with my art photographs on the walls at exhibitions, people often asked me which came first: Did my Nature Meditation practice inspire the images, or was it a nature photograph that inspired a peaceful meditation. I suppose, like a Zen koan, there is no correct answer. But I do know that these aspects of my life need to be together.

Seeking technical simplicity, I have been specializing in pinhole photography since 1993. The pinhole technique requires slow exposures allowing me to experience the scene at a more natural speed, drinking in a view for 30 seconds or a couple of minutes, rather than average 1/125 of a second of a regular camera.

Kyoto and its motifs appear in many of my series. “Sacred Japan” in black and white and “Mind Games” in color have many images created in Kyoto. My pinhole short movie “Kyoto – Five Ways” (2018) continues to showcase my attachment to Kyoto, and has received several honors. Official Synopsis: A meditative look at Kyoto, both Buddhist and Shinto traditions, through the mystical eye of a pinhole, as well as the nature and people that bind them together. I hope to screen it in Kyoto when the pandemic cools down.

As an essayist and poet, most of my writing is in the personal narrative style, growing out of my experience in both the inner and outer worlds. This holds true even if I am doing travel-culture pieces or more formal journal articles. Same person: one mind, one heart.

Old Kyoto coffee shop
real green garden
Shriveled parsley on plate
Unshaven tired faced white coated waiter waits.
Golden statue bare breasts
Watching us with a laugh
As morning sun creeps
Onto to white wall
Calling us awake
Into the world we make.

          (from “Kyoto Koffee”, written at Inoda Coffee main shop, 1990)

For me the biggest treat, whether on the city streets, temple or shrine grounds, in the woods or on the beach, is to experience places and people directly, to feel and share each other’s presence and to learn (or “unlearn” as is often the case!) as much as I can.

star shaped
pumpkin flowers
radiant humans

花カボチャ星に輝く人のごと
hana kabocha, hoshi ni kagayaku, hito no goto

—-
Edward Levinson on the Web:

My photo website showcases a variety photographs and includes a movie page, exhibitions and other news, book info and writings.   http://www.edophoto.com

Whisper of the Land (Fine Line Press, 2014), my memoir-like collection of essays based on my first 35 years in Japan, including episodes from Kyoto, has its own dedicated website. http://www.whisperoftheland.com

—-
Short Bio:

Edward Levinson was born in 1953 in Richmond, Virginia, USA. He came to live in Japan in 1979 and where has been active as a fine art and editorial photographer since 1985. He is especially well known for his pinhole photography.

    Edward’s photo book Timescapes Japan received an Award at Prix de la Photography Paris 2007. Tokyo Story, his short pinhole movie, was an Official Selection at six film competitions, winning several awards. Other photo books include: Moments in the Light, Mind Games, Silhouette Stories, Spots of Light – Tokyo (Solo Hill Books 2017, 2019).

    Writing publications include: Whisper of the Land (Fine Line Press 2014), a collection of essays based on his life in Japan which includes many photos; Balloon on Fire (Cyberwit.net 2019, haiku and photos); and two essay books in Japanese (Iwanami Shoten 2011, 2007).

    Edward’s photographs have been regularly exhibited in Japan, the U.S.A., and Europe since 1994 and are in various museum and private collections. He is a member of The Photographic Society of Japan and The Japan P.E.N. Club. He lives on a hilltop on the Boso Peninsula in Kamogawa, Chiba Prefecture where he has a studio and gallery and tends his rather large Natural Garden for fun and inspiration.

Full C.V. at http://www.edophoto.com/profile_en.html

1) Please tell us something about yourself. 

I am a (nearly) 30 year old guy from Bristol, England. Aside from being a writer, I’m a tutor for kids of all ages across a bunch of different subjects, which is a wonderful and fulfilling thing to do in between writing poems in the same three or four cafes. It wasn’t until I was at least 25 when I started writing – that is, aside from classwork and homework in school. But it has been exponential ever since.

2) You live in Bristol, England, so why do you want to join Writers in Kyoto?

I would like to come and spend time in Japan, and Kyoto is such a well of modern and historical/traditional culture that I often dream of being there. In researching writing communities and poetry journals in Japan, I discovered Writers in Kyoto, as well as the Kyoto Journal, and it was obviously such an interesting, valuable community made up of English-language writers that I felt compelled to inquire about joining. I’ve never been part of any writing community or group before, and so it is exciting to be joining this one!

3) You write tanka and haiku. Why did you choose those forms, and which do you prefer?

I have definitely fallen in love with the tanka form! That and the sonnet are my favourite – both words mean “short/little song”. Like most in the English-speaking world, I was taught that Japanese pottery was haiku, and that haiku were three lines, with the syllable pattern of 5-7-5. So I was majorly confused when I discovered haiku that, though they were three lines, were definitely not 5-7-5. I started to study Japanese poetry and got to know haiku, senryu, tanka, choka and others. I had always tended to write very long, verbose, flowery sentences, whether in prose or poetry. I still do. But Japanese poetry was such a different way of writing – in fact, the complete opposite –  and I was drawn to it.

4) Your website is well-designed and original. Can you tell us how it was set up?

ありがとうございます! I had a free WordPress account originally, but I subscribed to their premium plan and played around with the templates and designs they had. I found a set-up that I liked the look of and which worked, and went with it. So really the compliment should go to WordPress… The images I use are sometimes my photos, but generally I find them online, and always put an image credit at the end with a link to where it’s from.

5) On your website you have a tanka about a Cafe Napolita in Japanese and English. Which language was it written in, and how do you find the task of translating yourself?

Well, it is a bit of a hybrid, in terms of which language it was composed in. The same goes for most of my poetry in Japanese so far. I have a tiny vocabulary, so I have to look words up and consult my little grammar book. However, I usually begin in Japanese, often trying out a new bit of grammar or set of words that I have recently learned, and adding in the words I have had to look up when needed – which is when it switches over to being half-composed in English. With all my Japanese poetry, the English translation is not what it would have been like had I just written it in English from the beginning. So I try to make the English somewhere between a translation and a literal, word-for-word accompaniment. It would be interesting to do the reverse, and to translate an English poem I have already written into Japanese… 

6) What is your proudest achievement in writing so far?

The proudest feeling I have ever had with writing was in June 2019, in a cafe on the Bristol harbourside, when I wrote the words: Fire and starlight. With those three words, I finished The Floating Harbour, my first novel/novella. I started it in January of 2016, and so it had been with me for about three and a half years by the time I wrote the final words. It had begun out of my interest in the history of Bristol and its port, but it became a deeply personal journey, even as it kept that harbour history foundation and backdrop. I’ve written much poetry since, and am roughly halfway through another harbour novel/novella – all of which I am proud of. However, that moment still stands out. (The Floating Harbour is available as a free PDF on my WordPress.)

7) How would you like to see your writing develop in future?

Into fluent, creative Japanese! On the English side of things, I never really have a goal of any particular stylistic development, though I do have ideas for things I want to write. I do, however, recognise, in retrospect, stylistic developments. For example, I blame Ulysses by James Joyce for how weird my second harbour novel is becoming. I want to share my writing more and more widely, and to have it be always freely available, even if it makes it into purchasable, published form. I would like to lead poetry workshops with kids as well, in both languages and in both countries, and write with and alongside them. I just want to write, hand it to the world, then go and write some more.

William Altoft’s website can be accessed here.

‘Scent of pine tree. Soaring foliage, stiff and alive with cicadas. In a cemetery a priest in a raspberry robe recites the sutras on a tomb, and it is like the sound of a distant fountain.’*

Almost like an iconographic momentum, these words, from The Japanese Chronicles, accurately reveal the writer’s intimate appeal to different forms of art, including words and pictures. A poet at heart, and with the spirit of the eternal scholar who has seen and learned a lot about the art of life, Nicolas Bouvier is best known as a travel writer ante litteram through his widely acclaimed masterpiece ‘L’usage du monde’ (translated into English as The Way of the World).

In the book Bouvier narrates the voyage of self-discovery which he undertook in the early 1950s with his artist friend Thierry Vernet, starting from his native Geneva passing across the Balkans to Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, then India and Ceylon, where, self-isolated, he got stuck in a physical and emotional void, an episode brilliantly reported in ‘Le poisson-scorpion’.  

Redemption for Bouvier came in the form of a boat ticket to Yokohama, the gateway to Japan, where he would stay for over a year during 1955-1956. It is at this occasion that he encounters Kyoto for the first time, after a journey by foot from Tokyo on the Tokaido, which involved six to seven weeks of walking through country fields, following the vision depicted by Hiroshige:

‘…Nights spent beneath the roofs of little temples in the countryside, hamlets and lonely rice fields of the Ki peninsula: I arrived at the outskirts of the old capital an amazed vagabond, which is how you should approach a city of six hundred temples and thirteen centuries of history.’*

The old capital fascinated him, although he felt it difficult to enter into, at times surreal: ‘This city – one out of ten worldwide that are worth living in – has for me, despite its gentleness, something maleficent. Austere, elegant, but spectral. One would not be too much surprised to wake up and not find it anymore.’’**

In a letter to his friend Thierry Vernet on the July 12, 1956, he writes: ‘I believe that the country can’t give me more without asking me to lose all the rest. There are doors here that I could open only by closing others. I will therefore extract myself and leave, abandoning much fruit on the trees, but the orchard is still to be planted at home, in a fortress of quietness.’***

Nonetheless, Kyoto definitely became a central locus in his inner geography, and it was just a matter of time, in fact a decade later, before Bouvier would return to the city as a short-term resident, this time with his pregnant wife Eliane and his son Thomas: ‘In the interval between these two journeys, I feel I have somehow been absent from my life. I am curious to see which is more changed – this country or me.’*

The family stayed first in a house on Yoshida hill, and later in a building belonging to a subtemple of Daitoku-ji, the address of which translated as ‘Pavilion of the Auspicious Cloud, Temple of Great Virtue, Quarter of the Purple Prairie, North Sector, Kyoto’. Nicolas earned money with journalist articles, and in parallel worked on a book and photography project. His work as an iconographer, researching images in archives, was complementary to his writing work: both served the goal of illuminating the void with ‘the magic lantern’ of poetry, and thereby decoding the universe, a major theme in his work and life.

During his second residence in Kyoto, his fascination for the city remained unaltered, nourished by its elusiveness; Bouvier considered himself an observer at a distance, a role he was perfectly comfortable with:

‘Grey, pearly sky. The giant trees of Yoshida, swelled by the rain, gesticulate with nonchalance. There are really beautiful trees in Kyoto, but most of the time they leave you alone. From time to time, a warm wind chases the dust northwards. Took a taxi and drove along the river Kamo by swarms of school kids with heavy tresses, black uniforms […]. On the river banks, indefinite silhouettes walk dogs…I was struck by a doubt: after all, what if this country didn’t really exist?**

Bouvier was deeply impressed by the artistic and cultural density of the city, although he was aware that the abundance of academic specialists and critics also induced a lack of freshness and innovation: ‘Throw a stone, and you will hit a professor’.* On the other hand, in his everyday life he preferred the company of people he met while wandering around; the hard-working soup-shop tenant, the toothless peasant, the old landlady, the descendant of a ruined samurai family.

Not surprisingly, as a resident of the Daitoku-ji temple complex, Bouvier showed an interest in Zen and he coined his very own definition of it: ‘ Zen: a Buddhist vaccine derived from the Tao of fighting evil – or a secondary effect born from Buddhism’**.

However, Bouvier was not eager to commit to the path of enlightenment: he remained in the position of an observer. For him, Zen was a house where he happened to be a concierge for a couple of months, watching his son grow up and catch butterflies in the garden: ‘ […] he was the most Zen of all; he lived, the others were searching how to live.’*

The final goal of writing and travelling, just as of life itself, is to accomplish the act of fading away. It’s in the absence of self that things come up. This attitude, including a fine sense of humour, inadvertently brought Bouvier to the essence of Zen:

‘I console myself by remembering that in old Chinese Zen it was traditional to choose the gardener, who knew nothing, to succeed the master, rather than one who knew too much. So I still have a chance.’*

Soon after the birth of his second son, and after finishing his book project, Nicolas Bouvier left Kyoto and went back to his native Switzerland. Later, he visited Japan on other occasions, for instance in 1970 during the World Expo in Osaka. The writings from these various journeys are condensed in the volume ‘Chroniques Japonaises’ (an enhanced version of the earlier ‘Japon’, and translated as The Japanese Chronicles). Here he reports historical facts about Japan, alternating them with sometimes melancholic, sometimes witty observations from his daily life. A more comprehensive excerpt from his personal diaries was later published in French under the title ‘Le vide et le plein’. Another volume, ‘Le dehors et le dedans’, contained poems written during his time in Japan, particularly with reference to excursions made to Miyama and Tango-hanto in the north of Kyoto Prefecture.

Asked what he admired most about Japan, he gave an answer that was as brief as it was categorical: women and graveyards. Symbols of life and death, the two extremes allow the unfolding of a miraculous in-between space of inner liberty, on a journey that Nicolas Bouvier embraced in his very own way, preferring to ‘rather be ashes than dust’ in the words of Jack London, one of the influences on his youth.

‘Like water, the world ripples across you and for a while you take on its colours. Then it recedes, and leaves you face to face with the void you carry inside yourself, confronting that central inadequacy of soul which you must learn to rub shoulders with and to combat, and which, paradoxically, may be our surest impetus.’ (from The Way of the World)

*excerpt taken from The Japanese Chronicles (English edition)

**original quotes from ‘Le vide et le plein’, translation from French by R. Weis

***original quote taken from ‘S’arracher, s’attacher’, translation from French by R. Weis

**********************

Selected Bibliography:

-Nicolas Bouvier. The Japanese Chronicles. Eland Publishing, London, 2008. 205 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. S’arracher, s’attacher. Textes choisis et présentés par Doris Jakubec et Marlyse Pietri.
Photographies de Nicolas Bouvier. Collection Voyager avec…Editions Louis
Vuitton, 2013, 267 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. Le vide et le plein, carnets du Japon 1964-1970. Gallimard, 2009, 256 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. Le dehors et le dedans : poèmes. Editions Point, 2007, 128 pp.

-Nadine Laporte. Nicolas Bouvier, passeur pour notre temps. Editions Le Passeur, 2016,
238 pp.

Given that you live in New York, could you explain why you want to belong to Writers in Kyoto?

I have visited Kyoto several times since my son made it his home. In that time, I have found an unusual connection to the city that isn’t explained only by my connection to him. When I visit, besides the joy of being in an exciting and beautiful place, I experience a peacefulness that I believe is innate to the city. Even with the increased tourism, there remains a sense of tranquility. I miss the city when I am not there, and when I am in Kyoto, I feel like I belong.

That famous Japanese paradox, especially noticeable in Kyoto, of celebrating the traditional while indulging in modernity, is such a rich resource for story writers. I have written short stories set in Japan with many more on the back burner.

I intend to make my visits to Kyoto more frequent and lengthier. I am looking to have a connection to the city beyond my son’s very busy life. Being a part of WiK is a wonderful way for me to have my own community.

Your son is apparently engaged with media production in Kyoto. Could you tell us more about that?

I’d love to!  Alessandro is a director, producer, and digital artist. He creates traditional and 3D media for cultural preservation/promotion of Kyoto traditions and artistry for local and international audiences. Some of his more prominent projects include partnerships creating 3D content for Gion Matsuri, Furoshiki Paris, and exhibiting Kyoto culture with Virtual Reality at the Grammy Awards. Most recently he is a member of SKYART, a subsidiary of Kawasaki Kikai. I am very proud of him and the niche he has made for himself as a foreign artist breaking into the Japanese market.

For a long time you wrote secretly but only recently after turning 50 decided to go public. Why was that?

My personal story doesn’t start in the same way as many other writers. I wasn’t writing from an early age and submitting to story contests. I didn’t get degrees in Creative Writing or English. But at the same time, since I felt these credentials were necessary to claim the title of writer, I always remained under-confident. I wrote but I never did anything with my writing and I certainly didn’t want to share with anyone my pipe dream of being a published writer. I suffered from imposter syndrome. Luckily, my confidence grew as I aged, and seven years ago my husband Denis and I (semi-)retired. We moved to the countryside with the intention that I would write seriously and pursue publication. It was a big step for me since I had never taken the small steps that many writers take. At a certain age, I guess I felt that I had the right to assert my dreams and try them out and hopefully not fall on my face.

Some members of WiK might well want to emulate your success. What advice would you have for them?

Besides finding a supportive community, which you all have here with WiK, I would say networking was the most important thing I did to promote my writing. By attending writer conferences and other events I met accomplished authors I admired, I met struggling new writers who helped me understand I wasn’t alone, I found Beta readers and critique partners, and I had the opportunity to pitch to agents and publishers. Becoming a part of the writing community allowed me to believe getting published was just a matter of time and gave me the tools and the confidence to pursue it.

You have won competitions for flash fiction. Could you comment on our Short Shorts competition and how it differs from those you are used to (please see for example this year’s winner, https://writersinkyoto.com/2020/06/wik-competition-2020-first-prize/)?

Your competition is most noticeably different in that you give few guidelines. You accept all types of writing in the same competition. I have found that prose, poetry, essays etc are generally separated into different competition categories. But it is the writer’s ability to capture the essence of Kyoto that you seek, regardless of form. The lack of prompt and strict guidelines must make it hard for the judges, but at the same time it is obvious that you know what you are looking for when you see it. The three winning pieces from this year are so effectively evocative of Kyoto – all beautiful, all winners.

You write in three different genres, novels, short fiction and flash fiction. How do you feel about the differences between them, and which is your favourite?

This is an impossible question. When I’m working on a novel, the characters, the long story arcs and sub-arcs draw me in and keep my mind churning. Once I delve into the world, I have trouble stepping out.

The challenge of writing a flash fiction nugget that imparts everything is intoxicating. Once I start, I can’t stop until I have something viable to refine. Sometimes the story I want to tell can’t work as flash so I turn it into a short story. But when I succeed at a good piece of flash, I am particularly proud of myself. I feel as if I discovered or rather uncovered something.

If I had to choose, I have a love affair with the short story. It’s the perfect storytelling length. I write until I’m done and I find most of my stories run about a similar size

From your experiences with literary matters and publishing in the USA, do you feel optimistic or pessimistic about the future from the viewpoint of authors?

I am feeling optimistic. Smaller presses are popping up everywhere. The internet has made community much easier to sustain, and along with it, support, promotion etc. When I entered the field I wasn’t as optimistic. As far as I could tell there were just a few big publishing houses and no way to gain access. But as I researched, I realized that there are plenty of publication avenues.

I also learned about the power of the internet to reach readers and publication opportunities. For example, I started writing short stories and flash between finishing my first novel and getting up the nerve to find a publisher. I found it easy to locate short fiction competitions and to stay in touch with the community of writers pursuing these competitions.

I am happily discovering that smaller presses are more willing to accept your work as it exists, less interested in fitting you into a tried and true box that they know will sell. It seems that smaller publishers are in it for the long haul with their writers, it’s not as necessary to make a bang right out of the box. Overall, I think there is room for all of us.

********************

Just opposite the eastern entrance of Mibudera, famous for its Mibu kyogen, lies the Kyoto Netsuke Museum. Established in 2007 by an avid collector, it is the only dedicated netsuke museum in Japan and houses more than 5000 pieces, the largest collection of netsuke worldwide.

Netsuke are little carved objects ranging from the size of a walnut to that of a ping-pong ball. Originally purely functional, they were intended to prevent losing things like inro (medicine containers) or yatate (tobacco pouches) that were tied to a man’s obi. A cord was fastened to the pouch, with the netsuke on the other end, and then the pouch was hung onto the obi with the netsuke as a kind of button to prevent it slipping.

It is said that Tokugawa Ieyasu used netsuke when out and about, and over time, with the rise of the merchant class in the Edo period, the little carvings became a fashionable status symbol for men akin to expensive watches today.

Since everybody could make and wear netsuke, they were often used to convey the wearer’s personal tastes. Zodiac symbols and other animals were a favourite, as well as carvings inspired by folklore, ancient tales or Buddhist teachings. Human figures were also popular; some carvings lampooned foreigners, and for the especially daring, nude females were produced.

As mentioned above, the museum currently holds more than 5000 netsuke. About 10% are antiques from the Edo period, but since one of the museum’s missions is to pass on the art to the future, pieces by modern artists have been collected as well. While traditionally ivory and wood were used for netsuke, modern carvers employ all kinds of material, including synthetic resins.

Every month, the Netsuke Museum has a special exhibition that focuses on a specific theme or a particular (contemporary) artist. While the carvings can be enjoyed purely for their artistic merit, those with a greater knowledge of Japanese culture will find allusions to stories, history, or even individual figures, which will make a visit even more satisfying.

Another point of interest: this is not merely the only museum in all of Japan with a focus on netsuke, but it is moreover housed in the only remaining samurai residence left in Kyoto. The building is believed to have been built in 1820 for the Kanzaki family, who were one of the Mibu Goshi warriors who became farmers in the Edo period. It has been lovingly restored and is now a tangible cultural property of Kyoto City. So even if you tire of the netsuke, you can always turn your attention to the building!

For more information, see the website of the Netsuke Museum
https://www.netsukekan.jp/en/

and check out the photos on their instagram
https://www.instagram.com/netsuke_museum/

Sutoku, the 75th emperor of Japan (reigned 1123-1142), is known to those with an interest in Japanese literature primarily for a poem included in a 13th century anthology of poetry, the Hyakunin Isshu (1235 AD); for students of history he is known as a rebel and the catalyst of one of the most significant power shifts in Japanese history; and for those with an interest in fantasy, horror, and magic he is known as an onryō, or yōkai.

Born in 1119, he was named Akihito, although we will refer to him as Sutoku, the name given to him after his death.  According to genealogical records, his father was emperor Toba (1103-56); however, in the next century a story surfaced that not Toba but the retired emperor Shirakawa was Sutoku’s father.  His mother, Fujiwara Tamako (Shōshi), was the daughter of Fujiwara Kinzane. As a child she was adopted by Toba’s grandfather, Shirakawa, and he eventually had her marry Toba. She is said to have been exceedingly beautiful, promiscuous, and very intelligent. After becoming empress she was given the name Taikenmon’in. 

Sutoku was enthroned in 1123, when he was four, and married a few years later. His empress, Kiyoko (1122-1182), was also called Kōkamon’in. She was the daughter of Fujiwara no Tadamichi (1197-64) who served as Regent or Chancellor during the majority of Sutoku’s life. She became consort in 1129, and empress in 1130. She was eight, he was eleven. The emperor and empress got along well but had no children.  

Meanwhile, Toba’s attention shifted from Taikenmon’in to Fujiwara Nariko (1117-1160), who became his new favorite and received the name Bifukumon’in. In 1139 she had a boy, who was given to Kiyoko to raise. However, Sutoku wanted his own child. Whether or not it is because in 1139 he founded a temple, Jōshō-ji, (which was located where Kyoto’s Exhibition and Trade Center in Okazaki Park stands today) is unknown, but the next year Sutoku got the child he hoped would be his heir when his concubine Hyōenosuke no Tsubone gave birth to a boy. 

In 1141, Sutoku was forced to abdicate, and the baby which Toba and Bifukumon’in had given to Sutoku’s wife to raise was enthroned. He was later given the name Konoe. Taikenmon’in, seeing that her influence on Toba had all but disappeared, became a nun and moved to Hōkongō-in, where she died in 1145. The temple is known today for the beauty of its garden and its flowers (http://houkongouin.com).  

As a retired emperor, Sutoku had his own palace. Although it no longer exists, the well that was on the palace grounds remains, on Nishi no Toin, just down from Sanjo. Called “yanagi no mizu,” (water of the willow), the well’s water has been used over the centuries by many people, including Sen no Rikyu. A dyeing company has the land now, and when I visited the shop I was invited in and given a glass of the well water – it was delicious.  (Banba Senkogyo, 77 Ryusuicho, Nakagyo-ku, Kyoto http://www.black-silk.com/contents/about/yanagi/ )

Sutoku had a great interest in poetry. In the early 1140’s he gave an assignment to a select group of poets for each to submit a one hundred poem sequence. Sutoku himself participated, and the poem selected for the Hyakunin Isshu was among the poems in his sequence. There were thirteen participants, among whom were Fujiwara Akisue and his son Akisuke (leaders of the Rokujo group of poets), Fujiwara Shunzei (who was using the name Akihiro), and two of Taikenmon’in’s Ladies in Waiting. Completed in 1150, the sequence was named for the year period in which it was finished, Kyūan, and called the Kyūan Rokunen Hyakushu, Hundred Poem Sequences of the Sixth year of Kyūan.

The next year, Sutoku commanded Akisuke to compile an imperial anthology of poetry. Completed in about 1151, it was given the title Shikawakashū. The anthology is interesting because it comes at the end of the predominance of the Kokinshū style and sets the stage for the beginning of a new style that culminates in that of the Shinkokinshū. Shunzei, who was young and relatively unknown at this time, was later to edit an imperial anthology himself, the Senzaiwakashū, which is known for its poems with yūgen, depth and mystery. He was also to head the Mukohidari poetry group, which was to eclipse all others. The famous poet priest Saigyo who knew Toba, Taikenmon’in, Shunzei, Sutoku, and the others, had one of his poems included in the Shikawakashū, although as an anonymous poem.

The emperor Konoe died in 1155. It was rumored that Sutoku was somehow involved in the young emperor’s illness, and even suggestions that he had used curses and evil magic to hasten the lad’s death.  Sutoku (and apparently many others) believed that Sutoku’s own son would be enthroned next, but Toba chose Sutoku’s younger brother, the man known in history as Goshirakawa.

Sutoku was enraged. When Toba became sick, and his condition worsened, Sutoku began plotting. As Toba’s death approached, Sutoku moved to the Tanakaden in the Toba Palace to be close to his father.

Built by the Emperor Shirakawa just south of the capital near what was then the juncture of the Kamo and Katsura Rivers, the Toba Palace must have been an opulent array of magnificent buildings and gardens. The following photograph, taken of an illustration at the onsite display, shows what the area may have looked like.

Walking a bit south and then west from Kintetsu Takeda station, one arrives at Anrakujū-in, which is the location of emperor Toba’s tomb. That of the emperor Konoe is close by, as is the emperor Shirakawa’s. Walking on westward, through the Jonan-gu shrine, and crossing the highway, one comes to the Toba Palace Park. Historical markers roughly between Anrakujū-in, the park, and the Kyoto Minami IC of the Expressway, indicate where other parts of the Toba Palace area were.  One of them, a bit northwest of Shrirakawa’s tomb, is the Tanakaden, the place where the retired emperor Toba died.

After Toba’s passing, in July of 1156, Sutoku mounted a rebellion with the intention of overthrowing Goshirakawa and installing his own son as emperor. The event is known as the Hogen Rebellion, or Hogen Insurrection (to use Sansom’s translation of Hogen no Ran). It was an event of enormous importance in Japanese history. The story is told in the Hogen Monogatari (translated most recently by Royall Tyler in Before HEIKE and After: HOGEN, HEIJI, JOKYUKI. 2016). 

Just a few days after Toba’s death, to everyone’s surprise Sutoku left the Tanadaken and moved to the Shirakawa Kitaden, a palatial area which had been built by Shirakawa. (Today, a stele at the northwest corner of the Kyoto University Kumano Dormitory on Marutamachi marks the site of the Shirakawa Kitaden.)  As he plotted with his advisors, Sutoku put out the call for his supporters to gather with their troops. At the same time Goshirakawa’s advisers realized what was happening and made their own plans. Among Goshirakawa’s supporters were Fujiwara no Tadamichi (the father of Sutoku’s wife Kiyoko), Taira no Kiyomori, and Minamoto no Yoshitomo. Afraid that waiting would mean defeat, Goshirakawa agreed to attack before dawn. 

The fighting was fierce, but Sutoku’s men held firm. Minamoto no Yoshitomo, worried that with time passing more of Sutoku’s men might arrive to support him, sent a message from the front line to Goshirakawa about what to do, and was ordered to set fire to the mansion housing Sutoku and his advisors.  Caught unawares, Sutoku and his forces panicked and scattered in disarray. Together with a few of his closest retainers, Sutoku escaped up into Mt. Nyoi, on past the part of the mountain now commonly referred to as Daimonji-yama, and spent a miserable night there before he decided to give up and become a priest.  The next day he managed to get to Ninna-ji (just west of Ryōan-ji) where his (and Goshirakawa’s) brother was a priest. There he took priestly vows and shaved his head.  It was quickly decided that Sutoku would be sent into exile.

Sutoku was taken back south of the capital and put on a boat which would take him to exile in today’s Sakaide, in Kagawa prefecture. His son took priestly vows at Ninna-ji, and may have stayed there, or may have gone with his father.  The boy’s mother, Hyōenosuke no Tsubone, went with Sutoku.  Kiyoko stayed behind, and became a nun. Many of Sutoku’s supporters were executed.

While in exile, Sutoku repeatedly pleaded with the imperial court to be allowed to return to the capital.  He copied sutras and had them sent to Goshirakawa to show his sincerity, but the emperor rejected them, and all of Sutoku’s pleas.  There were rumors that Sutoku was using his own blood to write with, instead of black ink. There were fears that the sutras he copied contained some kind of special power, and curses, and were part of a plot to regain the throne.  Strange disasters in the capital, especially involving those who had opposed him were blamed on Sutoku, with his evil magic, such as the deaths of Bifukumon’in in 1160, and Fujiwara no Tadamichi in 1164, six months before Sutoku’s own death.

Sutoku died in 1164 and is buried on Mt. Shiramine, in Kagawa (https://www.kunaicho.go.jp/ryobo/guide/075/index.html), next to Shiramine-dera, one of the 88 Shikoku pilgrimage temples. Although he never returned physically to the capital, some said that his revengeful spirit did, and rumors continued that Sutoku was responsible for deaths and natural disasters that followed.  It said he had become an onryō (wrathful spirit), tengu, or yōkai. 

After Sutoku died, a woman who had been one of his favorites, Awa o Naishi (also pronounced Awa no Naiji), built a memorial to him in Kyoto where she and others prayed that his soul might find peace. Called the Sutoku Tenno Gobyō, it is located in the Gion area, just behind the Kaburenjo (https://ja.kyoto.travel/kiyomori/detail/022.html).  Awa no Naishi had lived not far away, near the site of what is now the Yasui Konpira-gu shrine, and today Sutoku is one of three kami worshipped there. (http://www.yasui-konpiragu.or.jp/en/about See also the recent post in Green Shinto, http://www.greenshinto.com/wp/2020/05/26/animism-2-syncretic-yasui/ )

Later, after the fall of the Taira in 1185, Awa no Naishi moved to Jakkō-in, in Ohara, where she was lady in waiting to Taira no Tokiko, better known as Kenreimon’in, the daughter of the great Taira leader, Taira no Kiyomori. Kenreimon’in had been empress of the emperor Takakura, and she was the mother of the child emperor Antoku, who was drowned at Dan no Ura in the defeat of the Taira, in 1185. (http://www.jakkoin.jp/en/)  In the Tale of the Heike, there is a moving account of the retired emperor Goshirakawa going to Jakkō-in to visit her, and being surprised to see Awa no Naishi there as well.  They all cry as they remember the wars set in motion by Sutoku’s futile insurrection. The story is also in the Noh play Ohara goko.

The Hogen Rebellion of 1156 saw the rise of Taira no Kiyomori and Minamoto no Yoshitomo, who had supported Goshirakawa. In 1159, the Taira and Minamoto clans turned on each other in the Heiji Rebellion.  The Taira won with Kiyomori at their head, but in 1180 the Genpei wars started, again between the Taira and the Minamoto, and this time the Taira were crushed and the victorious Minamoto, under Minamoto no Yoritomo, took control, and set up the Shogunate in Kamakura. Sutoku’s insurrection also resulted in the revival of the death penalty, and of the exile of an emperor; it had been centuries since either penalty had been imposed.

In 1177 it was decided that the name Sutoku would be used to refer to the man who had been the 75^th emperor of Japan. In 1184, after a number of incidents attributed to Sutoku’s revengeful rage, the emperor Goshirakawa tried to calm and pacify the spirit of his deceased older brother. He held memorial services at Jōshō-ji, the temple Sutoku had founded in 1139, and at the Awata-gu, a shrine Goshirakawa had built at the site of the Shirakawa Kitaden, which had been the center of the fighting in the Hogen Insurrection. The Awata-gu is gone, having been destroyed by war in the fifteenth century, but a statue thought to have been there, the Sutoku Jizo (also referred to as the Hitokui Jizo – ‘people-eating Jizo’), can be seen at Sekizen-in (which is a few minutes walk east from Higashi-oji, on Kasugakita-dori, one block north of Marutamachi).  A sign in front of the statue says “Do not take pictures of it.”

Sutoku’s place among the ranks of onryō  (wrathful spirits) and yōkai (monsters) was secured in the 18th century with Ueda Akinari’s “Shiramine,” the first story in his Ugetsu Monogatari, translated by Anthony Chambers (Columbia, 2007) as Tales of Moonlight and Rain. “Shiramine” is the tale of a visit by the famous poet-monk Saigyo to pray at the mausoleum of Sutoku on Mt. Shiramine. In the story, Sutoku’s spirit appears and converses with Saigyo. Sutoku, looking dreadful, haggard, ragged, long straggly hair, gangly, and with a bellowing, angry, revengeful and wrathful voice, boasts about the death and destruction he has caused with his curses, and promises more carnage to come.  Saigyo encourages him to reform, and says he will keep praying for him.

In 1868, as the Meiji period began, Sutoku’s spirit was finally allowed to return to Kyoto and a shrine was built for his spirit and that of another exiled emperor, Junnin (8^th century). The shrine, called Shiramine-gu (after Sutoku’s mausoleum in Kagawa prefecture) is on Imadegawa, just east of Horikawa (http://shiraminejingu.or.jp/english/. 

The poem Shunzei’s son Teika selected for the Hyakunin Isshu, which Sutoku had written for the Kyūan Hundred Poem Sequences several years before his revolt and exile, reads like the passionate call of a man for a dream which was never to come true.

瀬をはやみ                     se wo hayami
岩にせかるる                 iwa ni sekaruru
滝川の                              takigawa no
われても末に                warete mo sue ni
逢はむとぞ思ふ            awan to zo omou

The rapids so fast
that though the large rocks blocking
the waterfall river 
split the flow, it will join again —
I so want to be with you again!

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For an interview with Nick Teele, see here. For his account of reviving a Kyoto Pilgrimage of 33 Temples, see here.

About Rona Conti

Rona Conti is a painter and calligrapher whose artwork is represented in numerous public, private and corporate collections and museums in the United States and internationally. English editor for Beyond Calligraphy, in 1999, she began studying Japanese calligraphy with (Mieko) Kobayashi sensei of Gunma from whom she received her pen name (魂手恵奈). Invited to exhibit calligraphy at the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Art with the International Association of Calligraphers for the last five years, she received the “Work of Excellence” Prize three times. She was invited to demonstrate Japanese Calligraphy at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts in 2009. Her handmade paper artwork is produced in New York City at Dieu Donne Papermill.

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Dreaming Japan eons before I ever set foot on its soil, from the time I was in college studying ceramics and painting I was mesmerized by Japanese scrolls, the essential black and white mysteriously beautiful forms brushed upon tactile surfaces, then mounted and hung in soft-lit rooms of museums. Envisioning Japan from books and objects, I dreamed of studying calligraphy in its proper setting.

The resumes of Japanese Calligraphy Masters usually start with the young age at which they began their studies, often with a relative. As a Western counterpart, I can only point to my parallel path, my taking up of a different kind of brush. The desired image of my five-year old self, painted with oils on an un-stretched canvas, somehow miraculously survived. It was painted at the studio of my aunt, Helen Jacobson, a fine painter and a beautiful woman. She was blond haired and blue-eyed, always elegantly dressed, I was brown and brown. Vividly remembering painting in her cavernous space where my imagination soared, I decided at that moment my future path. Wishing to be an artist ballerina when I “grew up”, the incongruity of painting in a tutu never occurred to me.

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Love and youth has a way of re-shaping dreams. Had I not found the former and not been the latter, I likely would have found a way to adventure to Japan at that time. Instead, I received a letter from Japan from my friend and advisor at Antioch College, Karen Shirley, a potter three years my senior, my “senpai”. “Be sure to come to Mashiko and see Japan before all of the wood burning climbing kilns are no longer allowed because of pollution.” It was 1964. I had graduated that May and was in Boston. I filed her advice away for later and set about pursuing my passion which began with brushes.
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Over the years, growing as an artist, the thought of the now rather distant past dream never left. While reveling in color and paint and later exploring work using handmade paper pulps, the vision of Japan continued to come front and center. Dividing the space, placement, the glory of the simplicity of Japanese calligraphy, eliminating the unnecessary and getting to the essence of the black and the white and in between seemed attainable at last. Seeking adventure, finding a way, I secured a job teaching English, sold my car, rented my apartment, told my two creative projects, now 28 and 23, to come and visit, and I departed for Japan. It was summer, 1998.

While I spoke no Japanese, while it took quite a lot of work to convince my bosses that I could teach and study, thanks to an adult student, I found a calligraphy Master willing to teach me. It was March of 1999, I had only three months left on my work visa.

The most precious moment held forever in memory was of holding a brush for the first time in Kobayashi Sensei’s studio, the long journey only just begun. It was the first, but definitely not the last time in Japan that quiet tears of joy would travel slowly down my cheeks. I was home.

In his autobiography, In My Own Way(1972), Alan Watts writes of having a curious affinity with Japan even in his childhood. His early impressions were shaped by Lafcadio Hearn through Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan (1894), and more substantially through Gleanings in Buddha-Fields (1897).

The first marriage of Watts to the daughter of Ruth Fuller Sasaki gave him an important link to Zen in which he took a strong philosophical interest, though his autobiography makes clear he was never a follower or practitioner. In all, he visited Japan four times and, unsurprisingly, was drawn to Kyoto as the heart of the country’s traditional and religious culture.

Interestingly Watts reserves his time in Kyoto for the very last chapter of his book, entitled ‘The Sound of Rain’. It’s indicative of how special the city was for him. Like Truman Capote, he notes the cheerful sound of the ever-present streams running through and under the city.

(The following four paragraphs are taken from pages 340-342 in the 2001 edition of his autobiography, published by the New World Library.)

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But it was not only for Zen that I went immediately to Kyoto when I first arrived in Japan. I wanted to feel the everyday life of a city which had been soaked in Buddhism for so many centuries, not analyze it like a psychologist, categorize it like an anthropologist, or study its splendid monuments like an antiquarian. I went to gape like a yokel and simply absorb its atmosphere. We went to the district of Higashi-yama, or Eastern Hills, where buildings on narrow, winding streets overlook the rest of the city, which – unusually for Japan – are laid out in the flat grid pattern of an American city in a geographical setting which slightly resembles Los Angeles. Hills, even mountains, lie to the east, north, and west, while the south is open to Osaka, Kobe, and the sea. As in Los Angeles, the best land is in the foothills, where spring-water flows into garden pools through bamboo pipes, and though there are here many quiet and sumptuous private homes, much of the area has been occupied by temples and monasteries. Originally it belonged to feudal brigands, who were scared of the Zen priests because the priests weren’t scared of them, became pious Buddhists, and made generous offerings of land.

When one goes to a city like this it is all very well to make plans to see the famous sights, but there should be plenty of time to follow one’s nose, for it is through aimless wandering that the best things are found. We stayed in the ryokan, Japanese style inn, on the hill above the Miyako Hotel. To the north-west the sweeping grey-tiled roofs of the Nanzenji Zen temples float above dense clusters of pines, and to the southeast stands the huge cathedral of Chion-in, and all about are wayward cobbled lanes enclosed by roofed walls with covered gates, giving entrance to courtyards and gardens, and interspersed with small shops and restaurants. It was April and under such a gate we took refuge from a sudden shower. The door opened a few inches, and out came a hand proffering an umbrella, and as soon as we took it the hand was withdrawn and the gate closed. The umbrella was a kasa made of oiled paper– a wide circle spread out like a small roof supported on a cone of thin bamboo struts, almost as cozy as carrying your own house with you in a quiet, heavy rain. We returned it the next day.

Gutters were bubbling, and water was spilling from bronze, dragon-mouthed gargoyles at roof corners. Everywhere the soft clattering of wooden sandals like small benches with legs on the soles to keep your feet above water. courtyards with glistening evergreen bushes and floating branches of bright green maple. The smell of Japanese cooking – soy sauce and hot saké – mixed with damp earth and the faintest suggestion, pleasant in that small a dosage, of the benjo or toilet which, because of the diet, smells quite different from ours. Because I need a dictionary to read most Chinese characters the signs on shops are just complex abstract designs, or it seems to me that ‘Mr Matsuyama’s Cafeteria’ is the ‘Pine Mountain Harmonious House.’ going deeper in the city we found the long, busy lane of Teramachi, or Temple Street, to nose about in the higgledy-piggedly of tiny shops that sell utensils for tea ceremony, incense, ink, writing brushes, old Chinese books, fan, Buddhist bondieuserie, and huge mushrooms that should be wearing pants– the whole lane buzzing and rattling with motorcycles and diminutive Toyota taxis.

With sense of time gone awry from travel by jet, I wake at four in the morning to hear what is, for me, the most magical single sound that man has made. It comes from a bronze bell some eight feet high and five feet in diameter, struck by a horizontal swinging tree-trunk, and hung close to the ground, actually more like a gong than a bell. it doesn’t clang out through the sky like a church bell but booms along the ground with a note at once deep and sweet and vaguely sad, as if very very old. It sounds once and, when the hum has died away, again… and several times more. From the direction, I realize that this is the bell of the Nanzenji Zen monastery, signifying that, so long before sunrise, some twenty young men, skin-headed and black-robed, have begun to sit perfectly still in a quiet dark hall. When the bell finishes they will begin to intone, on a single note, the Shingyo, or Heart Sutra, which sums up everything that Buddhism has to say – ‘What is form that is emptiness, what is emptiness that is form.’ Actually the language is the Japanese way of pronouncing medieval Chinese, which hardly anyone understands, and the words are chanted for their sound rather than their meaning.

In ‘Travel Sketches of Lafcadio Hearn’, Hiromi Kawashima writes of Loti’s influence on his successor. Hearn was a big admirer of Loti and arrived in Japan just three years after the semi-autobiographical Madame Chrysantheme came out. As well as fiction, the French author also wrote travelogues which include his impressions of Kyoto (extracted below).

Kawashima’s study of Hearn raises the intriguing question of the extent to which a writer should embellish his subject-matter for the entertainment of the reader. Though Hearn himself was unashamedly romantic in his writings about Japan, he became critical of Loti’s excesses and in his final work Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation he sought greater realism and detachment.

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Kawashima writes:

‘Kioto: La Ville Sainte’ [Kyoto: The Sacred Town] is an interesting account of the old city. Loti entered Kyoto by train, and narrates his experience at the hotel, his visit to Yasaka, Kiyomizu, the palace of Taiko-sama, Daibutsuden, Kitano-tenjin, and Sanjusangendo. For his English readers Hearn selected three of the topics. Under the title of ‘In the Palace of Taiko-sama’ he translated Loti’s experience of walking through mysterious chambers. In ‘The Big Bell’ a good natured Japanese family from the country who laughed with Loti are sketched, and Loti says:

What a country this Japan, –  where everything is oddity, and contrast!

The third piece, ‘A Nightmare in Daylight’ relates a legion of gods in the gloom of Sanjusangendo. Here Loti exhibits his peculiar ability in description:

In the midst, in the place of honour, – upon the open flower of a golden lotos, vast as the base of a tower, – sits throned a colossal Buddha of gold, – before a golden nimbus deployed behind him like the outspread tail of a monstrous peacock.  He is surrounded, guarded, by a score of nightmare-shapes, – something in likeness of human form, exaggeratedly huge, – and seeming to resemble at once both demons and corpses. When one enters through the central door, which is low and sly-looking, one recoils at the sight of these shapes of an evil dream, almost close to one.

We notice that Loti has his favourite vocabulary in dealing with Japan; such as ‘little’, ‘odd’, ‘mysterious’, and ‘strange’. The parts which Hearn chose are very typical of Loti, because Hearn was charmed with his exotic and romantic style. Loti was good at taking in foreign scenes intuitively, and showing them in his inimitable mysterious mood. Hearn tried to convey the deep impression he got from his works, by faithfully translating them. In this sense Hearn’s translations from Loti’s ‘Kioto’ represent the first step towards the travel sketches of Japan by Hearn himself.

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Later in his paper, Kawashima adds the following: While Loti remained a traveller to the last, Hearn decided to stay much longer in the country. In 1892 he visited Kyoto and wrote to [his friend] Mason:

… I can’t say that I liked Kyoto as much as I expected.  First of all, I was tremendously disappointed by my inability to discover what Loti described. He described only his own sensations: exquisite, weird, or wonderful. Loti’s ‘Kioto: La Ville Sainte’ has no existence. I saw the Sanjusangendo, for example: I saw nothing of Loti’s – only recognised what had evoked the wonderful goblinry of his imagination.

Hearn realised then that Loti’s Kyoto has been the reflection of his sentiments and taste, rather than what Kyoto really was. Visiting Kyoto himself, Hearn found that what had attracted hims was just the image of foreign lands reflected on Loti’s mind. Accordingly I regard this letter as the diverging point of the two writers. Once he failed to see the objects the way Loti had showed him to see them, his admiration began to cool down. New works by Loti seemed to him less fascinating.