Between the Eagle and the Sun: Traces of Japan

BETWEEN THE EAGLE AND THE SUN

Also by Ihab Hassan

Radical Innocence: Studies in the Contemporary American Novel (1961)

The Literature of Silence: Henry Miller and Samuel Beckett (1967)

The Dismemberment of Orpheus: Toward a Postmodern Literature (1971, 1982)

Liberations: New Essays on the Humanities in Revolution (editor) (1972)

Contemporary American Literature, 1945–1972 (1973)

Paracriticisms: Seven Speculations of the Times (1975)

The Right Promethean Fire: Imagination, Science, and Cultural Change (1980)

Innovation/Renovation: New Perspectives on the Humanities (edited with Sally Hassan) (1983)

Out of Egypt: Fragments of an Autobiography (1986)

The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture (1987)

Selves at Risk: Patterns of Quest in Contemporary American Letters (1990)

Rumors of Change: Essays of Five Decades (1995)

BETWEEN THE EAGLE AND THE SUN

Traces of Japan

IHAB HASSAN

The University of Alabama Press

Tuscaloosa

The University of Alabama Press

Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-0380

uapress.ua.edu

Copyright © 1996 by the University of Alabama Press

All rights reserved.

Hardcover edition published 1996.

Paperback edition published 2015.

eBook edition published 2015.

Inquiries about reproducing material from this work should be addressed to the University of Alabama Press.

Book design: Mary Mendell

Manufactured in the United States of America

Cover illustration: Calligraphy by Kazuyo Cindy Sakurai

Cover design: Erin Toppin Bradley

∞

The paper on which this book is printed meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Science–Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-8173-5835-8

eBook ISBN: 978-0-8173-8891-1

A previous edition of this book has been catalogued by the Library of Congress as follows:

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hassan, Ihab Habib, 1925–

Between the Eagle and the Sun : traces of Japan / Ihab Hassan.

p.              c.m.

ISBN 0-8173-0819-9 (alk. paper)

1. Japan—Civilization. 2. East and West. 3. Americans—Japan—Biography. 4. Japan—Ethnic relations. I. Title

DS821.H3497                             1996

952.04—dc20

95-13544

CIP

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available

For Iwao Iwamoto and Donald Richie

In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind.

—Matsuo Basho, The Narrow Road to the Deep North

But it seems to me that this egotism of a traveller, however incessant—however shameless and obtrusive, must still convey some true ideas of the country through which he has passed. His very selfishness . . . compels him, as it were, in his writings, to observe the laws of perspective;—he tells you of objects, not as he knows them to be, but as they seemed to him.

—Alexander Kinglake, Eothen

For even as the Occident regards the Far East, so does the Far East regard the Occident,—only with this difference: that what each most esteems in itself is least likely to be esteemed by the other.

—Lafcadio Hearn, Kokoro

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Preface

PART I

PREVIEWS

Appearances

Iwao Iwamoto

Bewilderments: 1974

Suki

PART II

THROUGH THE LITERARY GLASS

Texts and Conceits

Kojin Karatani

PART III

THEM

Primary Differences (Space, Time, People)

Seiji Tsutsumi (Takashi Tsujii)

Exceptionalism

Shuichi Kato

Stereotypes and Paradoxes (Coolness, Courtesy, Conformity)

Kiyomi and Kumiko Mikuni

Internationalism or Change?

Lady in a Large Hat: An Imaginary Portrait

PART IV

EDUCATION

Hiroko Washizu

The Quest for Transcultural Values

Makoto Ooka

PART V

ENTRIES, A TO Z

Japanese Culture: A Personal Dictionary

Donald Richie

PART VI

ENVOY

Between the Eagle and the Sun?

Mariko Shimizu

Amor Loci?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Parts of this work appeared, in different forms, in the International House of Japan Bulletin, Salmagundi, World Literature Today, and The Georgia Review. I am grateful for the hospitality of these periodicals.

In writing this memoir, I owe to many friends, acquaintances, strangers even, both Japanese and American, more than they or I realize. Let a few stand for all: Walter Abish, Peter Conrad, Shuichi Kato, Yoshiaki Koshikawa, Donald Keene, Robert J. Smith.

Several times, traveling to and from Asia, my wife, Sally Hassan, and I stopped with Marianne McDonald in San Diego. I thank her for her rare generosity, independence of mind, and cultural insights into Japan.

Finally, I wish to thank the following authors, translators, and publishers for permission to quote poetry extracts from Matsuo Basho, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, tr. Nobuyuki Yuasa (London: Penguin Classics, 1966); Makoto Ooka, Elegy and Benediction, trs. William I. Elliott and Kazuo Kamakura (Tokyo: Jitsugetsu-kan, 1991); Takashi Tsujii, A Stone Monument on a Fine Day, trs. Hisao Kanaseki and Timothy Harris (Tokyo: Libro Port Publishing, 1990); and Muso Soseki, Sun at Midnight, trs. W. S. Merwin and Soiku Shigematsu (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1989).

PREFACE

I stumbled, you might say blundered, into Japan. I could not claim, like Charlie Chaplin, that I went there because I once saw a Japanese actor walk magically across a stage. I went because someone invited me to lecture at the Kyoto Summer Seminars. That was 1974.

Summer in steamy Kyoto, a globe-trotting friend wondered? My wife, Sally, said, why not? I could never resist that query, its small defiance of fate. I could never decline an invitation to voyage. We went, a bit reluctantly, after tripping on maps around the house.

Like the child in Baudelaire’s poem, Le Voyage, I, too, was once "amoureux de cartes et d’estampes." But that was in another country. I regard my birth in Egypt fortuitous, an accident, not a destiny. Call it an accident with resonances, memories. In any case, I never returned to Egypt. I came to America young and stayed. Japan? It seemed just another academic junket.

We returned to Japan ten times. Was Japan, then, more destiny, or at least destination, than Egypt? Indubitably. Still, as in everything crucial in this memoir, I triangulate: Japan, Egypt, America, my home.

I have learned in Japan a little about dispossession, homelessness. Hugo of St. Victor went further: The tender soul has fixed his love on one spot in the world; the strong man has extended his love to all places; the perfect man has extinguished his. This would never persuade a true Egyptian—the Nile binds him like an umbilical cord—still less a true Japanese. Except perhaps a wanderer of eternity like Basho, who understood the contingency of all things in his marrow bones.

But for a plain American immigrant like myself, already once displaced, where does dispossession leave him? Between the Eagle and the Sun? Hardly. And just what lies between them? Less dying echoes of Egypt, I think, than aspirations of a life, prayers for clarity.

Clarity. Living in Japan in the fall of 1991, I started to write, though I knew Japanese language and life far less than others. I said to myself, this is not a book about them; it is a book about myself living among others. Living and seeing myself sometimes as another, because in Japan I will always remain a stranger on a far island. And because I have reached an age that makes my own life seem strange to me.

Writing in this humor, though, I found myself tracing a recognizable country, culture, people—not only my Japan. The mood was sometimes anxious. I wrote they, I wrote them, I wrote distrusting generalizations. In any case, I did not address Japanologists, knowing that hell hath no fury greater than a specialist transgressed.

In the West, writing allows criticism. But how criticize Japan? In all my visits to that country, I encountered only courtesy, generosity, delicacy in welcome. Can criticism be the wages of hospitality? Recall, too, that relations between Japan and the United States are among the most crucial, geopolitically. (They were crucial from the start, when Commodore Matthew Perry initiated the first treaty Japan signed with the Occidental nations in 1854.) Why not shore up, rather than chip away, at these relations?

Even if we do want to criticize Japan, we soon realize that no criticism can really penetrate it. For that nation, despite—or perhaps because of—its acute sensitivities, lives in an invisible force field. If a gaijin (foreigner) criticizes Japan, he is gently asked, Do you speak Japanese? If he speaks Japanese fluently, he is requested, Wakatte kudasai (please understand) or, more emphatically, Kangae naoshite (please think it over). If he persists, he is discreetly reminded that, as a foreigner, he can never really apprehend the Japanese essence. In short, to understand is to approve, no further explanation necessary. To misunderstand is only to prove one’s foreignness, no explanation possible. The force field is impenetrable; it deflects or repels all criticism.

But writing is more than praise or blame; it is also knowledge, empathy, delight. It is style. I have adopted here various styles, as mood and topic change, as Japan itself changes, compelling our perceptions of it to alter. Of course, no one really knows how deep or perdurable those changes will prove. And so I have repeated myself a little, just as Japan changes and remains the same. I have ventured to experiment a little with the book’s form.

Mood, topic, style, form—let them shift and alter. I have no unifying concept, no paramount perception, of everything Japanese. But when I compare daily life in America and in Japan, the feel of things in each, I am struck by how much the idea of affluence rules the first, how much the idea of scarcity rules the latter. I mean scarcity, too, as it touches the notoriously ineffable Japanese concepts of wabi and sabi: the former with overtones of lament, discouragement, helplessness; freedom from worldly values; spiritual richness in poverty, in melancholy; an aesthetic and metaphysic of bittersweet sobriety—the latter with overtones of rust, dryness, paleness; avoidance of vulgar, mundane things; subtlety of humor as in haiku; loneliness, quietness, simplicity, profundity. . . .

Buddhist rarefications, you say? Well, look at an American plate in the days before our salad craze. The food rises in a heap, genially chaotic, caloric beyond human need. Two fat pork chops, mashed potatoes, buttered peas, all swimming in thick brown gravy. Generous, certainly, though some may say gross. Compare now with a Japanese plate. Where’s the beef, where’s the gravy? Instead, reticence and design: a few slices of fresh sashimi or an arc of sushi rolls, a gingko nut, sprig of pine or bamboo shoot, a tiny cone of ginger filleted into transparency. Yes, design, deftness, above all restraint. Or is it just lack, a kind of meanness in aesthetic dress?

America remains a culture of plenty, retaining the habits of waste, even if something now saps its will, its wealth. And Japan remains a culture of dearth, retaining the habits of want, though bullion now chokes its vaults. But how much can these symmetries finally explain? How much can they account for my own beguilements in the land of Yamato?

I discovered quickly that Japan invites enchantment, followed by slow disenchantment; the exotic always shows two faces. I began with the former, experienced the latter, and now find myself . . . exactly where? This book assays an answer, least assured in its abstractions, most in the people it portrays. The people—some close friends—abide when all the shadows of romance and exasperation have fled, the longer shadows of prophecy too.

I do not believe Japan holds the keys to this planet’s future: I do not know if any nation does. Keys, the sages remind us, lie within. We jangle them in our pockets, carry them on journeys, risk something on the road, then return to unlock a banal casket, a familiar door. What key, what extraneous door? In Japan as in America, I have tried to shape my life, not the world. That same impulse drove me to revisit Japan, repeatedly, and to travel its byways with a head full of prejudices and amazement.

Travel begins in childhood dreams, and wise, old men die peregrine. But I sit now in a Swedish armchair to write, two soft, black cushions beneath me. I recall a line of Ogai Mori: Neither fearing nor yearning for death, I walk down the descending slope of life. But without the serenity of Ogai, I also think, when did my wanderings begin? Where did I swerve?

That swerve—is it not part of the road itself? The road took me to Japan. But I heard a cry behind me, Thoreau’s Simplify, simplify.

PART I

PREVIEWS

APPEARANCES

Nothing in Japan seems to be what it seems. Yet everything there is surface, appearance. Forms matter. You might say, the spirit killeth but the letter giveth life—only that wouldn’t be exactly right.

The first thing I saw in Japan was people—silent swirls of people, vibrating in a field of sentient energy. Then I noticed faces, detaching themselves here and there from the unanimous crowd. For instance, at the old Tokyo airport, Haneda, a tiny cleaning woman in a white apron, age uncertain—say forty, or seventy-five—her body bent permanently at a right angle, skin tight on high cheekbones, black eyes intent as she sweeps trash with swift, gloved hands. It is an arresting, not a beautiful, sight.

Beautiful? Yes, the world lives in the eye; sight is primary, primary also in its prejudices. I’ll say it plainly: I did not find the Japanese a handsome people. Not at first. My mind could not censor the visceral fact. Everywhere I looked in the crowds, I saw short, stocky figures, thick ankles and wrists, bowed legs, heavy spectacles, lidded eyes. Perhaps I idealized limbs too much, being bowed in one leg myself. Perhaps I recalled too vividly those propaganda cartoons of Japanese soldiers, hiding in coconut trees or swarming Pacific beaches, pictures I had seen as a boy in Egypt. Or did I remember that character in a Tanizaki story who cries, I have no confidence in my appearance, I’m small, I’m dark-skinned, and my teeth stick out in all directions? Perhaps I was simply jet-dazed.

In any case, I did not feel, as travelers often do, sensuously, sensually, alive in Japan. Not in the beginning.

Then I started to note other visible facts. How deft the Japanese were in motion, how still in stillness. The gaijin, by contrast, lumbered like rhinos through undergrowth; even mentally, they seemed to bang and crash around. This Japanese economy of outer and inner motion struck me as a kind of spiritual elegance. I remarked also other somatic types: here a waist no thicker than some rednecks I have seen in America, there hands so delicate a butterfly might mistake them for a mate. Nearly everywhere, glossy, clean hair, luminously black, and smooth skin, unblemished in its various shades. Later, a decade or more later, I would realize how tall Japanese youth had become—fed at McDonald’s, Shakey’s, Colonel Sanders’s, Mrs. Fields’s?—how tall and lithe and slim. And how winsome, sometimes exquisite, women or men could be.

Still, still, my first impression lingered: the Japanese were inescapably an alien people, alien, say, as Chinese Americans had long ceased to be for me. Japanese bodies had a dynamic, a density, a shadowy space of their own. I could not project myself into that space. I