Three-Cornered World Read online

  Sōseki Natsume (1867-1916) is widely considered the foremost novelist of the Meiji period (1868-1914). After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University in 1893, Sōseki taught high school before spending two years in England on a Japanese government scholarship. He returned to lecture in English literature at the university. Numerous nervous disorders forced him to give up teaching in 1908 and he became a full-time writer for the Asahi newspaper. In addition to fourteen novels, Soseki wrote haiku, poems in the Chinese style, academic papers on literary theory, essays, autobiographical sketches and fairy tales.

  Alan Turney, although his career as a translator was brief, Alan Turney remains one of the most celebrated translators of the works of Soseki Natsume, recognized for his insight into the qualities that made Sōseki's work unique and the ability to faithfully produce that uniqueness in clear English translations. His translated works include The Three-Corned World, Botchan, and Ichiya. In addition to translating, he also taught in Japan for many years.

  UNESCO COLLECTION OF REPRESENTATIVE WORKS JAPANESE SERIES

  This book has been accepted in the Japanese Series of the Translations Collections of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).

  Originally published in Japanese as Kusa Makura Published by Tuttle Publishing an imprint of Periplus Editions (HK) Ltd., with editorial offices at 364 Innovation Drive, North Clarendon, Vermont 05759 USA and 61 Tai Seng Avenue, #02-12, Singapore 534167 by special arrangement with Peter Owen Limited, London

  © English Translation by Alan Turney and Peter Owen 1965

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.

  ISBN 978-1-4629-0349-8 (ebook)

  First Tuttle edition, 1968

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  "An artist is a person who lives in the

  triangle which remains after the angle which

  we may call common sense has been

  removed from this four-cornered world."

  SŌSEKI

  INTRODUCTION

  I

  Natsume Kinnosuke, better known by his pen-name of Sōseki, was born in Tokyo in 1867, one year before the Meiji Restoration which marked the beginning of the influx of Western thought and literature into Japan. The early part of his education was concerned largely with the Chinese classics. This set him apart from many of the other writers of the period who went to mission schools, and thus came under a strong Western influence.

  In 1884 he went to the Yoshimon College intending to become an architect. Later, however, he changed his mind and entered the department of literature of Tokyo Imperial University from which he graduated in 1892. While at university, he formed a close friendship with Masaoka Shiki who was the greatest name in the revival of Haiku (Hokku) poetry at that period. This friendship undoubtedly exercised a profound influence on his writing, for although he is principally famous as a novelist, the Haiku with which he often intersperses his prose are a mark of the essentially Japanese quality of his work, and are of great literary merit. After finishing a post-graduate course in 1895, Sōseki became a middle school teacher, and then went on to teach at high school.

  In 1896 he was married, and four years later was sent to London by the Japanese Ministry of Education to study English literature. The experience he gained here, added to his knowledge of the Chinese classics, gave him a breadth of background unique among his contemporaries. Moreover, it enabled him to form a balanced view of the comparative merits of Western and Oriental literature, and saved him from the blind hero-worship of all things foreign that was detrimental to the work of many Japanese writers of the time.

  After three years in England, Sdseki returned to Japan and was appointed lecturer in English literature in Tokyo Imperial University. It was about this time that his London Letters, published in a magazine edited by Masaoka, first began to attract attention. As yet, however, he had received no real acclaim as a writer. In 190S he published his first novel Wagahai wa Neko de aru (I am a Cat), and immediately rose to fame. During the next ten years, there followed a whole stream of works both long and short, including Botchan, Kusa Makura and Kokoro (The Heart of Things). With the publication of each new work, his position as the foremost literary figure in Japan became more and more firmly established. Like Tennyson during the Victorian era in England, he became the acknowledged voice of the age. Although unlike Tennyson' who was in essential agreement with his fellow Victorians, Sdseki more often than not indulged in ruthless criticism of his contemporary society. It is, therefore, all the more remarkable that he became so popular in his own lifetime, considering that his was the role of critic, and not of one who sang the praises of the newly emerging 'modern' (meaning Westernised) age. The probable reason for his popularity was that it was realised that his criticisms were constructive, and based upon a patriotic desire not to see Japan sacrifice her great and long tradition in favour of the indiscriminate adoption of Western culture.

  Soon after Sdseki wrote I am a Cat, he resigned from the university for financial reasons, and took a job as literary editor of the Asahi newspaper. In 1910 he contracted ulceration of the stomach, and it was this that caused his premature death at the age of 49 in 1916.

  II

  With the coming of the Meiji era, a large amount of Western literature found its way into Japan. Not only were many works translated, but many authors adopted Western brands of philosophy, and in general followed die European concepts of literature. The schools of the novel which existed in Europe began to appear in Japan too.

  Sōseki saw the dangers of such undiscerning copying, and realised that no worthwhile works would be produced as long as Japanese writers merely tried to repeat formulae that were entirely alien to them. He himself succeeded in creating a happy blend between the new imported ideas and the traditions of Japanese literature. Thus he, more than any other writer, provides a bridge between Japanese classical and present-day literature. It has been said that Sōseki was anti-Western, but I think it is truer to say that he was pro-Japanese in an age when it was fashionable to revere everything foreign. It is the very Japanese quality of his work that has made him a lasting favourite among his fellow countrymen.

  Sōseki's achievement in becoming and remaining the greatest figure in modern Japanese literature appears all the more impressive when one realises that only one other author, Mori Ogai, took an independant stand, and that every other major writer belonged to some school or another. Some say that Sōseki created his own school, but while undoubtedly he eventually gained a large following in the literary world, the whole of his writing was aimed at destroying schools and advocating a greater freedom of approach.

  III

  Kusa Makura literally means The Grass Pillow, and is the standard phrase used in Japanese poetry to signify a journey. Since a literal translation of this title would give none of the
connotations of the original to English readers, I thought it better to take a phrase from the body of the text which I believe expresses the point of the book.

  In this, more than in any of his other more conventional novels, Sōseki shows his opposition to the Realist, Naturalist and Romantic schools that were flourishing around him. Sōseki has been accused of taking a God-like view of humanity because he considers himself superior to his fellow men. This, however, is not so. There is, of course, a great deal in the world to which he does consider himself superior. This is what he terms the vulgar or common world, and which he believes is unworthy of his attention as an artist. He feels that it is the artist's job to portray beauty, and that he must transcend the vulgar in order to do so. When, however, he refers to rising above human relationships and emotions, it is not that he despises them, but that he feels he must stand back and view them objectively in order to see them in their proper perspective.

  Sōseki's apparent desire to get away from the world and immerse himself in Nature may at first sight seem Words-worthian. There is, however, a vast difference between Wordsworth's and S5seki's view of Nature. To Wordsworth, Nature was a reflection of God the creator. To Sdseki, it was not the reflection of anything, but was one facet of essential beauty.

  Sōseki's method of describing both Nature and his other physical surroundings is that of the painter. Every scene he presents is in perfect proportion, as though he were reproducing it on canvas. He also makes detailed allusion to colours, shapes and textures. Indeed, so graphic is his description, that a certain Japanese artist, having read Kusa Makura, actually painted the scenes which appear in it. One's first impression of Kusa Makura is that it is a series of essays illustrated by the author with verbal sketches. This, however, is a superficial view, for in fact just the opposite is true. It is the illustrations that come first, and the so-called essay passages which follow from them. When Heinrich Heine wrote his Harze Reise, he was merely using his journey as a vehicle for conveying his ideas on life. With Sōseki, however, what he sees about him is of primary importance, and it is some object in his surroundings which provides the stimulus for one of his philosophical flights.

  From Kusa Makura we are able to get a clearer insight into the mind of the author than from any of his other novels. There is no need to wonder whether such-and-such a character is meant to represent Sōseki or not, for here we have his thoughts and opinions set out plainly for all to see. If it is true that one can come to know a people through its literature, then I believe that Kusa Makura tells us more about the Japanese than any other book written since the beginning of the Meiji era.

  Alan Turney

  Tokyo, August 1964

  Going up a mountain track, I fell to thinking.

  Approach everything rationally, and you become harsh. Pole along in the stream of emotions, and you will be swept away by the current. Give free rein to your desires, and you become uncomfortably confined. It is not a very agreeable place to live, this world of ours.

  When the unpleasantness increases, you want to draw yourself up to some place where life is easier. It is just at the point when you first realise that life will be no more agreeable no matter what heights you may attain, that a poem may be given birth, or a picture created.

  The creation of this world is the work of neither god nor devil, but of the ordinary people around us; those who live opposite, and those next door, drifting here and there about their daily business. You may think this world created by ordinary people a horrible place in which to live, but where else is there? Even if there is somewhere else to go, it can only be a 'non-human' realm, and who knows but that such a world may not be even more hateful than this?

  There is no escape from this world. If, therefore, you find life hard, there is nothing to be done but settle yourself as comfortably as you can during the unpleasant times, although you may only succeed in this for short periods, and thus make life's brief span bearable. It is here that the vocation of the artist comes into being, and here that the painter receives his divine commission. Thank heaven for all those who in devious ways by their art, bring tranquillity to the world, and enrich men's hearts.

  Strip off from the world all those cares and worries which make it an unpleasant place in which to live, and picture before you instead a world of graciousness. You now have music, a painting, or poetry, or sculpture. I would go farther, and say that it is not even necessary to make this vision a reality. Merely conjure up the image before your eyes, and poetry will burst into life and songs pour forth. Before even committing your thoughts to paper, you will feel the crystal tinkling, as of a tiny bell, well up within you; and the whole range of colours will of their own accord, and in all their brilliance, imprint themselves on your mind's eye, though your canvas stands on its easel, as yet untouched by the brush. It is enough that you are able to take this view of life, and see this decadent, sullied and vulgar world purified and beautiful in the camera of your innermost soul. Even the poet whose thoughts have never found expression in a single verse, or the painter who possesses no colours, and has never painted so much as a single square foot of canvas, can obtain salvation, and be delivered from earthly desires and passions. They can enter at will a world of undefiled purity, and throwing off the yoke of avarice and self interest, are able to build up a peerless and unequalled universe. Thus in all this, they are happier than the rich and famous; than any lord or prince that ever lived; happier indeed than all those on whom this vulgar world lavishes her affections.

  After twenty years of life I realised that this is a world worth living in. At twenty five I saw that, just as light and darkness are but opposite sides of the same thing, so wherever the sunlight falls it must of necessity cast a shadow. Today, at thirty my thoughts are these : In the depths of joy dwells sorrow, and the greater the happiness the greater the pain. Try to tear joy and sorrow apart, and you lose your hold on life. Try to cast them to one side, and the world crumbles. Money is important, but be that as it may, when it accumulates does it not become a worry which attacks you even in sleep? Love is a delight; yet should the delights of love, piling one upon another, begin to bear down on you, then you will yearn for those days long ago before you knew them. It is the shoulders of the state, the Cabinet, which are supporting the burden for the millions, its feet; and the onus of government weighs heavily upon them. Refrain from eating something particularly tasty, and you will feel you have missed something. Eat just a little, and you will leave the table with your appetite un-appeased. Gorge yourself, and later you will feel uncomfortable. . . .

  It was just as my meandering thoughts reached this point, that my right foot came down suddenly on the edge of a loose angular rock, and I slipped. To compensate for my left foot, which I had hastily shot out in an effort to keep my balance, the rest of me—dropped! Fortunately I came down on to a boulder about three feet across, and all that happened was that my colour-box, which I had been carrying slung from my shoulder, jerked forward from under my arm. Luckily no damage was done.

  As I rose and looked around me, I noticed away off to the left of the track a towering peak shaped like an inverted bucket. It was completely covered from base to summit with dark-green foliage, but whether cryptomeria or cypress I was unable to tell.

  Here and there among the greenery trail pale red patches of wild cherry in bloom, and overall hangs a haze so thick that it causes the colours to swim and blend, and makes it impossible to make out the gaps between trees and branches clearly. A little nearer is one bare mountain. It stands out sharply from its surroundings, and appears to be almost close enough to touch. Its barren flank seems to have been sheered off by the axe of some colossus, and the angular, craggy rock-face plunges fantastically, straight down to the bottom of the valley far below. That one solitary tree that I can see there on the summit is a red pine I think. Even the patches of sky showing through the branches are clearly defined. About two hundred yards farther on, my path comes to an abrupt end, but looking up I see f
ar above a figure wrapped in a red blanket moving down the mountain-side, and I wonder whether, if I climb, I will come out up there. This is a terrible road.

  If it were only plain earth it would not take all that long, but imbedded in the ground are large stones. You can smooth the soil out flat, but the stones will stick up. You can break the stones into pieces, but not the rocks. There is nothing you can do about getting rid of the rocks. They sit atop the mound of broken earth unconquered, and with an almost contemptuous air of self assurance. There is nowhere here where Nature will yield us a road without a struggle. Thus since our opponent is so unaccommodating, and will not step aside, we must either climb over, or go round.

  This would be no easy place to walk even if there were no rocks. As it is, the banks rise up high to left and right, and a hollow has been formed in the middle of the path. This hollow may perhaps be best described in terms of geometry. It it a triangle of about six feet in width, whose sides shelve steeply down to meet in a sharp angle, which runs right along the centre of the track. This is more like walking along the bed of a river than along a path. Since from the very beginning, however, I never intended to hurry on this trip, I will take my time, and deal with the innumerable twists and turns as I come to them.

  Immediately below me a lark burst suddenly into song. But gaze down into the valley as I would, I could see no sign of the bird; nor could I make out where he was singing. I could hear his voice clearly, but that was all. The ceaseless attack and vigour of his song made me feel that this vast limitless body of air was dashing backwards and forwards in a frantic effort to escape the unbearable irritation of a thousand flea-bites. That bird really did not stop even for an instant. It seemed that he would not be satisfied, unless he could sing his heart out incessantly day and night, throughout that idyllic springtime; not only sing, but go on climbing up and up for ever. There was no doubt, but that that was where the lark would die, up there among the clouds. Perhaps at the peak of his long climb, he would glide in among the drifting clouds, and there be lost for ever, with only his voice remaining, shrouded by the air.