Miyazawa Kenji and His Illustrators: Images of Nature and Buddhism in Japanese Children's Literature (Japanese Visual Culture) 9004243070, 9789004243071

Table of contents :
Miyazawa Kenji and His Illustrators
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgements
INTRODUCTION
1 THE SIGNIFICANCE OF MIYAZAWA KENJI’S IDEALS IN (POST-) MODERN JAPANESE CHILDREN’S LITERATURE
2 READING JAPANESE VISUAL ART AND PICTURE BOOKS
3 ‘THE TALE OF ‘WILDCAT AND THE ACORNS’ (DONGURI TO YAMANEKO): SELF AND SUBJECTIVITY IN THE CHARACTERS AND HAECCEITAS IN THE ORGANIC WORLD
4 BEYOND DUALISM IN ‘SNOW CROSSING’ (YUKIWATARI)
5 KENJI’S ‘DEKUNOBŌ’ IDEAL IN ‘GŌSHU, THE CELLIST’ (SEROHIKI NO GŌSHU) AND ‘KENJŪ’S PARK’ (KENJŪ KŌENRIN)
6 BEYOND THE REALM OF ASURA IN ‘THE TWIN STARS’ (FUTAGO NO HOSHI) AND WILD PEAR (YAMANASHI)
7 THE THREAT OF ERASURE THROUGH MATERIAL EMBEDDEDNESS IN ‘THE RESTAURANT OF MANY ORDERS’ (CHŪMON NO ŌI RYŌRITEN)
CONCLUSION
Endnotes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

miyazawa kenji and his illustrators

japanese visual culture Volume 7 Managing Editor John T. Carpenter

Miyazawa Kenji and His Illustrators Images of Nature and Buddhism in Japanese Children’s Literature

by helen kilpatrick

Leiden – Boston 2013

Copyright 2013 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers and Martinus Nijhoff Publishers.

Published by BRILL Plantijnstraat 2 2321 JC Leiden The Netherlands brill.com/jvc Design SPi, Tamilnadu, India Studio Berry Slok, Amsterdam (cover) Production High Trade BV, Zwolle, The Netherlands Printed in Hungary ISBN 978-90-04-24307-1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kilpatrick, Helen. Miyazawa Kenji and his illustrators : images of nature and Buddhism in Japanese children’s literature / by Helen Kilpatrick. p. cm. -- (Japanese visual culture ; v. 7) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-24307-1 (cloth with dustjacket : alk. paper) 1. Miyazawa, Kenji, 1896-1933--Criticism and interpretation. 2. Miyazawa, Kenji, 1896-1933--Illustrations. 3. Illustration of books-Japan--20th century. 4. Children’s literature, Japanese-Illustrations. 5. Nature in literature. 6. Buddhism in literature. I. Title. PL833.I95Z6947 2012 895.6’344--dc23 2012038890

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Brill has made all reasonable efforts to trace all right holders to any copyrighted material used in this work. In cases where these efforts have not been successful the publisher welcomes communications from copyright holders, so that the appropriate acknowledgements can be made in future editions, and to settle other permission matters. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This work was published with the assistance of a grant from the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Cover image: Detail of fig. 99. Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 3, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

For Richard, and for my beloved sisters, Joan and Robyn Masters, both of whom departed this world too soon. And for the children of Fukushima and a world now beset, after Japan’s triple disaster of March 11 2011, with challenges that make it ever more important to understand the ideologies expressed through Kenji’s work.

Contents Acknowledgements

1

viii

introduction

1

the significance of miyazawa kenji’s ideals in (post-) modern japanese children’s literature

9

2

reading japanese visual art and picture books

27

3

‘the tale of ‘wildcat and the acorns’ (donguri to yamaneko): self and subjectivity in the characters and haecceitas in the organic world

41

4

beyond dualism in ‘snow crossing’ (yukiwatari)

75

5

kenji’s ‘dekunobō’ ideal in ‘gōshu, the cellist’ (serohiki no gōshu) and ‘kenjū’s park’ (kenjū kōenrin)

101

beyond the realm of asura in ‘the twin stars’ (futago no hoshi) and wild pear (yamanashi)

131

the threat of erasure through material embeddedness in ‘the restaurant of many orders’ (chūmon no ōi ryōriten)

155

conclusion

183

6

7

Endnotes

188

Bibliography Index

205 217

vii

Acknowledgements

T

here are numerous people who have helped bring this book to fruition. The project initially began at Macquarie University, after my supervisor John Stephens suggested that I blend my understanding of Japanese language and culture with my newfound interest in children’s literature by looking at Japanese picture books. With that spark, the concept for the project developed and flourished. Without John’s intellectual curiosity and stimulation, the research may not have reached its final stages, and I still very much value his continued support and friendship. My colleagues at the University of Wollongong have offered much moral support and encouragement, and special thanks must go to Paul Sharrad and Vera Mackie who have been ever-ready with practical suggestions and advice. My PhD examiners, Tomoko Aoyama, Kerry Mallan and Orie Muta have also continued to offer their encouragement and assistance, for which I am eternally grateful. I am completely humbled by the generosity and goodwill of the illustrators whose artwork is discussed in this book. They have all unhesitatingly provided permission to reproduce their work. I have also had the pleasure of personal contact with many of them, including the privilege of spending time with Satō Kunio and Kobayashi Toshiya at their respective studios. (The latter has a stunningly beautiful, old Japanese ‘atelier’ in a mountain valley.) Both answer my sometimes outof-the-blue letters with prompt and cheerful efficiency. Lee Ufan and Kim Tschang Yeul have also been generous in providing their permission for this book and other research papers. Other permissions have been received with the kind help and advice from officials at publishing houses like Kumon, Kaiseisha, Miki House and Fuzambō. They have all shown great goodwill and support for the project. The Japan Folk Craft Museum provided a digital version of the Kozakata prints

of Munakata Shikō, while the artist’s grandson, Mr Munakata Ryo, kindly provided permission to use them. I am deeply indebted to all of these people. On my visits to Japan, staff at the Miyazawa Kenji Museum in Iwate have always been ready and willing to provide assistance. Kenji scholar, Nishida Yoshiko, shared her knowledge and offered much advice and friendship in the early stages of the project. She generously accompanied me on a trip from Osaka to Iwate Prefecture and guided me around Kenji’s home town with an infectious enthusiasm. Endō Jun and Yasuko Doi at the IICLO have provided research assistance and much valuable help and advice and friendship over many years. Suzuki Kenji has also provided assistance along the way. I would also like to express my sincere thanks to the editors at Brill, Inge Klompmakers, Nozomi Goto, who assisted in the initial stages, and Anna Beerens, who took over from Nozomi in a remarkably smooth transition. Their ever patient and kind guidance is much appreciated. Lajos Vermesi at High Trade has also been incredibly efficient in handling the pictures. I am also greatly indebted to the institutions which have provided financial support for research and for the book. The project began with a fellowship from the International Institute of Children’s Literature, Osaka (IICLO), and an Australian Postgraduate Award at Macquarie University. More recently, the Australian Academy of the Humanities awarded a generous publication subsidy to assist with the inclusion of the coloured illustrations in this book. The Faculty of Arts at the University of Wollongong also kindly granted funds for the publication. Finally, I wish to extend a huge thank you to the many friends and family members who have seen me through the best and worst of times. I am viii

acknowledgements

especially grateful to my dear departed sister, Joan Masters, along with Meredith Engel, Jennifer Taylor, Beatrice Trefalt, Ross Telfer, Claire Walker, Lyn Swierski and Martin Veres for reading early drafts of chapters and providing helpful suggestions and editorial assistance. Thanks too, to the many long-suffering friends who have generously offered their time and support by listening to and adding their thoughts to my (often rambling and incohesive) ideas over good food, coffee or wine.

Heartfelt thanks must also go to my husband, Richard Kilpatrick, for his unwavering love, endless patience, and his firm support. He has been ever-ready with emotional and practical help, not only for the duration of this project, but for the duration of my academic life which began well after we met. I’m sure he had no idea as to what he was getting into when I embarked on this journey. Without his devotion, this book would never have been realised.

ix

x

Introduction

M

iyazawa Kenji (1896–1933) is one of the most renowned figures in the field of modern Japanese literature. He was devout Buddhist whose work heavily reflects his non-humanist worldview.1 Together with his Buddhist beliefs, he was also a natural scientist, with many other research interests that influenced his thinking and writing, including chemistry, agriculture, geology, education, art, astronomy and other religions such as Christianity. In other words, Kenji was an inimitable modernist who combined an eclectic array of thought into his literary work. Predominantly, however, he showed a real concern with the interconnection between the human and natural world that, from an ecological perspective, now seems prescient. His unique blending of science, nature and metaphysics often results in an idiosyncratic ‘otherworld’ that was revolutionary in its day and still remains extraordinary. Many of his prose narratives, self-titled as children’s tales (dōwa), bring this concern with blending the human and natural world to the fore. This cosmological world view can be seen particularly within the (post-) modern picture books that are finding broad currency today. These books form the focus of this present work.2 Although Kenji’s stories were not widely read during his own life, since his death they have

become increasingly prominent. Many of these tales form the subject of extensive scholarly study and are now a fully-fledged part of the canon of Japanese literature, for both adults and young people.3 As such, Kenji’s work has become firmly entrenched in Japan’s education system, from primary to tertiary level. Despite the fact that his stories were purportedly written for children, there is still some debate about whether they are actually ‘understood’ by children, and discussion about their suitability as children’s literature (jidō bungaku) continues.4 Regardless of such debate, Kenji’s tales are widely distributed, critiqued and discussed within the field of children’s literature and the picture books which form the focus of this study are generally considered to fall within that sphere. There are literally hundreds of illustrated versions of Kenji’s work which are available today. In fact, Kenji has become one of the most frequentlyillustrated literary figures in Japan, with artistic exhibitions of this work often touring throughout  the country.5 In particular, picture books of Kenji’s dōwa have been flourishing in Japan since 1983, the fiftieth anniversary of Kenji’s death, when copyright restrictions on his work expired.6 Although Kenji’s stories are readily available in a variety of formats, including manga and anime, like much of the excellent literature produced for young people which is often unfoundedly dismissed as inferior or simple, most of these picture books have been largely ignored by literary and cultural critics.

Munakata Shikō (1903–1975); Kozukata Hangasaku (Kozukata Prints). Property of Japan Folk Crafts Museum (Nihon Mingeikan in Tokyo).

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miyazawa kenji and his illustrators

Similar to Kenji’s stories themselves, much of the artwork accompanying these works is highly sophisticated. Despite their status and recognition through continued nationwide distribution, and despite the fact that Japanese audiences are very familiar with the notion of illustrated texts for adults (from early scroll-works through to today’s manga and anime), picture books of his tales have attracted very little sustained analysis. This project seeks to redress that imbalance by providing the first attempt to closely compare different picture book versions of several of Kenji’s most popular tales. Just as Kenji’s narratives form part of the standard of well-known modern classics for Japanese young people, the picture book representations of his tales also form a principle part of the canon of children’s literature. The choice of particular tales as subjects for pictorialisation, for instance, operates within the principles of the canon. Publishers and educationalists privilege certain stories and their subject matter as appropriate for illustration, and picture books themselves are usually (though not always) aimed at children. Perhaps one of the most outstanding aspects about picture books of Kenji’s work is that artists and publishers do not edit or abbreviate Kenji’s words to accommodate the pictures. Whereas most longer, canonical works of prose are shortened in picture book re-visionings, Kenji’s original narratives have been fiercely ‘protected’ under the influence of the academy of Kenji scholars such as Nishida Yoshiko and Ōfuji Mikio.7 For example, Satō Kunio’s modification of Kenji’s words for ‘Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru’ (Night on the Milky Way Railway) attracted considerable criticism from the Kenji academy.8 Hence, this picture book is now out-of-print and subsequent publications with Satō’s pictures have incorporated Kenji’s full verbal text. Furthermore, scholars like Ōfuji have argued strongly against any pictorialisation of Kenji’s work even though Kenji himself had artist Kikuchi Takeo illustrate his 1924 self-published volume of nine tales, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (The Restaurant of Many Orders). Another scholar whose comments support this principle is Ushiyama Megumi who,

for example, “would like to let children develop, as much as possible, their own concrete images ….”9 This kind of view not only underscores at least part of the process of canonisation of Kenji’s words, but also points to some of the underlying challenges that artists face in illustrating his stories. Nevertheless, such perspectives have not stopped artists or publishers from continuing to depict and publish them, and the seven tales that form this corpus are a selection of the most frequently illustrated and re-printed Kenji stories now available in picture book form. These particular stories, therefore, have been considered more ideologically suitable, both for pictorialisation and for children, than those tales that have been illustrated less often. All the picture books used throughout this project continue to be reprinted in Japan today. Such republications mean that not only are these picture books readily available, but that they form a major part of the canonical enterprise through which ideologies are transmitted to audiences. Because children’s literature is predominantly about promulgating cultural ideologies to the next generations, the widespread pictorialisation of Kenji’s tales intrinsically forms part of the acculturation process of Japanese children. Children’s literature provides the format for one of its universal metanarratives, that of personal development, the “‘growth’ from self-involvement to altruism.”10 Such growth involves the notion of subjectivity: “that sense of personal identity an individual has of her/his self as distinct from other selves, and as being capable of deliberate thought and action” and this is formed in dialogue with society, language, and with other people.11 In this case, investigation into the interaction between word and picture in publications of Kenji’s tales necessarily explores how Kenji’s less humanistic notions of self and subjectivity are being constructed and conveyed to young Japanese audiences. The continuing status of Kenji’s tales, in particular those reinvigorated as picture books, allows for the exploration of how his idiosyncratic writings from the 1920s and 1930s have come to have such receptivity in the (post-) modern Japan of the late 2

introduction

twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. In general terms, most studies of Kenji’s narratives are concerned with the reasons for which Kenji attracts so much attention today, especially as the literary circles in Tokyo largely ignored him during his own time. It is, however, not only important to ask why Kenji’s tales have become so eminent. It is also essential, especially within the field of children’s literature, to investigate how the picture books go about disseminating their ideologies to the next generations; that is, how the pictures achieve meaning in interaction with Kenji’s original words and within the discourse of contemporary Japanese culture. Given that Kenji’s original words are held sacrosanct, these picture books offer the unique opportunity to explore the different meanings that pictures produce in response to a fixed source text. How, for example, do the various artists ‘represent’ the stories and their underlying significances? How are they able to forge a relationship with Kenji’s ‘sacred’ pre-existing texts (pre-texts)? How do their pictures illuminate particular aspects of story and what messages are being obtained or (re-)inscribed in the pictures? Do the pictures liberate or constrain the pre-eminent words? What influences are exerted by pictorial omissions, emphases or extra-textual references? How are the pictures to be ‘read’? What reading positions are being created for audiences? Such questions provide a position from which to explore the interaction between the pictures and Kenji’s fixed words, and to further investigate the stories’ deeper underlying significances. It is only relatively recently that the picture book has been recognised in Japan as an artistic form worthy of research in its own right.12 There is still a dearth of scholarly investigation into the interplay between words and pictures in Japanese picture books in general, let alone into those of Kenji’s work. Consequently, there has been little critical analysis of how the visual images are working together with his pre-texts, though there have been a few general surveys that discuss subjective preferences and artistic authenticity to Kenji’s original

words. More recently, some studies have compared the illustrations in different picture books produced for a single story. For example, Tsukamoto Michiko has discussed illustrated versions of Kenji’s ‘Restaurant of Many Orders’ from an educational perspective.13 There has, however, been no previous attempt to synthesise the research on the ideals in Kenji’s literature with current theoretical approaches towards culture, art and picture books. This study has the advantage of drawing together, through an intertextual approach, many intriguing elements of Kenji’s work, pointing to ways in which cultural ideologies are being transmitted through the combination of picture and word.14 It considers picture books of Kenji’s tales as ‘re-presentations’ or ‘re-visionings’ that enter into dialogue, not only with their pre-texts, but also with the canonical enterprise and the larger cultural framework. The retelling and re-presentation of classics for children forms part of the cultural dialogue that serves important functions such as initiating children into aspects of a social heritage and transmitting a culture’s central values, assumptions and shared allusions and experience.

picture books as ideological re-presentations Although values in children’s books are often presented as natural (especially when commended), commentators and re-tellers (such as artists, for instance) are engaged in producing, and sometimes changing, interpretations of the world by changing the consciousness of readers and their attitudes towards pre-existing narratives and concepts.15 Despite the widespread perception that picture books are easier to interpret than words, they are naturally polyphonic and, as Hunt (among other eminent scholars) points out, “even the ‘simplest’ require complex interpretative skills.”16 Picture books offer two forms of narrative discourse through which to explore cultural encoding, words and pictures. Pictures can be discussed in a similar way to language because, like all 3

miyazawa kenji and his illustrators

texts, images are symbolic representations and are, therefore, interpretations of the actual world. They carry attitudes which inscribe both explicit and implicit ideologies.17 It is also important to note that pictures can never faithfully replicate the verbal texts, nor their respective significances. It is precisely because of the double narrative feature of picture books that they provide a deeper level of meaning than words alone. The combination of these two representational codes thus provides a powerful means of conveying acculturating messages. Unlike other artists who have the freedom to modify narratives by other writers, artists who depict Kenji’s stories have to work not only with Kenji’s privileged pre-text but also within the confines of the broader metanarratives at play. Regardless of any other personal or artistic aim, therefore, the very act of producing the picture book actually works within wider parameters to reaffirm the canonical enterprise. Because these artists are bound both by Kenji’s pre-texts and their surrounding ideological framework, the artwork is further legitimising that enterprise. While the canonical enterprise legitimises and affirms the status of ‘classic’ texts such as Kenji’s, however, illustrations can also open a critical dialogue that can bring such pre-texts into question, offering much to think and disagree about.18 Because the pictures are sitting alongside Kenji’s original, unchanged pre-text, they are not quite like other narrative pictorialisations which may reaffirm a pre-text or conversely contest it as a “site of resistance” to either the pre-text itself or the “ideological basis of the canonical enterprise.”19 Although many of these re-visionings of Kenji’s tales offer an opportunity for alternative dialogue, any such ‘dialogue’ is rather limited, so any deconstructive project remains an artistic challenge. The spiritual or metaphysical nature of Kenji’s ideals and aspirations has, however, provided the opportunity for many contemporary artists to create a dialogic tension in the ways subjectivity is articulated at both a psycho-symbolic level and in the historical and social analysis of the semiotics of

representation. On the one hand, many of the re-visionings of Kenji’s tales that appear to be deconstructive in terms of the semiotics of representation are actually affirming the pre-texts’ rejection of individualistic ideologies. Many pictures engage with the metaphysical aspects of Kenji’s pre-texts to connect with their syncretic philosophical ideologies, thus supporting a larger anti-humanist project. On the other hand, even those artists who would seek to subvert Kenji’s cosmological ideologies by inscribing more humanist morés still have to operate within the larger endeavour that is promulgating non-humanist ideologies. Hence, even those that more monologically replicate the story events and create characters that are more humanistic in orientation work to confirm the particular pre-text’s non-individualistic ideologies about the interconnectedness of humanity and nature, but ultimately less effectively. Nevertheless, the visual images, by entering into dialogue with the ‘pre-texts’ and the prevailing metanarratives, can and do often subject them to questioning. The pictures are always re-nuancing the pre-text. Such nuancing brings certain significances to the attention of readers within a larger cultural framework that is operating at a different historical moment from that of the original text. The more dialogic the pictorial representation of Kenji’s pre-texts, the more it will open the text out and help disclose the ideologies that drive it.

picture book corpus and structure of this book Given the abundance of picture books of Kenji’s work, the corpus of work that can be effectively analysed is necessarily selective. The ‘top seven’ tales here represent the most oft-reprinted picture book publications from the 1980s until today. This provides about twenty picture books and over a hundred illustrations through which the pertinent themes and motifs are covered. Even though picture books of some of Kenji’s later, more realistic tales such as ‘Gusukōbudori no Denki’ 4

introduction

(The Biography of Gusukōbudori), ‘Kaze no Matasaburō’ (Matasaburō the Wind Imp) and ‘Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru’ (Night of the Milky Way Railway) have maintained certain popularity in the picture book format, they have been excluded here because they are much longer than more conventional picture books. In addition, these narratives have previously been analysed in some depth in English.20 Space constraints have precluded the inclusion of two other widely pictorialised tales, ‘Yodaka no Hoshi’ (The Nighthawk Star) and ‘Nametoko Yama no Kuma’ (The Bears of Mount Nametoko), which I have discussed elsewhere.21 For the most part, the picture books under analysis are made up of Kenji’s earlier stories that are brighter and more humorous (and sometimes more didactic) than many of the later tales that Kenji wrote after about 1926.22 Five of these seven tales (as asterisked) have appeared on the school curriculum since the late 1970s.23 The corpus consists of, in approximate chronological order: ‘Futago no Hoshi’ (The Twin Stars 1918); ‘Yukiwatari’ (Snow Crossing 1921); ‘Donguri to Yamaneko’ (Wildcat and the Acorns 1921); ‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ (The Restaurant of Many Orders 1921); ‘Yamanashi’ (Wild Pear 1922); ‘Serohiki no Gōshu’ (Gōshu the Cellist 1925); ‘Kenjū Kōenrin’ (Kenju’s Wood 1923).24 These tales all retain a profound sense of humanity’s interconnection with the natural world, so the artistic re-visionings offer insight into concepts of self and subjectivity from this broadly non-humanist perspective. While the analytical chapters concentrate primarily on the interaction between the verbal and visual discourses in the picture books, Chapters 1 and 2 provide some preliminary exploration into the emergence of Kenji’s work within the field of children’s literature in Japan, providing insight into its current status and establishing the context for the later picture book discussion. Chapter 1 briefly explores some of Kenji’s biographical details in order to draw out and clarify some of the distinguishing characteristics and main ideologies operating throughout his tales, briefly contextualising his work and ideas to help gain an understanding of the

cultural context of constructions of (non-) self and subjectivity. Because both cultural conventions and artistic coding have implications for how picture book narratives may be read and interpreted by a Japanese audience, Chapter 2’s discussion of these codes also provides the basis for the later semiotic discussion of how intersubjectivity is working in the picture books. This chapter shows how the artists can construct reading positions that inscribe cultural notions of subjectivity. Investigation into reading viewpoints and subject positioning in the interaction between the pictorial and verbal representations also offers a deeper insight into the intersubjective construction of (non-) self from a textual bottom-up level. Focussing on how specific non-humanistic ideologies in the tales are renuanced through the interplay between text and pictures, the cultural threads are drawn together with the artistic discourse. The five main chapters then provide a close analysis of several pictorial representations of the seven select tales in order to address their different interpretations of specific Buddhist ideologies. Each of these analytical chapters (Chapters 3–7) revolves around a Buddhist theme related to nature. Each provides a synopsis of the relevant story and teases out how the underlying Buddhist philosophies are operating in the artistic re-visionings of that tale. Kenji’s concept of humanity’s relationship with the natural world is, in slightly different ways, central to each tales’ non-humanist ideologies, and many of the artists access his holistic cosmological principles through their inventive visual depictions. Despite the expression of a complex range of emotions such as anxiety, irritation, grief, loneliness, rivalry, fear and insecurity that originate from accumulative karma upon being born into this world (kono yo) of “desires, competitions and deceptions,”25 Kenji’s wit and irony critique humanity’s estrangement from nature (as in, for example, ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ or ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’) with an incisive humour that also reflects an ultimate optimism. The cosmological union with nature is evident, 5

miyazawa kenji and his illustrators

for example, in ‘Snow Crossing’ (Yukiwatari) and ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko) where the protagonists enter an extraordinary time and place in a kind of ceremonial absorption into the universe. Gōshu in ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ harmonises with nature through music, while the twins in ‘The Twin Stars’ (Futago no Hoshi) and the crabs in ‘Wild Pear’ (Yamanashi) are absorbed into their natural macro- and micro- cosmos respectively. Specific concepts analysed are: competition and ego in relation to self and subjectivity (in ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ – Chapter 3); the transcendence of dualism (in ‘Snow Crossing’ – Chapter 4); dekunobō

(foolishness/uselessness) as a path to selflessness, in (‘Kenjū’s Wood’ and ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ – Chapter 5); life, death and redemptive innocence (in ‘Wild Pear’ and ‘The Twin Stars’ – Chapter 6); and the threat of erasure through material embeddedness (in ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ – Chapter 7). These chapters demonstrate how the stories are being coded or nuanced for a contemporary Japanese audience through, for instance: the artistic medium; the pictorial aspects omitted or emphasised; the particular story moments selected for depiction; or the different possible interpretive codes that come into play in the reading process.

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1 The Significance of Miyazawa Kenji’s Ideals in (Post-) Modern Japanese Children’s Literature

K

enji’s children’s stories, as opposed to his poetry, have been comparatively overlooked in English-language research and translation. Within the fifteen volumes of Kenji’s complete works, nearly five volumes are devoted to his children’s tales (dōwa). During his short life, he wrote about one hundred and thirty stories.1 Despite steadily increasing interest in Kenji and his relative prominence among translated Japanese literature, there are still relatively few translations of his tales available. To date, only about thirty have been translated into English, the majority of these by John Bester.2 More recently though, a picture book series of ten of Kenji’s stories has been published in English, and RIC Publications are in the process of publishing another picture book series in English (with illustrations by Satō Kunio).3 With regard to English-language research into Kenji’s tales, there is a similar situation. In contrast to research into Kenji’s poetry, reference to Kenji’s children’s stories has been limited to the occasional mention in doctoral dissertations and within articles about his life or his poetry. Most study has focussed on Kenji’s most representative tale, the epic fantasy, ‘Night on the Milky Way Railroad’ (Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru), which has been

made into an animated film and translated into English by several translators.4 Sarah Strong’s study guide and Hagiwara’s thesis represent the major scholarly works in English on this particular story.5 Much of the examination into Kenji’s own essays about life, art and literature has provided the basis for research into his poetry,6 rather than his children’s tales, with the notable exceptions of Takao Hagiwara’s examination of ‘innocence’ in his tales,7 and Kerstin Vidaeus’s research into the characters in his tales.8 More recently, David Golley has offered important insight into the relationship between realism, science and ecology in both Kenji’s poetry and tales within the context of Japan’s aesthetic movement of high modernism.9 This paucity of research into Kenji’s children’s stories is, however, in no way indicative of the situation in Japan, where both popular and scholarly interest in all his work is thriving, although there has been a tendency towards hagiography. The Kenji boom perhaps reached its zenith in 1996 with the centenary celebrations of his birth that saw many television programmes and various activities revolving around his life and work. Many picture books were also published or reissued in this year, to say nothing of the advent of new ‘Kenji’ tomes, journals and periodicals for both general and academic audiences. A theme park was built in Hanamaki which aimed at “familiarising children with

Itō Wataru (1921–); p. 35; Kenjū Kōenrin; Kaiseisha, 1987. Detail of fig. 73.

9

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the writer’s work,”10 exemplifying much of the hype and publicity surrounding Kenji’s life and work. Research continues to expand, and at least two Japanese organisations and two online sites are devoted to him. There are many reasons for the enduring popularity and significance of Kenji’s work. In a 1993 newspaper article, Miyazawa Yūzō, the then Director of the Miyazawa Kenji Commemorative Museum in Japan, propounded several possible explanations, not the least of which was Kenji’s concern for nature and the environment, a topical issue of the fin de siécle which still endures.11 The same article also mentions the fact that Kenji is known in Japan by one or more of his many facets: as the poet who wrote the now-famous Ame nimo makezu, Kaze nimo makezu (Undaunted by the Rain, Undaunted by the Wind);12 by his ‘masterwork,’ Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night on the Milky Way Railroad); as an agriculturalist and teacher; as a scientist who tried to elaborate on Einstein’s fourth dimension; or as a practical person who tried to help suffering farmers.13 The newspaper article suggests, however, that it is Kenji’s anticipation of a society where people and all living things can live together peacefully which is the universally attractive aspect of many of his stories. It is, Miyazawa Yūzō feels, Kenji’s foresight about this point which will continue to increase the significance of his tales world-wide. As Makoto Ueda points out, Kenji, in his work, was urging people to reflect seriously upon any doctrines which centre solely upon either humanity or on an omnipotent science.14 Kenji believed that religion had been replaced by a cold modern science and that art had been degraded and lost a necessary critical spirit. He did not want his literature to follow suit. Much of the research on Kenji has been hagiographic or biographical in content and theme, tending to explain his work in terms of his life and art. As eminent scholars like Hara Shirō have pointed out, amidst the mid-1990s there were few thorough studies into the works themselves.15 Hara points outs that scholars often critique, for instance, the author himself, his religious leanings,

or concentrate more on how a work is made instead of on the work itself.16 Even Hara’s recommended style of criticism, in seeking to accept certain ‘fashionable’ versions of Kenji’s work (like animated manga), is rather monologic because it calls for an understanding of Kenji’s original meaning.17 This investigation concentrates on the works themselves, or more specifically, the visual representation of Kenji’s tales, taking a more intertextual approach in the later analysis of picture books. Although the purpose of this project is not biographical, a brief sketch of Kenji’s life is important, not because of a monologic need to understand Kenji or his intended meanings, but because the works’ underlying significances or ideologies may otherwise be missed.18 Some detail of Kenji’s life in light of his beliefs not only provides the historically different socio-cultural context from which the tales arose, but also helps draw out issues related to holistic constructions of self and subjectivity, providing a deeper appreciation of some of the codes intrinsic to the representations under analysis. Given that Kenji’s stories are generally seen as Buddhist parables or spiritual metaphors, explanation of Buddhist elements operating in the tales provides the basis for the later analysis. Both cultural and artistic traditions that form the basis of cultural coding have implications for how the picture books will be read in both verbal and pictorial representation. Before going further, however, it will be helpful to briefly acknowledge the cultural nature of reading signs. People learn to distinguish uses of signs, and the attitudes and emotional positions which are signified by these signs, “by living in the culture which produces them.”19 Although this highlights a rather controversial dialectic inherent in this research, that of an outsider ‘speaking for the other’, an exploration of cultural and artistic coding is an attempt to allay the pitfalls, constraints and dilemmas of such a project. Space prevents this issue being dealt with in depth here, but it is necessary to acknowledge the dangers of assuming an 10

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authoritative ‘monologistic’ position such as that which Gayatri Spivak calls the “arrogance of the radical European humanist conscience, which will consolidate itself by imagining the other or, as Sartre puts it, ‘redo in himself the other’s project, ‘through the collection of information.’”20 It is also important to establish at the very outset that the discussion will centre on representations and potential significances that the texts may offer rather than meanings that any actual audience may comprehend, though these representations will impact on a reader’s or viewer’s interpretation or ‘reading’ strategies.21 This proviso and the limitation to Buddhist ideologies within the text are also intended to mitigate the dangers inherent in much Nihonjinron literature. Such literature generally excludes otherness and explains Japanese as ‘unique’; that is, it treats ‘the Japanese’ as a homogenous group with no variations and also as distinct from nonJapanese.”22 As Barthes has pointed out,

came under the influence of the local poet, Ishikawa Takuboku (1886–1912) who encouraged him to jot down his thoughts and impressions of nature.26 Kenji continued his tertiary study at the Morioka State College of Agriculture and Forestry in the same region, graduating in 1918. Throughout this period he had been consistently writing tanka.27 His first two children’s tales, ‘The Spider, the Slug and the Badger’ (Kumo to Namekuji to Tanuki) and ‘The Twin Stars’ (Futago no Hoshi)*, are recorded as having been written and read to his family in 1918.28 Immediately after graduating from the Morioka State College in 1918, Kenji was appointed as a special research assistant in geology. He maintained this appointment for the next two years, researching soil science and fertilisers. In particular, he studied the effects of artificial and natural fertiliser on the soil, acquiring knowledge that he later used to help local farmers. In the later part of 1918, his younger sister Toshiko, who was studying in Tokyo, fell ill with a fever and Kenji travelled there with his mother to look after her. He remained in Tokyo until her recovery in early 1919. Kenji was extremely fond of Toshiko and during her illness he wrote home daily to report on her condition. When Kenji was in high school he had been profoundly affected by reading the Lotus Sutra which motivated his conversion from his family’s Jōdo Shin Sect to the Lotus or Hokke sect. It thereafter became the guiding force of his life and writing and he devoted himself to its concern with the ‘happiness’ and salvation of all beings and the attainment of enlightenment for the world.29 Kenji’s proselytising, however, together with his distaste for the family business and its preoccupation with money and social status, brought him into conflict with his father whom he apparently tried persistently to convert. Kenji’s religious conviction, his study of farming and his interest in the ideals of Karl Marx, Albert Einstein and William Morris, for instance, brought him to the personal realisation that working the land was an occupation which offered salvation for human society. Sympathy for the poor farmers from whom his father profiteered in the

It is necessary that … a slender thread of light search out not other symbols but the very fissure of the symbolic. This fissure cannot appear on the level of cultural products.23

This investigation therefore concentrates on many of Kenji’s Buddhist ideals that are broadly considered to be enigmatic. In other words, the biography and cultural anlaysis is meant to uncover some of the ideologies inherent in Kenji’s pre-texts and their pictorial representations.

biography Kenji, the eldest of five children, was born on 27th August 1896 into a prosperous family of pawnbrokers who were pious Buddhists of the Pure Land Sect (Jōdo Shinshū).24 He grew up in the rural village of Hanamaki in the north-eastern prefecture of Iwate, an impoverished rice-growing region known for its “unaccommodating climate, topography, and soil.”25 As a child he displayed the interest in both minerals and wildlife that later manifested throughout his life and literature. He spent most of his life in this bleak region and while still in middle school 11

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Restaurant of Many Orders).31 Neither of these publications was widely read in his lifetime, the latter apparently mistaken by some as a cookbook. Whereas these tales were about wildlife and nature, his poems tended to incorporate the mundanities and hardships of farming life, tilling soil, gathering manure, rice planting, famine fertilisers and irrigation. They also included graphic descriptions of physical matters such as the symptoms of pleurisy (from which he suffered). In practice, Kenji expressed his religious beliefs through his concern for Iwate’s poor farmers and suffering peasants who were directly interacting with nature in their production of food. In 1926, the end of Japan’s so-called democratic period (Taishō, 1912–26), he resigned his teaching post at the Hanamaki Agricultural College to devote himself to farming and put his theoretical knowledge into practice. He founded a farmers’ group, which he called Rasuchijin Society (Rasuchijin Kyōkai), aimed at studying and synthesising agriculture, science and the arts.32 This was when Kenji wrote his now well-known treatise on the concept of agrarian art that was purportedly inspired by the ideas of John Ruskin and William Morris on the role of arts in society.33 The ideologies of the likes of Tolstoy, Ruskin and Morris were spread through the widely dispersed literary journal of the time, Shirakaba (White Birch) that Kenji is said to have read.34 Kenji taught neighbouring farmers about various new models of cultivation and printed and distributed free pamphlets on soil fertilisation. The group was also a cultural club and Kenji’s home was the venue for discussions of novels, dramas and poetry, and music recitals. As part of his bodhisattva ideal, Kenji wished to enrich the labourers’ lives in whatever way possible.35 Such ideas are reflected in one of his later tales, Serohiki no Gōshu (Gōshu, the Cellist), the story of a farmer who, in his struggle for proficiency with the cello, comes to realise the interconnection between music, nature and life (discussed in Chapter 5). The Rasuchijin Society lasted two years, dissolving during the upsurge in militarism in Japan in the late 1920s. As Kenji was called in by the police for questioning about the

pawn-shop business caused Kenji to repudiate commerce altogether. He gave up his rights of inheritance to his younger brother, Seiroku, and decided to return to Tokyo in the January of 1921. In Tokyo, Kenji offered his services to the Kokuchūkai (Pillar of the Nation Society) and apprenticed himself to Tanaka Chigaku (1861–1939) the well-known priest and leader of the society at the time. Kenji led a strenuous life preaching, and often engaged in street proselytisation of the Nichiren faith. He spent a lonely and poverty-stricken nine months there but, spurred on by the advice of another priest, Takachio Chiyō, he utilised the time to write a prolific amount of children’s stories (said to be three thousand pages a month). Takachio had apparently discouraged him from entering the priesthood by explaining that Nichiren believers should try to reach a higher level of faith in their own chosen profession until faith manifested itself without conscious effort. As he applied the advice to pursuing his literary art, this marked a turning point in Kenji’s creative life. When Toshiko again became ill in September of the same year, 1921, Kenji returned home with a suitcase full of manuscripts. He took a position as a teacher in his home town at the Hanamaki Agricultural College. Here he taught the poor students from local farming villages whom he most wanted to serve. He also became interested in Western music during this period and began to collect records, especially those of Bach and Beethoven. In November 1922, his sister died at age 24. The intensity of Kenji’s grief was such that he composed three poems on the day of her death under the title of ‘Voiceless Lament’ (Musei Dōkoku). His desire to search for her in the afterlife is considered to have intensified his convictions about a higher plane of interdependent co-existence.30 After a subsequent period of quiet, he continued his literary pursuits while working at the agricultural school, and in the May of 1923 he began composing the poems for the book Spring and the Demons (Haru to Shura) which he had published (at his own expense) in April, 1924. In December, 1924 he also self-published a book of nine stories, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (The 12

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group’s activities, its dissolution was possibly due to a risk of political oppression by the government.36 As Golley points out though, Kenji’s work was concerned with the social and ecological (rather than national or ethnic) implications of life.37 Kenji’s vision of an idealised farmer is encapsulated in the poem ‘Undaunted by the Rain’ (Ame ni mo Makezu), which many regard as the “ultimate expression of Buddhist sincerity.”38 This poem is a subjective, romantic depiction of a simple, honest country farmer, expressing a “lack of greed [with an] emphasis on self-effacing, child-like ignorance, and self-sacrificing devotion to the welfare and happiness of others.”39 It is included in textbooks and has become famous among people from all walks of life. Despite debates about its literary merits,40 it is thought to be largely responsible for Kenji’s saintlike status in Japan.41 (Kenji became known as Kenji bosatsu (Bodhisattva Kenji) after his death.)42 This poem has attained such a level of popularity that, to this day, it is often attributed iconographic status, revered nationally almost as an object of worship. For example, it is portrayed on souvenir plaques, textiles and scrolls, and people from all walks of life frame it for hanging in special alcoves around the home or in temples for contemplation. As such, the poem’s message of bodhisattva-like selflessness forms part of the metanarrative that surrounds his work. Despite falling ill and developing pneumonia in 1928, Kenji, when he felt well enough, kept up his daily habit of transcribing several pages of the Lotus Sutra. Due to his concern for all life he had become a vegetarian (in 1918) and his adamant refusal to eat more nourishing food adversely affected his recuperation. During a short recovery in 1931, he took a job as a consultant for a rock-crushing company, but in September of that year, on a visit to Tokyo, he again became ill with pneumonia and was sent back to Hanamaki in a serious condition. His health improved slightly in 1932, but he never fully recovered. Despite this, he continued to write, study and advise farmers until his death in the autumn of 1933. He made a deathbed request to his father that one thousand copies of the Lotus Sutra

be printed in Japanese translation and distributed to friends with a note saying: “The purpose of the work of my entire lifetime was to deliver this sacred book into your hands, and to enable you to enter the Highest Path by bringing you into contact with the Buddha’s teachings.”43 It is this strong sense of purpose that provided the impetus and inspiration for much of Kenji’s writing. His beliefs influenced his life intensely and the idea of the integration of humanity with nature and science is a prevalent concern throughout his writing.

receptivity to kenji’s tales within children’s literature Even though Kenji was writing during the emergence of a golden period of children’s literature and illustration in early twentieth-century Japan, his tales were not well known or well received during his lifetime. This was partially due to the idiosyncratic and regional nature of his work, but as Karen Colligan-Taylor suggests, his work may have been passed over due to Japan’s more pragmatic concerns with economic development at the time.44 She later points to its appeal within an increasingly industrialised and urbanised Japan that is distinguished by the continuing destruction of nature and an increasing dearth of spirituality.45 At any rate, Kenji’s work remained on the periphery of the canon until the 1960s, when the ideas and idealism in his children’s tales gradually began to attract a greater following. Japanese children’s literature is considered to have developed from the time of the Meiji period  (1868–1912) with the publication of Iwaya Sazanami’s (1870–1933) ‘Koganemaru’,46 in 1891.47 In the Meiji period, Japan opened up to outside influences after a long period of isolation and, along with Sazanami’s stories, there was a flow of imported translations and adaptations led by Wakamatsu Shizuko. Industrial development and modernisation at the end of Meiji saw a turning away from the moralistic format and style of fairy and folk tales of the feudalistic age to more creative 13

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children’s literature. Earlier children’s literature had never been highly artistic, neither fostering individuality nor creativity.48 The late 1880s, just before Kenji was born (in 1896), also saw the completion of a dramatic change in the written Japanese language which made prose conform more closely to vernacular speech. Great advances were pioneered in literature and the arts and the development and crystallisation of new forms of writing expressed the spirit of this age of urbanisation and democracy, culminating with a modern Japanese literature in the early twentieth century. This modern spirit came to be reflected in Japanese children’s literature from about the 1910s in the democratic Taishō period (1912–1926).49 At this time, fresh ideas from the United States and Europe were having a profound effect upon Japan and ideas about education found a new freedom and innovation. An intellectual movement advocating liberal education and the development of children’s culture helped bring about the revolution in children’s literature.50 This was a period of discovery about children’s psychological development which was disseminated through songs and stories of authors like Ogawa Mimei, Hamada Hirosuke and Chiba Shōzō.51 Kenji’s work, although always outside the mainstream, arose in the midst of this culture. Kenji’s tales were only slowly recognised, especially within the field of children’s literature. Suzuki Miekichi, the editor of the period’s most respected children’s journal, Akai Tori (Red Bird), refused to publish them.52 Although he purportedly found them ‘interesting’, he wanted to know what kind of person “accepts both geology and angels” and also had reservations about Kenji’s use of local dialect.53 He apparently thought it ‘unkind’ (fushinsetsu) to use dialect in a national journal for children,54 where the standard language emanated from Tokyo. Despite Suzuki’s lack of support, some of Kenji’s tales were published in his lifetime. Modernist poets like Satō Sōnosuke and Kusano Shimpei had lauded his work in the poetry journal Shishin (God of Poetry) as early as 1924.55 Nevertheless, his tales still failed to find much receptivity and

became submerged by the militaristic trends that arose in children’s culture from about 1931. Some of Kenji’s work was used as propaganda material during World War II, but it remained obscure throughout the following years.56 After the war, Kenji’s work came to be more highly regarded, largely due to the influence and efforts of the aforementioned Kusano Shimpei and another major modernist poet, Takamura Kōtarō, who both admired his writing.57 Although a few stories began to be published, both with illustrations and without, it wasn’t until 1960 that his dōwa became more widely recognised through an article written by the widely respected children’s author and translator,  Ishii Momoko (1907–2008), and published in Kodomo to Bungaku (Children and Literature). Here she extolled the virtues of Kenji’s simple style and expression and, amongst other matters, brought up the ‘problem’ of textual differences between various publications.58 While this article was very influential in enhancing publication of, and receptivity to, Kenji’s tales, it also contributed to the now-established practice of publishing his work without any textual changes. Kenji’s stories began to be better recognised in the 1960s and 1970s, during another golden period of children’s literature that saw the emergence of the picture book as a popular medium. This was when artists first began to illustrate Kenji’s tales in picture book form. During these years, researchers like Amazawa Taijirō worked diligently to record all of Kenji’s works. For instance, he played a major part in compiling the Kōhon Miyazawa Kenji Zenshū (The Complete Works of Miyazawa Kenji), henceforth KMKZ, which was published by Chikuma Shobō between 1973 and 1977. It assiduously records the original versions of Kenji’s works and all their revisions, showing the differences between various manuscripts and notes.59 These fifteen volumes also carry extant letters, notes and related paraphernalia, including reproductions of Kenji’s own artwork. Its publication has no doubt also influenced the avoidance of shortened versions of Kenji’s tales in any of their subsequent publications. 14

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(Modern publications, including picture books, usually maintain Kenji’s latest version.) Kenji’s work surfaced even more prominently in the late 1970s amidst a climate of open criticism of a Japanese society which had rushed towards technology and development in pursuit of relentless profits. His work and way of life became exemplars of philosophical solutions to materialistic pursuits, and his tales began to appear on the primary school curriculum from this time forward. Roger Pulvers has suggested that Kenji’s more recent popularity is more social than literary, that his ideals offer a path of active caring for others.60 He maintains that for young people, they offer an alternative to the uncompromising economic exploits of government and business, especially after Japan’s economic bubble burst in the early 1990s. Kenji’s work is now republished in various other forms, including hundreds of picture books, the most enduring of which form the subject of this project.

relationship with the universe rather than exemplifying a retreat into childhood.63 While children’s literature and fantasy offered more imaginative potential than other restrictive literary forms of the day, they also provided Kenji with the consummate means by which a more interpenetrative worldview of the Buddhist faith might be proselytised – one of Kenji’s self-declared aims. As Takao Hagiwara suggests, Kenji’s work falls within the category of art that deals with mysterious space (as separated from the ordinary world that deals with the mundane reality of daily life).64 Kenji’s pursuit of a different space is intricately linked to his attempt to have the individual subject progress to a level of interpenetration with nature. Although Kenji’s literary devices create a defamiliarised world through fantasy, as Golley points out (in relation to Kenji’s ‘The Night of the Milky Way Railroad’), the genre of children’s literature also allowed Kenji to address and teach “the underlying structure of reality,” the central concern of politically-engaged art and aesthetic modernism at the time.65 Colligan-Taylor also makes the pertinent point that as adults first acquire their basic attitudes towards the natural world as children, the genre offers the perfect platform for dissemination of such ideas.66 Moreover, as a major vehicle of acculturation of children, Kenji’s chosen genre allows room for emerging subjectivities to imagine and unite the human self with the universe as a whole. Today, Kenji’s imaginative literature remains unique within the field, especially in its holistic approach to the natural world.

children’s literature as a genre for imaginative subjectivity It has been suggested that Kenji deliberately chose to write children’s tales because this genre best expressed the imaginative ideas and emotions which were different from the prevailing intellectual and emotional climate of the time. The children’s story, where, in Kenji’s own words ‘everything is possible’, offered the opportunity to speak more to the unconscious childlike part of the human mind.61 As Takao Hagiwara suggests, children represent marginal existences in Kenji’s tales. They do not play the central power roles usually reserved by society for adults, and this offers the means to mark off ‘innocent’ beings: “children, the mentally retarded, animals, plants, water, air, rocks, etc (in other words, all beings in the universe besides adult humans whose …. intellect represent[s] ‘experience’)….”62 As Bester indicates, the innocence that is expressed throughout Kenji’s tales reaffirms our

kenji’s uniqueness within the canon Although Kenji has now been internationally recognised as one of “the most imaginative spinner[s] of children’s stories of twentieth-century Japan,” his style is still considered unusual by many scholars.67 His stories and poetics are far from simplistic. His use of the jargon of meteorology, mineralogy, botany and geology make him “different” and 15

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“surprising.”68 His “private symbology and freewheeling colloquialisms” interweave scientific theories and Buddhist belief to create “a strange cosmological otherworld.”69 Yet as Umehara Takeshi indicates, for instance, Kenji is a rare modernist author whose writing is distinguished by his blending of faith and compassion and the ability to make the Buddhist cosmology accessible to others.70 He is now one of the most conspicuously Buddhist poets in modern times.71 The Nobel-prize winner, Ōe Kenzaburō, has argued that Kenji deserves; “to the fullest degree the title ‘Writer of People’s Literature.’”72 According to Kusano Shinpei, the stories in Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (The Restaurant of Many Orders) “held a completely unique position and blew a fresh breeze into the world of Japanese tales.”73 In relation to their place as literature for young people, Torigoe Shin asserted (in 1972) that apart from two stories, the tales in his book, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten, had “no connection to children’s literature.”74 Indeed, scholars often refer to Kenji’s work as ‘difficult,’ even though the stories are often written in an everyday conversational mode with simple, lyrical expression. Hagiwara Masayoshi, for instance, states: “In contrast [to the poems] there is a tendency to see the tales as easy, but this is definitely not correct.”75 The level of difficulty obviously refers more to the metaphysical ideas evoked by Kenji’s unusual images and lexicon than to the syntax itself. Various other critics have discussed the uniqueness of Kenji’s writings. While some focus on Kenji’s unorthodox subject matter or his unusual use of language, others such as Sakai Tadaichi get more to the point with explanations of his ‘imagistic cosmos’ which tries to tie together ideas of the real and the ideal. Shozawa further suggests that Kenji’s idealised Īhatōbu not only revises regionalist ‘local colour’ theories, but also becomes a local topos for the self which tries to conquer life.76 (Īhatōbu is the name that Kenji gave to the imaginary setting for the tales in The Restaurant of Many Orders.)77 Napier points to the optimism of Kenji’s fantasy against the more pessimistic or nihilistic

tendencies in the fantasy of other twentieth century authors who have located hope in the ‘other and unseen’ places of more traditional culture.78 As Suzuki Kenji points out, it is difficult to include Miyazawa Kenji within the history of Japanese modern literature as he is on the outer circle of the development of the ‘modern self’ which, Suzuki adds, is now becoming invalid.79 In principle, Kenji’s literature is inherently different from prevailing rationalist ideas whereby humanity is separate from and dominant over nature. As Isogai Hideo has pointed out, Kenji, through the influence of the Lotus Sutra, never pursued the kind of absolute self that other modern Japanese writers did when they tried to justify it as a product of a union between the old communal self and the modern individualistic self.80 Suffice to say for now that Kenji’s worldview demonstrates an intrinsic difference in tradition between more modernist attitudes and his Buddhist philosophies. Despite this uniqueness and debates about whether Kenji’s work can be understood by children, his stories are now firmly situated within the canon of modern Japanese children’s literature. As Japanese children’s literature has been greatly affected by Western influence since the Meiji Revolution (1868), much of it, like modern Japanese literature, has also been based on and characterised by humanist ideologies.81 Takao Hagiwara, for instance, indicates that “humanistic individualism and anthropocentrism dominated the contemporary scene of children’s literature.”82 He points to the personification of animals and trees in the stories of such authors as Ogawa Mimei (1882–1961), one of the father’s of children’s literature in Japan.83 These works contrasted markedly with what Hagiwara calls Kenji’s ‘interpenetrative or non-impeded’ world which rejects individualist humanistic thought based on Cartesian dichotomies. Rather than use animals to display personified human characteristics in the way of Aesop’s fables, for instance, Kenji’s humans, animals and plants are treated as equal beings, all fully incorporated into the larger natural world. In Kenji’s vivid animistic work, animals, trees, and even rocks and 16

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wind, all spontaneously laughed, cried, sang, and danced with “the joys and sorrows of a universe governed by cosmic autophagy [life feeding off life itself].”84 As Hagiwara further indicates, Kenji’s idiosyncratic cosmic vision was ultra-primitive yet simultaneously ultra-modern, and was based on his uniquely centrifugal sense of nature and Buddhism.85 As Keene suggests, the Buddhism in Kenji’s work stood out against the coterie of modern literature that was mostly indifferent to the religion.86 In Japan’s climate of a modern culture committed to industrial capitalism and new views of individualism and citizenship, authors responded more to a bourgeois taste for realism than sentimentalism, or what has been referred to as Kenji’s ‘Buddhist Romanticism’ (Bukkyōteki Rōmanshugi).87 Kenji created an imaginative world of nature and cycles of life that, for example, intuit the interdependence of all sentient forms, and this reflects an unusual multivocal viewpoint of the cosmos. Although Kenji’s tales are now widely accepted within a Japan that, as Karatani has argued, was by the 1980s “‘liberated’ from its obsession with modernism,” his stories still operate to decanonise the centralised truths of humanist metanarratives.88 Such truths involve the kind of rationality, science and government that a modernist Western outlook brought to Japan along with progress, consumerism, excessive consumption and a concomitant decrease in tradition and spirituality.89 In the 1980s, for instance, Tanigawa Gan deliberately appropriated Kenji’s tales for their nativism, regionalism and multivocality, in order to resist the revival of cultural nationalism and what Sasaki-Uemura calls the self-exploitative project of modernisation.90 Such a project inherently contains the ideological fracturing or decentering of the humanist concept which sees the individual as a naturally determined authorial identity who has the ability to shape the world and the knowledges that structure that world. Humanism conceives “the human individual … as a unified centre of control from which meaning emanates.”91 The concept of subjectivity also decentres such a notion of the individual by replacing the

identity of human nature “with concepts of history, society and culture as determining factors in the construction of individual identity, and destabilizes the coherence of that identity by making it an effect rather than simply an [authorial] origin of linguistic practice.”92 Easthope and McGowan further point out that the theory of subjectivity proposes identity as a product of socially determined and regulated discourses, but that such a subjectivity is, at the same time, capable of undermining discourses.93 This concept of subjectivity forms an intrinsic part of the discussion of the transitive effect of intertextuality, or the relationship between texts and readers in representations of Kenji’s tales, and provides a basis for the later examination of multivocality in the select picture books. Kenji’s tales, in contrast to his poetry, were eminently suited to the ecological movements of the 1980s, but as Sasaki-Uemura has noted, it is their ability to offer a unique multivocality, where a variety of natural phenomena as dramatic personae interact with humans, that shows the interdependence of the natural and human world and the cyclical nature of existence.94 Kenji’s work is thus about much more than a simplistic idea of an idealised past (of traditional culture), and as such resists the nationalist ideas, Nihonjinron or otherwise, that some have suggested are associated with his devotion to the Nichiren faith and the dogmatism of the Kokuchūkai Society of the time.95

kenji’s view of nature Although Kenji incorporates an all-inclusive view of nature that could be said to hark back to the Japan’s animist mythologies (from, for example, the Nihon Shoki), he is generally considered to express nature differently from other literary works. Critics have pointed out that his view of nature transcends the more contemplative Japanese concept of shizen found in much traditional and modernist Japanese literature.96 Sakai Tadaichi, for instance, refers to Kenji’s sense of ‘communion with nature’ (shizen kōkan) as dynamic rather than static.97 He mentions the iconoclastic simile in one 17

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of Kenji’s works, ‘Diary of an Agronomy Student’ (Aru nōgakusei no nisshi), which likens cherry blossoms to frog’s eggs. This startling image of course rejects one of Japan’s national symbols of contemplation. In the same piece (for 5th May 1925), Kenji clearly disparages the classic appreciation of the cherry blossom, expressing a preference for the dandelion.98 Sakai sees Kenji’s self-awakening process as gradually having developed through animism to a pantheistic view of nature based on his Buddhist faith.99 Whatever its genesis, Kenji’s sense of rapport with the natural environment emerges throughout his work as a dynamic sense of communion with the universe in which not only animals, but mountains, rocks, trees and plants come to life. Given Kenji’s acknowledged prominence as a unique storyteller who was propelled by his devout faith, it can be assumed that his Buddhist ideals form at least part of the basis of the continuing and growing receptivity to his work. Because Buddhist principles form the underlying aspects of the discourse, they have implications for how self and subjectivity may be read in the tales.

and following its path, and the other is his dedication, as a natural scientist, to trying to verify and connect the reality beyond observation with referential accuracy, connecting the composition of reality – solid, liquid, gas, energy – with the vacuum of space.100 The two are intrinsically interwoven but an explication of the vital aspects of the Lotus Sutra provides the starting point for understanding Kenji’s unique blend of religious and scientific theories that led to the unique concept of ‘different space’ in his work. Kenji’s “commitment of self to the infinite universe through the Lotus Sutra”101 is especially important to notions of intersubjectivity in its focus on jiriki (self-empowered) salvation as opposed to tariki (other-powered) enlightenment through a higher force. Belief in Buddha Sākyamuni (Shaka in Japanese) alone is not enough. Personal effort is also necessary. Jiriki sects emphasise the redemptive power of correct practice, stressing the active practice of right action (no killing), right language (no lies) and pure thought.102 In essence, through recognition of the sutra’s law, while the ‘self’ offers the only reliable source of power, jiriki obligations also require a commitment to the whole universe. Further, the tenets of right action and selfempowerment involve the belief that following them will bring out the Buddha in the self. Even though the Buddha-self usually emerges through the course of many existences, the Lotus Sutra also teaches that enlightenment is attainable in this life and that anyone may achieve it through sincere belief.103 This is the bodhisattva ideal that formed a major part of Kenji’s life and activity. The concept of integrated effort is also intrinsic to Kenji’s worldview through the Lotus Sutra’s ‘Doctrine of the Three Thousand Realms in One Mind’ (ichinen sanzen) ‘one in many and many in one.’104 The doctrine has two aspects, the theoretical and the practical. While the theoretical aspect explains the interconnectivity of the entire universe, its practical aspect demonstrates the importance of social effort. Theoretically, there is no individual existence; all beings are interconnected

kenji’s buddhist ideals in relation to self and subjectivity Kenji’s philosophies about the integration of nature and the non-human world, transmigration and reincarnation through life and death, and paths to enlightenment inevitably affect constructions of an interdependent subjectivity. The  fact that in Kenji’s work the relationship between humanity and nature is not seen as in any way oppositional, dominant or separate, has implications for notions of self and subjectivity that are significantly different from the logocentric or anthropocentric views of the individual which dominate much modern Japanese thought and literature. At least two aspects of Kenji’s worldview are particularly important to such intersubjective constructions. One is his devotion to the Lotus Sutra 18

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the one continuous ‘life.’”112 The transience of life and death, then, is seen as a cycle of repeated transmigration of the soul from one shape to another, so all things are in a state of constant change. According to Niwano, the search for enlightenment is not a negative extinction in death, but a quiescence that realises that: “All things are impermanent” and that: “Nothing has an ego.”113 Transmigration continues through spans or cycles of life and death within this world (kono yo) of ten realms (six of ordinary beings and four worlds of saints), offering the opportunity for purification of all illusions of the mind (nirvana). This Buddhist concept of integration with the cosmos flows through Kenji’s tales as an optimistic force of rebirth in contrast to more pessimistic, attitudes to death that signify finality or even futility. While offering the ability to purify the mind, however, transmigration is also linked with the notion of karma and pain. As Mori points out:

as they move both upwards and downwards among different realms of existence. Because there is no true salvation for the individual alone, the practical aspect of the doctrine becomes more concerned with the salvation of society. Practically, in order to move upwards, one must follow the Buddha’s teachings, and this means that one must be concerned if there is even one suffering being in the world. As Niwano explains, when this is understood, it is impossible not to help others.105 If all individuals were saved, the inevitable result would be a perfect harmonious society.106 The practical doctrine therefore rests on a principle of mortal bodhisattva effort. In an explanation of the six revolving worlds in  which the mind is considered to revolve ceaselessly, Niwano observes that transmigration involves both the growth of the human body and  changes in the human mind. This earthly world  of here-and-now is the world where those without any faith perpetually repeat birth and death. It consists in six realms: hell (anger), hungry spirits (covetousness), human beings (normal state), heaven (joy), demons (dispute), and animals (ignorance).107 The other, higher world of existence consists of four realms; three where those who believe in the Lotus Sutra lead their lives, the fourth offering escape from the world of illusion; that is, the attainment of Buddhahood (perfection of one’s character). This is the “realm of nirvana as the other shore.”108 Although an ordinary person can rise to the level of the four realms of the saints, a constant state of absolute mental compassion will seldom be reached.109 The process through which a human is born, grows, ages, and dies involves three temporal states of existence; the past, present and future, and the mind changes with this process.110 One point about this view of the universe is that nothing in life is fixed or final. As Niwano indicates, the one immutable rule of the Lotus Sutra is that all life is fleeting, all phenomena in this world are in a constant state of flux.111 As Hagiwara Masayoshi interprets it, Kenji’s ‘galactical consciousness’ moulds an infinite space in which “life and death become

Life is pain, because, in each span of life, we cannot avoid experiencing many kinds of tortures, including birth and death. To be freed from the endless cycles of painful life is the Buddhist ideal.114

The Lotus Sutra is based on the premise that humans are born as ordinary human beings because of ignorance in a previous life or lives, involving notions of causality; karmic suffering. If this ignorance can be eradicated in the present world, the essential form of life as it was meant to be will be revealed in a future life. Because the fate of the individual is inseparably linked to the destiny of society, the ideal world is based upon the notion that the sufferings and sins of society are those of the individual and vice versa. Release from such accumulative karmic suffering into the next world is only achieved through exemplary practice and effort, such as the bodhisattva-like respect and concern for all sentient beings (similar to the character of Kenjū, or the simple farmer in the poem ‘Undaunted by the Rain’), which provides the chance for escape from suffering and a consequent eternal happiness for the world. This exemplary practice is seen in the 19

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to true happiness.120 This also demonstrates how exemplary practice provides the chance for escape from suffering. Kenji’s attitudes towards nature, life and death and transmigration are thus intrinsically intertwined, and his tales represent the continuous quest for an egoless, metaphysical intersubjectivity with the cosmos. These Buddhist concepts become relevant to the encoding and decoding of intersubjectivity in Kenji’s stories, inserting humans into the processes of nature, rather than simply using and understanding the patterns of nature symbolically as in the more anthropocentric humanist tradition. They also provide the basis for his unique ideal of a different dimension in which all beings, past present and future, could freely unite.

aforementioned notion of jiriki (self-power) that entails a release that is not simply for the self, but for the entire cosmos. Neither is it limited to being reborn after death, but includes all life in the past, present and future. A positive future is possible only if previous ignorance is abandoned; if not, life will be accompanied by karmic suffering.115 This in turn is related to the transmigration of the soul in that one’s karma results from the accumulated sufferings of others. Kenji thus saw his Lotus Sutra obligations as a commitment to the well-being of all sentient beings. Kenji’s struggle to overcome several asura (or negative) aspects of the self and all existence was a large part of his life, and the paradox of one living organism living at the expense of other lives is another fundamental cause of karmic suffering and a recurrent theme in Kenji’s literature. This problem of autophagy, where it is the tragedy of all life “to live by preying on each other,”116 was also a major reason for his vegetarianism. (Not all Buddhist sects are so concerned with this issue of autophagy. The Jōdo Sect – Kenji’s family sect – for example, does not practise vegetarianism.) Further, true Buddhist ‘wisdom’ is achieved through respect for the common truth in all things despite their differences. As Golley points out, while it is important to acknowledge that Kenji’s work understands everything as natural and unified, this does not mean that everything is the same.117 One of the most famous lines from Kenji’s preface (joron) to his ‘Outline of Agrarian Art’ (Nōmin Geijutsu Gairon Kōyō), shows his views on wisdom and equality: Individual happiness cannot be realised until all the world gains happiness.118 As Makoto Ueda indicates, Kenji also believed in a cosmic will and that all the aspirations and efforts of all individuals were part of this.119 On this point of a cosmic will, Japanese scholars often cite one of Kenji’s undated, unaddressed letters to demonstrate his preference for religion over science. Kenji wrote that while there are many stages of consciousness in the universe, the ultimate consciousness endeavours to bring all living beings

release and ‘different space’ (ikūkan): ‘this world’ and the ‘otherworld’ In Kenji’s stories, while respect for nature is paramount, and is founded on the belief that all creatures and natural elements are equally precious, his imaginings of the otherworld are grounded in his era’s most up-to-date scientific theories of time and space. These theories manifest in his tales through his concept of a fourth-dimensional (yojigen) ‘otherworld’ (mukōgawa or ano yo) or ‘different space’ (ikūkan). As Shirō Hara explains, ikūkan is an important concept that supports Kenji’s consciousness of cosmological space.121 Hara adds that it is also used in Kenji’s work to mean the world after death (tenshō - reincarnation), but that even though the concept refers to a space outside either this world or the galactic or planetary systems, Kenji still considered it as very real. Suzuki Kenji explains Miyazawa Kenji’s experience of real space as existence in a ‘different space.’122 As Umehara Takeshi points out, Kenji saw Buddhism as having a grand view of the world that is consistent with modern science.123 While Kenji’s tales sit firmly within the realm of the metaphysical, using a more expressionist mode that explores the 20

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psyche, as Golley indicates, Kenji also sought to unveil a truth beyond appearances.124 Colligan-Taylor similarly mentions that even though Kenji’s work did not copy external reality, it was “rooted in actual existence.”125 Golley further points to Kenji’s endeavour to describe the unseen world scientifically, convincingly arguing that he sought for the fusion of art and accuracy and the relationship between science and aesthetics.126 Within a Japan that was excited by theoretical physics, as Nishida Yoshiko explains, Kenji was inspired by the possibilities that Albert Einstein’s and Hermann Minkowski’s ideas on the fourth dimension held for imagining a truly interdependent consciousness.127 These physicists’ ideas inspired Kenji’s concept of ‘different space’ (ikūkan). Following the ideas of Onda Itsuo and Tanikawa Tetsuzō, Nishida suggests how Kenji’s concept of the fourth dimension (daiyojigen) surpassed Minkowski’s theory of time and space, bringing to them a “different layered time that is based on a consciousness of eternity.”128 Kenji’s struggle for the merger of aesthetics with scientific enquiry and religion can be seen in works such as his 1926 ‘Outline of Agrarian Art’ (Nōmin Geijutsu Gairon Kōyō), and his preface to his collection of poetry, Spring and the Demons (Haru to Shura).129 His ‘Outline of Agrarian Art’ was first presented as a part of a lecture series at the Hanamaki Agricultural College in 1926 in which he was developing the idea of peasant art.130 The following section comes from the Outline’s introduction:

single consciousness and a living entity. To live strong and true is to become aware of the galaxy within ourselves and to live according to its dictates. Let us search for true happiness of the world—the search for the path is in itself the path.131

Kenji’s appeal for discussion here seeks to blend science and religion into a superior sense of communality, a higher ‘single consciousness’ as a ‘living entity’ that is ‘aware of the galaxy within,’ Later in the Outline, Kenji’s makes another appeal; “…, first let us all become twinkling specks of dust and scatter in all directions in the sky.”132 This is a beautiful image of the interaction between the inner or outer landscapes of the psyche, the realm of nature and humans, the past, present and future. Moreover, because all phenomena are everchanging and have no permanent essence, no basis as a fixed material entity, the individual is similar. As suggested in his peritextual poem (often called a proem in English) that prefaces his poetry collection, Spring and The Demons, Kenji questions any sense of the individual as a phenomenon.133 In this poem, ‘The Phenomenon called I’ (Watashi to iu Genshō), the individual is like an electric AC lamp, a fluid transparent phenomenon with no unchangeable identity and entity.134 The poem concludes that all phenomena and substance are inextricably intertwined: “… just as everything is everyone in me / so I am everything in everyone.”135 As Umehara Takeshi explains, this means that whereas all things are one, the whole universe simultaneously exists in each and every thing. It is a cosmic will that exists in our minds, in this very moment, as the Buddha; a perfect goodness that aims at developing and perpetuating all life.136 These ideas of change and interpenetrative, interdependent existence mean that any sense of subjectivity in Kenji’s texts should be considered as a unification with the cosmos, which results in any individual ‘I’ as but an ‘empty’ fleeting illusion with no real essence. As Umehara observes, Kenji’s entire book of poems was about trying to prove the Buddhist view of an eternal cosmic life as an interpenetrative existence. Umehara further suggests that Kenji aimed to disprove the European

We are all farmers - we are so busy and our work is difficult. We want to find a way to live with the zest and vigour of our ancestors. Many of our ancient fore-fathers did live that way. I wish to hold discussion where there is communion among the facts of modern science, the experiments of the seekers of truth, and our intuition. Individual happiness cannot be realised until all the world gains happiness. The awareness of the ego starts with the individual and gradually evolves to that of the group, the society, and then the universe. Isn’t this the path the saints of yore trod and taught us? The new age is to be found in a world which shall become a

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ideas of materialism and temporal individuality that were then emergent in contemporary Japan.137 All these perspectives of an impermanent, immaterial, interpenetrative universe contrast with a more anthropocentric perspective which regards life as individuated and estranged from nature, as something to be held on to in order to attain a uniquely human potential. Notions of death, transmigration and reincarnation are not only related to respect for all creatures, but are also intricately connected with all entities in the world. A worldview that treats all sentient beings with true respect and all bodies, animate and inanimate, as impermanent with no static entity, and which sees death as part of a larger, transmigrational aspect of life, and where mundane life is seen as accumulated karmic suffering, will view the self as more fluid, signifying a more cosmic or less essentialised human subjectivity. As Nishida Yoshiko suggests, Kenji was also concerned with fourth-dimension limitlessness, with images of the eternal.138 This manifested in a ‘different space’ or ‘otherworld’ that provides not only the setting but also the point of animated interaction with the natural world; whether it be the heavens, sea, forest, or mountains or the phenomena within, that the protagonists and readers are invited to commune with. Takao Hagiwara sees this ‘different space’ as a non-dualistic space of ‘innocence’ in which the innocent belongs to the other side (mukōgawa) rather than to this world.139 He maintains that ‘innocence’ resides in “the space that subsumes both realms” (this and the other).140 He also mentions the idea of ‘nonimpededness’ in relation to the paradoxical interpenetration between the outer and inner natures. His premise rests on the idea that human loss of innocence comes from the loss a cosmic viewpoint, which in turn stems from an individuated ego that rationalises boundaries among things and stands on either side of the boundary. Kenji’s treatment of this motif leads to the representation of heterotopias as found in much fantastic children’s literature as sites of release from the world of here-and-now.141 In Kenji’s literature, these sites are expressed by means of images of a

dreamland or different space. Kenji’s literature represents a search for a simpler world or ‘dreamland’ without conflict or rivalry, a world where all living creatures can fraternise freely in a “vibrant exchange of life between humans and nature.”142 The reader is usually directed from familiar territory into an extraordinary world in a way which allows a union with nature. As Takao Hagiwara suggests, this is achieved by providing an experience where one can explore the world through different eyes; that is, from an inside perspective of the otherworld (ano yo) as an escape from this material world (kono yo).143 In his tales, Kenji utilised his home prefecture, Iwate, as this dreamland heterotopia. In his advertisement (kōkoku) for his 1924 publication of The Restaurant of Many Orders, he called it Īhatōbu: “Īhatōbu is the name of a particular place.” The advertisement continues: …it is the Iwate prefecture of Japan that really exists in the mind of the author as a dreamland […]. There, everything is possible. One can instantly jump over the field of snow and ice to travel toward the north, riding the great wind that circles around the earth, or one can talk with ants that crawl under the red cups of flowers. There, even sins and sorrows radiate in pure, holy light […]. The series of tales in this collection is, indeed, a part of the mental sketch of the author’s psyche.144

Kenji’s Īhatōbu thus becomes a heterotopia in which the self merges triumphantly with the universe. As Tatsumi Seika indicates, Kenji’s folkish tales create the feel of a beautiful Tibet in northeastern Iwate.145 His Īhatōbu relates to the sense of space beyond, a space that includes the realm of dreams, the Buddha’s land, and the realm of the dead.146 This space may be regarded as a heterotopia in which the reader can ‘lose’ the self and experience the different space of the psyche that Kenji himself experienced. Kenji’s idea of readers’ engagement with his literature fell under his cosmological principles of flux. The works to be investigated here are all what Kenji himself called ‘image sketches’ or ‘mental sketches’ (shinshō sukecchi) that arose out of his 22

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psyche and that he admitted he sometimes did not understand himself. On elaborating on the ambiguity of these tales, for instance, Kenji’s advertisement states that they only represent meaning for others at the level of the psyche:

inviting the reader into a world of fantasy that belongs to everyone.150 The elusive qualities of his work and the desire to connect with the inner psyche make the search for the ‘true meaning’ of any aspects of a particular tale rather intangible, yet it can be said that his imaginative works are imbued with an ineffable vision of nature.151 In Kenji’s literature the heterotopia of the otherworld, or that which has been termed different space, is the centrifugal place where the interpenetration among things brings ‘true happiness.’ This different space in Kenji’s literature also expresses his overall desire to rid this world of all material concerns and emotions. This is found in the notion of emptiness or a non-attachment that recognises interconnectivity through immateriality, transience and a transcendence beyond objectivity; an interpenetration between subject and object. The notion of the complete mutability of everything, including the individual, allows this vision of different space and provides the possibility of reconciliation between the individual subject (or consciousness) and nature. Such fusion between this and the otherworld ultimately aims to restore ‘true happiness’ through the fourth dimension (yojigen). Kenji’s special portrayal of the cosmological union with nature is evident, for example, in many of the tales to be dealt with in later chapters. In such tales as ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko) and ‘Snow Crossing’ (Yukiwatari), the protagonists enter the heterotopia of an extraordinary time and place to mingle with creatures and places of nature.152 ‘Wildcat’ also signifies the importance of equality by satirising the notion of ego through senseless competitiveness. The contrasting notions of the bodhisattva ‘innocence’ and asura ‘demons’ are also found in many of Kenji’s tales. As Hagiwara has noted, more manipulative ‘experienced’ characters are juxtaposed against an innocent or naive protagonist.153 While ‘Twin Stars’ (Futago no Hoshi) and ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ (Serohiki no Gōshu) deal with the former type of ‘experience,’ one of the most conspicuously naïve characters is Kenjū, in ‘Kenjū’s Park.’ His innocence stems from his limited intellectual capacity   which exaggerates his simplicity against the

[t]hey faithfully represent what occurred in the author’s imagination at particular moments …, [and] however ridiculous or abstruse they may appear, everyone, deep in his or her psyche, should certainly be able to understand them. They will be unintelligible only to mean and jaded adults.147

The preface that Kenji wrote for The Restaurant of Many Orders is also informative about the ambiguity of the tales,148 and about Kenji’s pantheistic views of the union between himself and nature which were based on his Buddhist faith: No matter how little we possess of the sweet liquids of our desire, we can always taste the beautiful transparency of the wind and drink in the glorious peach-coloured morning sunlight. Among the fields and groves, I have often seen awful tattered kimonos change into the most beautiful velvet or woollen cloth adorned with jewels. I like such food and clothing. I received these stories in the woods, fields, or railway tracks from rainbows and moonbeams. As I passed alone through the blue evening in the Oak groves or amidst the November mountain winds, I would stop with a shiver and experience an unmistakable feeling. I could not help but write them down exactly as I felt them. I cannot discern whether you will find some of them to your taste or whether you will find them forgettable. There may be parts that you cannot understand, but then, I cannot understand them either. You have no idea how much I hope even a few fragments or the endings of these little stories will become your true transparent food.149

Kenji literally felt he experienced and tasted the stories as he received them from the natural environment around his home, the rural prefecture of Iwate. He eschews the role of storyteller for that of “a messenger of impressions originating in nature,” 23

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callousness of his angry neighbour and against the insensitivity of his young peers.154 Yet, the story’s significance suggests that, in his simple love and joy of nature, he has a Buddhist power (jūriki) that makes him wiser than all the rest. This juxtaposition of bodhisattva-like innocence and asura-like experience can also be seen in other tales: in ‘The Twin Stars’, for instance, where the young stars are situated against the more worldly and manipulative Comet and Scorpion; in ‘The Nighthawk Star’ (Yodaka no Hoshi) between Nighthawk and Hawk, and in ‘The Bears of Mount Nametoko’ (Nametoko no Yama no Kuma) between Kojūrō, the hunter, and the bears. While the division is not quite so explicit in other tales such as ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ or even ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’, it is, nonetheless, present in the pervasive motifs of competition, rivalry and pride.155 The concept of innocence is perhaps dealt with most poignantly in Kenji’s poetic ‘Yamanashi’ (Wild Pear), discussed in Chapter 6. Two young pears are incorporated into the interpenetrative cycle of life after having to overcome their fear of being consumed. The issues of consumption and ‘experience’ are satirised and treated more explicitly in one of Kenji’s most oft-pictorialised tales, ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten), the subject of Chapter 7. The tale explicitly questions humanity’s fraught relationship with nature and modernity when two hunters find themselves in the position of being hunted.

other informed readers. Even though less experienced readers may not immediately recognise them, they will be learning while reading, especially as picture books are often mediated through adults and educators (and, as indicated earlier, through the canonisation process). In the chapters that follow, Kenji’s ideologies towards the natural world and ‘different space’ provide the basis for discussions of constructions of subjectivity in the pictorial representations of each story. The above outline shows how Kenji’s tales entail a protest against humanist ideologies. The ideas that run through Kenji’s literary works are intrinsically linked to his unique cosmology which was influenced by a blend of his religious and scientific attitudes to nature. Kenji’s worldview sees all beings, animate and inanimate, as truly equal. They are also impermanent with no static entity. Because of the very nature of the world, nothing remains the same even for a moment, and this affects perceptions of life. Death becomes part of a larger, transmigrational cycle of life, where mundane life is seen as accumulated karmic suffering. A worldview that incorporates interpenetrative notions of nature contrasts with the humanistic ideologies inherent in much Japanese children’s literature. This has clear significance for intertextual constructions of subjectivity, where there is no such entity as a material individual self. Given the continuing receptivity to Kenji’s tales, replete with his unique blend of scientific naturalism and Buddhist ideals, the ensuing argument will operate on the assumption that the modern picture books are also seeking to reiterate Buddhist epistemological beliefs and ideas through the pictures. It is beyond the scope of this investigation to deal with all of the possible cultural morés inherent in the texts (either when the tales were written or at present), so the discussion in following chapters is limited to specific Buddhist significances. It concentrates on how the artists engage with the images of the psyche that connect with nature, focussing on how the combination of picture and verbal text works to convey Kenji’s dynamic view of nature. The modern Japanese picture books expressively

implications for picture book exploration The ideological considerations and coding of nature that are grounded in Kenji’s dynamic Buddhist ideologies have implications for the implied reader. They affect the way the phenomenological world is represented, influencing ideas of subjectivity. This provides one of the foundations for exploration of the Japanese picture books. A Japanese audience familiar with Buddhist ideals will recognise many of them in the texts and realise the symbolic and metaphoric implications, as will 24

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work to enhance a more dialogic reading relationship.156 As this project primarily deals with the artistic responses to the texts, the question then arises as to how such ideas are being obtained (or otherwise) in the pictures. The investigation specifically demonstrates how Kenji’s Buddhist ideologies may (1) be interpreted to signify a more cosmic or selfless subjectivity, and (2) interact with cultural metanarratives that go about signifying messages to children. Before going further, it should be noted that the inclusion of artistic representation gives rise to a further problematic implicit in analysis of the pictures; that is, that pictures are as another signifying textual representation that can operate to either displace or reconstruct the surface or manifest meaning of the pre-text. Inherent in this polemic is the notion of authenticity to Kenji’s pre-text.

Does the artwork, for instance, merely operate as a simple retelling of story; or does it provide a temporal nexus between when the text was written and the present, representing an historical moment in time or space to revisit the past; or does it reinscribe certain metaphysical ideologies of life, or is it perhaps working as an interpretation, leading to some broader significance? If some of the artwork does indeed work to reinscribe Buddhist notions of nonself and subjectivity (as is the assumption here), how is this being achieved? Chapter 2’s discussion of artistic codes operating in Japanese art and picture books establishes the basis for dealing with the underlying question of authenticity to the pre-texts. In addition, it provides explanation of how the interplay between cultural, artistic and discoursal coding may affect the reading of the pictures and texts.

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2 Reading Japanese Visual Art and Picture Books

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“the innocent eye is a myth.”1 Bill Nichols explains that the notion of ‘simplicity’ or an ‘innocent eye’ arises because ideological elements within the production of meaning are “invested with meanings that naturalize themselves as timeless, objective, obvious.”2 The process of representation itself, the investment of meanings as a material social process, often remains hidden. This applies as much to the artwork as the narratives and such culturally acquired reading knowledge can be ideologically powerful. As Kress and Van Leeuwen further suggest, any notion of simplicity is “always based on a particular cultural orientation and ideological stance, and [is] the result of intensive training.”3 Perry Nodelman, too, insists that artistic knowledge is culturally acquired and meaning and interpretation of visual images is often completed through cultural conditioning and the use of prior knowledge of other texts.4 Images can only appear ‘natural’ or ‘simple’ after much practice and, children’s literature in the form of picture books offers the site for such training. Just as socio-cultural factors affect subjectivity and reading, graphic codes in picture books are intrinsic to the construction of ideologies and subjectivities. As Jane Doonan notes, picture books are cultural objects.5 In the same way that broader cultural ideologies affect the way the phenomenal world is read and represented, the textual processes that include both visual and verbal coding affect how significances are formed and meaning is created. This is, of course, similarly the case in the

hile kenji’s tales are now outside of the temporal and spatial social context in which they were initially written, they are being reinvigorated and re-visioned in picture book form. Like words, pictures are culturally encoded and affect higher meanings. The power of the original author’s work may be changed by cultural and contextual constraints and by the artistic reinterpretations. Contemporary illustrators are therefore reinterpreting the tales’ meanings for modern readers. This chapter places the picture books of Kenji’s 1920s narratives in the context of Japanese visual culture and reviews the artistic codes, conventions and narrative strategies that are operating in Japanese art and picture books. It also explores the significance of different levels of artistic modality within the Japanese context, making reference to the effects of such modalities in pictorial representations of Kenji’s work. In the process, it considers the issue of how the artists, partly because of the subordination of the artwork to the written text, need to find inventive ways to connect with Kenji’s fixed narratives.

artistic coding There is no such thing as a simple uncoded text, be it verbal or visual. As Ernst Gombrich states,

Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); p. 23; Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

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interaction between text and images in the pictorial re-visionings of Kenji’s work. Picture books, with their two modes of discourse, utilise artistic forms that work with the text to implicitly or explicitly promulgate ideologies. The interplay between the artwork and the words creates narrative positions for implied readers and constructs certain subjectivities. The different artistic codes and conventions hence interrelate with point of view in both written and pictorial discourse to shape attitudes. Both cultural and artistic traditions, then, form the basis of cultural coding and have implications for how the verbal and pictorial interaction in picture books is read. A Japanese audience familiar with certain cultural and artistic ideals will inherently understand or interpret the texts accordingly and gain a sense of the symbolic and metaphoric implications, consciously or unconsciously. Even though less experienced readers may not recognise  the implicit ideologies, cultural proximity and experience will facilitate understanding of texts which are often mediated through adults and educators (and through the canonisation process). It is for this reason that, from a position outside Japanese culture, Japanese pictorial coding needs to be investigated a bit further in order to understand what kinds of subjectivity are being inscribed in pictorial representations of Kenji’s tales.

the dialogic relationship with the subject matter. Because such matters are more complex than meets the eye, it is pertinent here to consider what the notion of ‘artlessness’ or ‘simplicity’ might mean in relation to the history of Japanese art and literature. Discussion of some of the more enduring conventions from a long syncretic history (from before Japan’s closed Tokugawa Era in the 1600s) will help comprehend aspects of the modern pictorial representations of Kenji’s works and contextualise the discussions in later chapters. As Stephen Addiss suggests, despite all Japan’s borrowing from other countries of many generations, artistic styles have always been modified to suit the Japanese temperament and vision.6 For instance, Yamato-e, paintings considered to be typically ‘Japanese’, arose in opposition to those thought to be typically ‘Chinese’ or kara-e. (Yamato is an ancient name for Japan.) Nihonga (literally, Japanese art), a “modern neo-traditionalist painting style … arose in the Meiji period (1868–1912) as traditional painting schools responded to the challenges of western painting styles and techniques.”7 Evidence shows that Japanese experimented and adapted Western realism from the middle of the sixteenth century when the Portuguese first arrived in Japan.8 Gary Hickey suggests that representational modes were considered and rejected because the regularity of linear perspective and chiaroscuro “conflicted with Japanese traditional taste which emphasised the abstract poetic qualities of a painting.”9 Perspectival shading was eschewed in favour of an emphasis on the beauty of line and shape. In a similar vein, Hibbett observes that even though the tales and prints of the seventeenth century moved away from the prevailing didacticism towards a more realistic mode, these tales and their accompanying woodblock illustrations were by no means representational in the Western imitative style that sought mimesis. Appreciation of these Japanese tales and prints chiefly requires “a willingness to forgo the illusionistic conventions of Western realism, rather than [needing] detailed knowledge of their exotic background.”10

japanese artistic traditions In the same way that artistic realism in the West is based on a set of conventions, Japanese art is based on conventions of ‘truth’ that favour the non-representational mode. The earliest literary and artistic remains show that Japanese artistic conventions have generally avoided symmetry and regularity. The artists who depict Kenji’s narratives are working within a long-standing aesthetic tradition that has a preference for abstraction, asymmetry and a sophisticated ‘artlessness’ or ‘simplicity.’ These less representational modes also work to deepen

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indicate narrative time.13 Other such patterning includes the formal layers of haze floating between separate scenes in scroll paintings, and the psychological use of disproportion, particularly to focus attention on human figures. Houses are roofless for interior scenes, and their lines slant back. This technique defines the shallow stage according to the principles of diagonal projection for an oblique view upon narrow, unfolding scenes, as the viewer of the horizontal scroll unwinds the visual panorama of a more remote world.14 Similar perspectival conventions can be found in Mitsuhashi Setsuko’s 1971 depiction of Kenji’s Yodaka no Hoshi (The Nighthawk Star), where she uses three temporal viewpoints in one picture. Philosopher Umehara Takeshi points to the artist’s lack of fixed perspective as a return to what he calls the long forgotten tradition of multiple viewpoints.15 Elsewhere, Umehara credits this (and another of Mitsuhashi’s pictures) with paving the way for expressing ‘religious emotion’ in Kenji’s tales.16 Besides pointing to traditional reading conventions, such an opinion is indicative of the inclination to utilise Kenji’s work and its accompanying art to forge nostalgia for ‘lost traditions.’ In addition to the Japanese rejection of linear perspective, a deep-seated admiration for the simplicity of the natural, unpainted materials and bare lines found in Japanese shrine and temple architecture extends to a preference for monochromes over bright colours. In direct contrast to the Western notion that; “black lines on white paper cannot convey the moods of color,”17 the use of a brilliant colour will inevitably limit the suggestive range. For example, if a flower is painted red, it can be no other colour. In Japanese tradition the imagination is more fully exercised by the black outline of a flower on white paper.18 ‘Simplicity’ thereby allows the power of suggestion to let the imagination roam beyond the literal facts of a discourse. ‘Simplicity’ also relates to the imaginative powers and yūgenism (the mystery and depth of

Especially since the nineteenth century, many Japanese artists have taken up Western modernist artistic conventions, and this is found in Japanese picture books. This art is often erroneously seen as completely Western. As Bert Winther-Tamaki has noted, the contemporary look of Abstract Expressionism suggests a “sensibility redolent with premodern Japanese aesthetics.”11 He adds that ‘exotic’ Japanese qualities such as crepuscularity, serenity, depth, and mystery can evoke a kind of yūgenism (mystery and depth). Picture book and other Japanese art arises, then, from some enduring codes and conventions that hold with a more ‘traditional’ Japanese preference for the abstract or less representational modes. This preference has continued through modern and postmodern art and aesthetics. Culturally learned behaviour such as reading direction and constructions of point of view are also important in the reading of Japanese picture books. In contrast to the Western custom of reading books horizontally from left to right, early Japanese narrative pictures led the eye vertically from right to left. Tokugawa illustrators  inherited these reading conventions from the painters of horizontal scrolls and ukiyo-zōshi illustrations. (Ukiyo-zōshi are ‘tales of the floating world’ of the Genroku era (1688–1704) and are usually rather earthy, humorous narratives accompanied by pictures.) These pictures often reacted against the written text to produce humour and irony.12 They were scanned from right to left, in the same direction as that of reading the written text. Rather than being examined from a fixed point of view, however, visual patterns in the ukiyo-zōshi illustrations and in Japanese art often manipulate spatial relationships to embody the elements of time and literary emphasis. As Howard Hibbett shows, a picture might show the same figure twice (or more), in the adjacent rooms of a house, or on the opposite sides of a wall or screen, for example, following a traditional narrative principle (moving from right to left in the direction of reading) to

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things). In his book, The Unknown Craftsman, philosopher and founder of the mingei (folk craft) movement in 1920s Japan, Yanagi Sōetsu (1889– 1961), draws links between yūgenism and another traditional aesthetic, shibusa, the understatement, restraint and austerity that sometimes translates as ‘simplicity.’19 As Keene points out, in Japanese art the tradition of simplicity, bare lines and monochromes suggests the yūgen quality of mystery that “can be apprehended by the mind, but […] cannot be expressed in words.”20 Yūgen may also be expressed by, for example, the sight of a thin cloud veiling the moon or an autumn mist swathing scarlet leaves on a mountainside in contrast to a perfectly clear, cloudless sky, or a full moon or blossoms in full bloom, such perfection actually repelling the imagination. Beginnings may suggest what is to come and ends may suggest what has been.21 As outlined in An Introductory Picture Gallery for Parents and Children, whereas Western art usually depicts darkness and light according to realistic conventions, Japanese artists have preferred to express the world of night through the imagination within. 22 For example, a candle, the glow of a torch, moon or stars may be utilised to signify night in a picture which seems to represent clear daylight. The dark colour of haze or mist may also be used to express the evening darkness which, in turn, evokes a mood or tone. Yamato-e, for example, does not use naturalistic conventions of light and shading. Shading, rather, will shape or depict the moulding and structure of objects on the page.23 Such ‘simplicity’ further enhances the power of suggestion and “depends on a willingness to admit that meanings exist beyond what can be seen or described.”24 This abstractness or abstruseness in Japanese traditional aesthetics thus brings into play an imperfection which evokes a freedom of spirit.

The favouring of suggestion and imaginative powers over the confines of the realistic often suggests a metaphysical experience or meaning. Ann Hill has noted, for instance, that Japanese painting and the later manga (cartoon) sketches of Hokusai (1760–1849) were “more interested in depicting the spirit of the object than the reality.”26 Yanagi further discusses the Japanese respect for the irregular and imperfect as an intrinsic necessity of beauty: The precise and perfect carries no overtones, admits of no freedom; the perfect is static and regulated, cold and hard. We in our own human imperfections are repelled by the perfect, since everything is apparent from the start and there is no suggestion of the infinite.27

As Keene notes, another important aspect of beauty is the frailty of human existence: The Japanese … expressed their preference for varieties of beauty which most conspicuously betrayed their impermanence. Their favourite flower is of course the cherry blossom, precisely because the period of blossoming is so poignantly brief and the danger that the flowers may scatter even before one has properly seen them is so terribly great.28

The samurai has traditionally been compared to cherry blossoms in his idealistic desire to drop dramatically at the height of his strength and beauty, rather than become an old soldier who would fade away gradually.29 A connection can be drawn then, between the evocative irregularity and imperfection in Japanese art and literature – that which Yanagi and Keene describe as a tradition of simplicity – and the Buddhist view of impermanence and the transience and insignificance of human existence as we know it. Kenji’s own opinions about woodblock prints echo the abovementioned views where he says that artists should render fine art with only the ‘barest essentials.’30 Kenji collected and wrote about art, including writing an advertisement for an exhibition of ukiyo-e prints,31 but his ‘Discourse

Beauty must have some room, must be associated with freedom. Freedom, indeed, is beauty. The love of the irregular is a sign of the basic quest for freedom.25

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on Woodblock Prints’ (Ukiyoe Hanga no Hanashi) is more revealing. Here he rues the explicit expression of material matter, writing that such explicitness is didactic and unnecessary, “making one feel that only one glance would be quite sufficient.” He explains that while many overseas critics consider the expressions of woodblock characters ‘incomprehensible’ and ‘mysterious,’ their artistic principles are similar to those of the Noh mask drama. The identical, non-changing expressions (of the masks) and the symbolic principles inherent in postures and expressions conjure a ‘super-human’ (chōjinteki) image.32 Kenji outlines five aesthetic ideals for graphic art: (1) purity, which is captured through the extreme simplicity of colour and shape and is evaluated through the artist’s ability to sublimate theme; (2) the harmonious rhythm, which contains a high level of rhythmic musical or poetic emotions. These are carried through the fixed individuality of the wood that keeps one close rhythm, like a ‘singing line,’33 and through the harmony that arises through limitations that restrict the excessive use of different colours; (3) the strikingly mysterious quality in woodblock prints. They can seem to be expressionless, but rather expression is reduced to a minimum by the special limitations of the form to supplement the viewer’s imagination and create much more psychological depth; (4) the beauty of the craftsmanship or the technological artistic charm which does not stop with design, penmanship or colouring. Horio Seishi elaborates on Kenji’s idea by explaining that this process involves the natural occurrence of feelings which emerge through the course of production (techniques of shading without colour, and half relief etc) and the essence of the materials; (5) the lack of extravagance in ukiyo-e’s ‘craftsmanlike’ way of production.34 Kenji saw this latter as a condition for proletarian art in the ability for prints to be mass produced from the same cut. This meant they were able, in principle, to be owned by anyone.35 Kenji’s views here clearly show his preference for a less referential aesthetic that accords with longerstanding Japanese traditions and encourages a

deeply dialogic response to the appreciation of visual art. Most of the enduring Japanese aesthetic conventions also involve a deep understanding and respect for nature, in both artistic representation of subject matter and ‘natural’ or intuitive artistic responses and approaches. Humanity’s relationship to nature is often kept in check through the enduring characteristics of humour and playfulness in Japanese art. As Addiss suggests, human foibles are often lampooned, but not with sarcastic intent.36 Laughing at such shortcomings repudiates notions of human superiority, reminding people of their insignificance amongst all other sentient beings with whom they share the earth. Intuitive production and response are perhaps even more important to the contemplation of humanity’s relationship to the natural world. As Addiss notes, in Japanese art the texture and qualities of the materials used are often brought to the fore to evoke a sense of natural spontaneity in technique and also to highlight the rhythm and forces of nature.37 Hickey, for instance, observes the longstanding appreciation by the Japanese for “the expressive potential of indeterminate space, referred to literally as the beauty of plenitude white (yohaku no bi) where artists treated non-descriptive areas between forms not as negative space but as a vital entity that existed beyond detail.”38 In contrast to symmetry, which implies humanistic rationality and timeless balance, the importance of space, often empty or open, is allied with asymmetrical and abstract compositions to suggest both emotion and a sense of movement and change, like those of forces in the natural world.

reading codes and convention: dialogic immersion Reading art involves a similar ability to intuit the artless process of absorptive creation where the artist may lose all sense of duality between the self

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and the work, communing with it in an intuitive absorption that allows it to take on its own form.39 As Yanagi points out, the ability to see or read “intuitively means entering the sphere of Non-duality,” involving a loss of both subjectivity and objectivity where “the subject is itself the object, and the object is itself the subject.”40 This kind of merging or loss of self through art is very familiar to Japanese (and indeed, artists in general) in the art of the brush: all literate Japanese children practise calligraphy (shodō) from a very young age.41 Through shodō (literally ‘the way of the brush’), they experience the notion of the body and spirit becoming one with their implement through practice and focus. The ideograph that results on the page expresses the integrative emotion or being of its creator. In its truest artistic representation this image becomes an object of such expressive  beauty that the original characters or words often become semantically unintelligible. They are instead imbued with the beauty and emotion of the creative process which subsumes the self in an example of ephemeral absorption of body and spirit. Not only do such lower modality artistic aesthetics work towards a sense of immanence that suggests a merger with the cosmos, but they also promote the reading experience of impermanence  and ethereality that coheres with Buddhist non-duality.

generally be considered more lifelike than a sketch of the same subject, thus having higher modality. As Stephens and McCallum suggest, modality can be considered as similar to register in that it is fundamental to how the retelling artist selects the basic discourse for the artwork.43 For the purposes of this discussion, the definition of modality utilised here will be based on models of photographic naturalism as realism. Indeed, within a modern Japanese culture that has integrated and transformed international conventions, the artists, critics and readers of Kenji’s work (and Kenji himself) are usually aware of the signification associated with high or low modality levels. The terminology is useful in discussing the interrogation, confirmation or rejection of a more rationalist status quo. Like language and art, however, modality is culturally constructed in relation to what counts as real.44 It is clear that a different system of ‘reality’ will operate in a cultural system where the metanarratives that surround Kenji’s primarily Buddhist work are operating to construct a truth that reaches beyond physical reality. As Hickey suggests, Buddhist truth lies in a sense of ‘mu,’ nothingness, and in silence, which in the visual arts has involved a minimalist approach.45 The sense of the interplay between the finite and infinite, movement and stillness – in short, the time and space that create an uncertain reality which suggests a different, transcendent space – is redolent of the Buddhist notion of (non-) being, (non-) self and (non-) subjectivity that favours a oneness with the metaphysical world. This system also creates a different kind of cosmological or interpenetrative subjectivity with the natural world. The strong tradition of lower modality art in Japanese aesthetics is therefore culturally charged with more authority than plain iconic representation. (Along the scale of iconic representation, low modality modes are known as indexical or symbolic in contrast with plain iconic representation as high modality.) As John Clark points out, the privileging of syncretism or ambiguity in modern Asian

reading low modality Part of what has come to be seen as the Japanese artistic aesthetic also relates to low levels of modality. Modality in language usually relates to a sliding scale of representation in proximity to credibility. Where high modality represents a high level of reliability or reality, low modality represents lower levels of probability. Like language, pictures and visual images also possess degrees of modality, where part of the interpersonal metafunction usually revolves around convincing viewers that the ‘truth value’ of a ‘visual statement’ is intrinsically true-to-life.42 A photograph, for instance, would

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art, tends to value less fixed, more multivocal readings and subject positions.46 Stylised, flat or abstract colouring, light and shade or texture tend to draw the reader into the work. According to Nodelman, when scanning a picture, children tend to give equal attention to all parts, so reading pictures, and indeed, the ability to pick out and focus on the human figure as a central  way to explain the picture would appear to be  learned (humanist) behaviour.47 The less representational Japanese artwork, especially that which de-privileges or subsumes humanity, is inculcating ways of reading that encourage a cosmological way of looking at or being in the world. Abstract artwork or a seemingly simple artlessness that signifies ‘emptiness’ or at least encourages one to interact with unseen or unseeable aspects of the universe encourages a loss or suppression of subjectivity which, in turn, coheres with the ideologies inherent in Kenji’s works.

abstractions that move further away from mere story replication operate even more dialogically by permitting less restrained points of view, giving freer voice to both characters and readers, and this can be seen with relation to pictorial representations of Kenji’s work. The creation of multiple subject positions for readers in lower modality re-visionings of Kenji's stories will be more ideologically powerful in creating non-humanist subjectivities than more representational replications of phenomena or story events.

artistic representation of kenji’s work Such reading modes, cultural codes and preferences for (non-)representational art have significant implications for how different modalities might be operating and read when art is produced in conjunction with Kenji’s words. There are at least two canonical demands operating around Kenji’s texts: one on the written text, and one on the artwork. As Kenji’s original words always accompany these particular picture book re-visionings, the bond between word and picture is much closer than that which David Lewis has suggested applies to more conventional picture book creations.49 It is therefore important to explore both the canonical demands with relation to artistic re-visionings, and the dialogic operation of modalities in the interaction between word and picture. A consideration of scholarly responses to certain types of artistic conventions reveals much about reading conventions, constructions of subjectivities, and their ideological construction. Indeed, Japanese critiques of illustrated versions of Kenji’s stories show a canonical concern with finding or illustrating the ‘truth’ (shinjitsu) or ‘essence’ (honshitsu) of his work. These critiques are revealing because, despite the polyphony in Kenji’s narratives and their pictorialisations, any such search for ‘truth’ represents a monologic demand for particularities, even if such demands are for an emotional,

subjectivities and narrative point of view – monologic (or implicitly polyphonic) to dialogic (or explicitly polyphonic) relationship Different artistic styles also display leanings ranging from the more monologic in effect to the more radically dialogic. As Robyn McCallum points out, monologic texts deny both characters and readers agency by repressing or marginalising the discourse of characters and of implied readers.48 Whereas the more literal or replicatory artistic renderings of a story may attempt to ‘fix’ the words in a more monologic way, abstract art usually operates in a more dialogic manner. As inferred by the processes mentioned above, abstract artwork has a lower modality than representational artwork. Abstract pictures will be much more multivoiced than the closedoff meanings in more monologic pictorial discourse  that replicates story events or participants. Whereas all picture books are dialogic in nature,

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spiritual or philosophical ‘essence’ over a replicatory ‘truth’ to story events. There are at least two conflicting monologic concerns operating here; one with the ‘truth’ of Kenji’s metaphysical or cosmological ideals, and another with the replicatory ‘truth’ of the story events. The critics’ arguments form part of the ideologically driven metanarrative that surrounds Kenji’s work and arise from potential artistic resistance to, distortion of, or disassociation with the pre-texts. Besides now-entrenched demands that Kenji’s words not be altered, many scholars disapprove of any illustration of Kenji’s narratives. This opposition is often based on the argument that Kenji never intended his tales to be fully pictorialised. Despite Kenji himself having created at least one illustration for one tale and having chosen an illustrator for his self-published Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten, it is argued that he wanted people to ‘see’ his images by means of what he himself referred to as “shinshō suketchi” (mental or image sketches).50 Criticisms usually cohere in their censure of artistic disregard for Kenji’s words and the failure to adequately depict his ‘world’ or his ‘word pictures.’51 Matsui Tadashi, for instance, suggests that Kenji’s writing is full of word pictures that evoke (rather than describe) imaginative scenes, unlike the minute scenic descriptions in Hans Christian Andersen’s tales52 Kobayashi Toshiya too, despite having illustrated picture books of Kenji’s tales for about thirty years, has suggested that Kenji’s narratives do not need pictures to fill in or make up for the words. He states that whoever reads them can draw their own “scene-by-scene impression on their hearts and minds.”53 He reports, though, that he was motivated to illustrate Kenji’s tales by ‘indifferent’ picture books that “forced individualistic, biased images or fixed characters which could only be damaging.”54 He further proposes that it is probably the strangeness and mystery within the tales that led him to address this confusion (mayoi) in picture books for children as he wanted to make the stories easier to understand.55 In order to achieve this, he says, it is “necessary to faithfully replace Kenji’s stories, written as picture-words, with the austerity of

word-pictures, just like musicians who use the musical score of a scenario as the basis of a musical recital.”56 Even so, such “word-pictures” by the very dictates of the canon must accompany Kenji’s original words, so in any such ‘faithful replacement,’ we again see monologic concerns. Many critics like Matsui and Amazawa also refer to the difficulty of illustrating Kenji’s tales.57 Amazawa points out that despite the seeming contradiction in terms, while the tales are fresh and vivid (shinsen; seisen, or senretsu),58 “no matter what group you take they are not simple (tanjun de wa arimasen).”59 As indicated above, the ‘difficulty’ of Kenji’s pre-existing texts (pre-texts) lies not in the density of language, description or even narrative structure, but in their metaphorical and philosophical ambiguities. Hagiwara Masayoshi, in recognising children’s sharp perceptiveness to Kenji’s expression (with regard to the tale of ‘Wild Pear’ – Yamanashi) suggests that adults need to learn to see the pervasive transparency and the sensitivity of the metaphoric expression that supports it.60 All these attitudes show a monologic concern with the ‘truth’ of metaphoric expression that offers a higher spiritual vision than any equally monologic demands for particularities. Because any pictorial re-visioning is not only situated in relation to the culture which has produced it, but also to its pre-text, the privileging of Kenji’s verbal narratives must, by definition, limit artistic freedom.61 As Kenji’s pre-text is the fixed basis of the artwork, the artists cannot be true picture book ‘makers’ in the sense that one person creates the words and the pictures together. Artists nonetheless have to be inventive about how they work with such a pre-text. Moreover, given Kenji’s renown in Japan, the length of the works, and the steady chorus of demand from many Japanese scholars that any artistic representation portray the ‘essence’ of Kenji’s ‘world’ (as opposed to the specifics of his tales), to achieve all the demands of the canon would be well-nigh impossible for the artist. The pure intangibility of Kenji’s cosmological vision also makes the representation of his work a great artistic challenge. 34

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Yama no Kuma’ (The Bears of Mount Nametoko). (The latter was never completed, however.) Munakata cut a further seven plates of Kenji’s poem ‘Ame ni mo Makezu’ (Undaunted by the Rain) in 1944.63 (For the first two plates of Munakata’s artistic rendition of this poem, see the full-page picture before the Introduction to this book). Munakata’s speedy creative technique followed the mingei credo of beauty in handcrafted, everyday materials. He produced rough-cut woodblock prints that are powerful in their sharpness of line and imbued with a unique spiritual energy that stemmed from his deeply Buddhist belief that his art proceeded from the subconscious as a manifestation of nature.64 Other artists who have depicted Kenji’s narratives such as Kim Tschang Yeul and Lee Ufan (discussed later) are also profoundly influenced by Buddhist philosophies. Their artistic motivations and abstract forms not only underline the anti-humanist significances in Kenji’s work, but again bring into relief the dialectic of the art having to be culturally true in some way; that is, whether the artwork in its relationship with the pre-text should be pursuing the preservation of some kind of Japanese or Buddhist heritage, or whether it should be seeking to confirm logocentric forces that express a more rational, external reality more cognisant with humanist ideals. The aesthetic appreciation for lower modality levels is congruent with Kenji’s expressionist writing, which is dialogic in nature, full of ambiguities ripe for existential exploration. As seen above, his work is often declaimed as ‘difficult,’ probably because of his decentring of the human. In a similar vein to the ‘absorptive process of creation’, Hara describes Kenji's depictions of human interpenetration with the cosmos as requiring an ‘absorptive understanding’ (see further discussion below). Kenji’s work (which was itself always in flux as evidenced in his constant revisions) avoids monologic closure and suggests an infinity or ‘nothingness’ which coheres with Buddhist beliefs about the mutability of all life. Abstract art inherently disturbs logocentric epistemologies.

An intrinsic part of the artistic relationship with the pre-text revolves around what aspects of the tales the artists can respond to. As mentioned above, one challenge for artists is whether to forge an artistic relationship with the metaphorical aspects of Kenji’s narratives or whether to depict a more literal, ‘replicatory’ representation of story events or phenomena. The first choice, in dialogue with Kenji’s pre-text, would operate to reject Japan’s modernist and relatively dominant humanist metaethic (where ‘truth’ lies in the uniqueness of the individual and ideas of selfhood are essential), while the second would seek to ‘retell’ the tale with illustrations that ‘echo’ the words in a more monologic ‘narrative illustration’ that works more to confirm humanist ideologies. While this replicatory mode may appear straightforward, however, it is never completely monologic. As Nodelman and Lewis have pointed out, ‘narrative illustration’ is not as simple as it appears because pictures rarely offer the same information as the words.62 In the case of Kenji’s fixed words, the paradox for any illustrator is that new pictures can only work to nuance the existing narrative which is intrinsically anti-humanist. Regardless of whether the artwork is ‘traditional’ or ‘postmodern,’ when it is more polyphonic it is ‘truer’ to the decentring or multivocal aspects of Kenji’s original narratives and is thus working to promote less humanist ideals. Indeed, several artistic representations of Kenji’s works have been motivated by specific interest in their Buddhist aspects. For instance, Munakata Shikō (1903–1975), internationally renowned for his Buddhist woodcuts, was impressed with the spirituality of Kenji’s poems and stories. Munakata is commonly associated with the Japanese folk art (mingei) movement of the early 20th century, and is famous for works such as The Ten Great Disciples of the Buddha. He was awarded the Japanese government’s Order of Culture in 1970. Munakata illustrated Kenji’s ‘The Biography of Gusukōbudori’ (Gusukōbudori no Denki) for the journal ‘Jidō Bungaku’ (Children’s Literature) in 1932. In 1936 he carved the text and a total of twenty-two pictures for Kenji’s ‘Nametoko 35

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As indicated earlier, meanings are affected by illustrators’ choices of media for the stories they help to tell.65 The Japanese artists have chosen vastly differing media and styles with varying levels of modality to depict or interact with Kenji’s stories. In their artistic re-visioning, attempts to depict the spirit of the works rather than their ‘reality’ are particularly evident in stylised techniques which, even in their modernist styles, all hark back to older Japanese aesthetic conventions. As Umehara’s earlier comments on artwork of Kenji’s tales indicate, some of the more enduring Japanese artistic conventions have been resuscitated in the modern artistic representations of Kenji’s work, expressing their spiritual or metaphysical elements. Along with metafictive strategies that, for instance, utilise parody or foreground the material qualities of the artwork, lower modality art interpellates the reader into the story as subject,66 constructing more interrogative, dialogic reading and viewing positions. The rejection of realist conventions in the artwork accompanying Kenji’s tales coheres with a kind of multi-focalism that operates to insert readers into more immersive points of view, into the rhythms of nature or life rather than simply observing nature as analogous to life. Another major factor mentioned in Japanese scholarly criticism of artistic re-presentation of Kenji’s tales is the desire for children to create their own internal images of Kenji’s pre-texts because illustration limits the use of the imagination.67 As Nodelman points out, however, pictures can also expand our experience, and both words and pictures can “exercise our imaginations by giving us something definite and new to think about,” something that may have been denied by the limitations of the mind.68 Although he makes the point that this may not apply to pictures for stories not originally intended to be illustrated (like those in this group), he rightly points out that a good set of pictures may “justify its own existence by showing us something we never suspected before ….”69 Even though artists like Satō Kunio and Kobayashi Toshiya have expressed the desire to help children ‘understand’ Kenji’s pre-texts,70 their artwork tends

towards abstraction and multifocalisation, thus indicating different Japanese reading codes that cohere with the use of the imagination. The more abstruse the accompanying artwork, the more it underscores the polyphonic and dialogic ideologies of existence inherent in Kenji’s narratives. Low modality artwork presents the reader with the opportunity to deploy various strategies to relate to the pre-text in a way that encourages a more cosmological way of being. The construction of these dialogic subjectivities is further connected to the metanarratives that operate within and around the texts. One renowned scholar who is searching for a type of ‘truth’ from any artistic re-visioning is Hara Shirō. This search for ‘true meaning’ characterises a point of paradox for the artist; how is the virtually inexpressible to be represented in the artwork?. In his scepticism about certain ‘fashionable’ versions of Kenji’s work (like animated film or manga), Hara compares shikishin nihō (the combination of the two laws of matter and spirit or body and mind) with Shklovsky’s (1893–1984) ‘difference’ or estrangement. He expresses the desire for an “absorptive understanding” (shikidoku) of the “possibilities for [the work’s] genuinely original meaning” (shin no gengi no kanōsei).71 Hara uses Nichiren’s (1222 –1282) own writings to explain shikidoku (a Nichiren term) as, “a law which embodies the active practice of reading with the entire body.”72 This principle engenders a reading or interpretation in which the loss of any surface essence or form is paramount, where the devices of reading and expression are replaced by living purpose and action, where “both body and mind together are valuable.”73 Hara reiterates that “the possibility for true metaphoric meaning is born through grappling with the hard-to-interpret original meaning.”74 LaFleur also considers the dialogic interpretation between texts and readers from a Buddhist perspective.75 LaFleur cautions, however, that as all existence and understanding go beyond any static kind of fusion, any such merger is itself also in a state of flux.76 Despite Hara’s acknowledgement of poststructuralist (polyphonic, non-final and 36

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non-material) aspects throughout Kenji’s work, the style of ‘reading’ that he is trying to encourage here remains monologic in essence because it presupposes a ‘full understanding’ (that is, with mind and body) of Kenji’s original meaning. For him, illustrated representations are apparently ‘un-shikidoku-like,’ disturbing any complete understanding. Following Hara’s logic the most abstract pictures could be considered, somewhat paradoxically, monologic because by not replicating story they may actually be more consistent with demands for an authenticity to the metaphysical endeavour in Kenji’s narratives. Nevertheless, the abstractions are also dialogic because these artists are not “fixing” or simplifying the tales, but rather making their readers work hard to use their imaginations, thus encouraging further exploration of the stories’ multivocal significances. The task of capturing the metaphysical ‘essence’ of any of Kenji’s tales is, then, intrinsically tied to artistic abstruseness or ambiguity which links with the stories’ inherently non-rationalist significances, of, for instance, existential impermanence or cosmological interdependence. The avoidance of mimetic description rejects a human-centred, individualistic perspective on the world. Such abstract modes continue to be a significant force in both Kenji’s tales and in their pictorial representations through syncretic artistic techniques (whose abstruseness harks back to earlier traditions of Japanese art). They evoke an intersubjectivity that complements less teleological significances that accept, for example, more spiritual or psychological modes of ambiguity and transience. Such abstractions are also often metafictive in that they draw the viewer’s attention to the fictionality of Kenji’s pre-texts. They thus align with Kenji’s more polyphonic significances and reading positions that themselves defamiliarise ‘reality’ in order to convey a higher order of being. Lower modality art can therefore also be considered ‘truer’ to the spiritual or cosmological ‘essence’ of Kenji’s tales. In other words, when the artwork’s strategies are as subversive of deterministic or rational

humanism as the pre-texts themselves, the metaphysical response may be intensified. Rather than fixing determined meanings to Kenji’s pre-texts, this kind of art further exploits the multiplicity of subject positions within them. The meanings that arise are neither unitary, nor fixed or determinate and thus openly encourage critical thinking. How the artists go about projecting the reader into the different space inherent throughout Kenji’s tales represents the major problematic of this inquiry. In the process of making the reader work hard to make the connections between textual and cultural fragments, lower modality artwork brings higher meanings to the story. The abstruse art heightens the psycho-social reading experience and transcends all dualistic essentialism. The artists who have interpreted Kenji’s pre-texts represent different levels of dialogism to produce varying degrees of reading experience. Satō Kunio and Shimada Mutsuko, for example, both use modern woodblock techniques that suggest the influence of Japan’s mingei movement, but their distinct styles and use of colour bring forth different individual and intertextual significations of a transient (im-) materiality. In Satō’s woodcuts (see his pictures for ‘Yukiwatari’ in Chapters 4, for example), his use of line and colour is evocative of the harmony and rhythm of Matisse or Chagall, while his more obvious foregrounding of the woodgrain evokes an immediacy and feeling reminiscent of Yanagi’s and Munakata’s aforementioned ‘artless absorption.’ This emphasis of material over process encourages the subsumption of the self into the work. Satō similarly breathes life into the woodgrain in a way that brings the natural world alive, while his flattening of the picture plane and rejection of single-point perspective immerses the viewer into the viewing plane and larger universe. In comparison, Shimada’s woodcuts for ‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ (see Chapter 7) present postmodernist collages of 1920s-style subjects with less obvious foregrounding of the materials. She also contrasts monotones with flat blocks of colour. 37

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The whole effect brings the reader into dialogue with the past through the present. Her rejection of fixed-point perspective throughout also intensifies the story’s ironic signification of humans as ‘out-ofplace’ in the natural wilderness. In contrast, Iino Kazuyoshi’s cartoon-like narrative illustration of the same story (‘Chūmon’) evokes a more obviously humorous response to the irony by presenting these same characters as comic buffoons who do not ‘fit’ with the wide expanses of nature. At the extreme end of the dialogic spectrum, the completely abstract artwork in the series of picture books of Kenji’s texts commissioned and edited by Tanigawa Gan (1923–1995) encourages multivocal modes of reading and provides even more potential for resistance to logocentric forces of materialism and individualism. Rather than portraying any human or animal story protagonists, let alone familiar fixable entities, these abstract renderings provide an unusual example of picture book art. Although the artwork for this series is abstract, it should not be assumed that the images are completely arbitrary or merely function as a decorative accompaniment to Kenji’s narratives. Rather, it is precisely because the artwork was inspired by these stories that they encourage an integrated reading. By creating a dissonance between the story’s interactive and represented participants, they foreground their own artifice in a self-reflexive manner, providing a more intensely dialogic intersubjectivity for the reader than do more replicatory re-visionings.77 Kim Tschang Yeul’s trompe l’oeil art for Kenji’s ‘Wild Pear’ (Yamanashi) or Lee Ufan’s calligraphic brushwork for ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko) offer two examples of this kind of dialogic interaction. These books are discussed in detail in Chapters 3 and 6 respectively, but suffice to say here that the apparent disassociation between art and story defamiliarises reality and makes readers work to achieve their own significances in a way that recalls Hara’s ‘absorptive understanding’ (shikidoku). These complete abstractions thereby work to re-inscribe the less humanistic view of life signified

in Kenji’s pre-texts. They help create a more imaginative, multivocal relationship between interactive and represented participants. By disconcerting notions of reality, the world-as-we-know-it, these artists suggest a more transcendental or mystical heterotopia, encouraging the viewer beyond the material world towards an experience of the world as a cosmological (non-)entity. The abstract art thus reinscribes metanarratives   of   ambiguous   or unjustified margins that complement Kenji’s ideologies about the interconnectiveness, transience and interdependence of all life. This chapter has shown how artistic conventions operate within a tradition of less realistic or mimetic depiction than that found in Western artistic conventions founded on the fixed point perspective. This establishes the basis for the forthcoming analysis of how certain subjectivities are being constructed in the interaction of word and picture. As argued above, both ‘traditional’ and postmodernist Japanese literary and artistic techniques overtly challenge the notion of a single authoritarian authorial voice or perspective. Kenji’s narratives and their different pictorial versions are thereby operating within a cultural metaethic that, despite modern Japan’s acceptance of humanism, is generally more accepting of heterogeneous metaphysical ideas that decentre rationalistic ‘truths’ about an individualist world. The revival of such conventions encourages more holistic aspirations by producing different intersubjective reading positions, perspectives and interpretations. Any orientation towards a more explicitly dialogic interrogation of Kenji’s narratives by ‘postmodern’ artistic styles with less determinate, more intersubjective constructions and meanings may therefore also be construed as a form of cultural subversion of the humanist orientation. In the particular Kenji stories to be dealt with here then, non-humanist ideologies are being (re-) inscribed for children in (post)modern Japan within the parameters of specific cultural and artistic coding. Much of the artwork is intrinsically evoking a more polyphonic, metaphysical or

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Buddhist relevance within a world that is often seen as ‘out of touch’ with any form of spirituality. Space will necessarily limit the discussion of Kenji narratives to the ways that particular scenes or modes of representation encode the discoursal

aspects of each story and accord them significance. The following chapters ultimately show how artistic codes and  conventions articulate with and encode or decode the narratives’ inherent Buddhist ideologies of cosmological ‘being.’

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3 The Tale of ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko): Self and Subjectivity in the Characters and Haecceitas in the Organic World

K

the tales.4 The section on ‘Donguri’ critiques the notion of competition:

enji wrote ‘Donguri’ in about 1921 (the date on the manuscript) during his sojourn in Tokyo, but it first appeared prominently as the initial story in his self-published 1924 volume, The Restaurant of Many Orders (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten).1 Together with Kenji’s famous preface to this volume, ‘Donguri’ sets the tone for the book which explores the interdependence of humanity and nature. Alienated from his familiar rural environment, Kenji is said to have “realised that one of his life tasks was to try to instil a sense of nature into the minds of the people.”2 Japanese authorities have also long recognised the importance of this story and its themes. It has been on the primary school curriculum since 1946 and became a compulsory part of the Japanese literature syllabus during the late 1970s and 1980s.3 Many Japanese textbooks also include Kenji’s own advertisement for the volume, with its synopsis of each of

This is a tale … [that] echoes the inner psyche of today’s schoolchildren who have to compete.5

Indeed, parts of this advertisement and of Kenji’s preface to Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten form part of the peritext of some of the picture books examined later. In its parody of human competitiveness, pride and superiority, ‘Donguri’ offers a critique of human individualism and suggests a more cosmological world view. In an extraordinary setting, the youth Ichirō helps Wildcat settle a dispute among some acorns who are arguing senselessly about who is superior. The argument is settled at a ‘trial’ where Ichirō recalls a Buddhist sermon that is as ridiculous as the acorns’ argument, yet clearly demonstrates the precept about the futility of attachment to ego. The realisation that comes with this climax ultimately demonstrates a less anthropocentric view of the universe.

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 5; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979. Detail of fig. 2.

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This chapter focuses on how particular artwork helps reach beyond individualistic views. Much of the artwork invokes the idea of oneness with nature through an awareness of the Buddhist idea of the self as an ‘empty’ vehicle or ‘non’ being, in which the individual is but a part of the natural cosmos. The artistic representations, for instance, range from those that work to subsume the human presence of Ichirō into the natural world through those that more overtly showcase the ludicrousness of Wildcat’s and the acorns’ pride to those that reject all forms of replicatory representation of story to invoke a loss of self through the reading process. While all enhance the narrative’s position on the negation of ego, they do so in decidedly different styles and ways. Returning to the narrative itself, however, it is first necessary to acknowledge that there are more implicit Buddhist principles operating beneath the story’s overt theme of competition. In 1948, Satō Katsuji acclaimed ‘Donguri’ as having “a purpose that is imbued with a rich Buddhist consciousness” and coined the phrase “dekunobō worship”, constituting the story as a major part of Kenji’s ‘Lotus literature’ (hokke bungaku).6 The concept of dekunobō is dealt with in Chapter 5, but the Lotus Sutra is a useful starting point for understanding the roots of competitiveness in light of the story’s thematics. All competition is imbued with an underlying sense of rivalry or discord which arises from conceit or pride. In turn, pride is founded on notions of ego. Ego, conceit and pride relate to two precepts as outlined in the closing chapter of Kenji’s favourite sutra (entitled ‘Encouragement of the Bodhisattva Universal Virtue’). The first precept is: “Such will not be harassed by the three poisons, nor be harassed by envy, pride, haughtiness, and arrogance.”7 Niwano explicates the three poisons as desire, anger and foolishness. He further defines pride as egoism, haughtiness as falsely thinking oneself correct, and arrogance as conceit, due to the illusion of having understood “what one has hardly comprehended at all.”8 Whereas envy is generated by a sense of inferiority, the sins of pride, haughtiness and arrogance each stem from a false sense of superiority

and these kinds of ‘fallacies’ are caused through a distorted, self-centred viewpoint. The second precept related to pride and ego is: “Such will be content with few desires and able to do the works of the [Bodhisattva] Universal Virtue.”9 Desire, Niwano explains, includes not only desire for material things but also for status, fame and approval. The Buddhist ideal is to attain the mental stage where one is indifferent to all such desires. Implicit in this attitude to ego is the attainability of a state of contentment with self or ‘being’ as is, which is inherently opposed to the explicitly egoistic rivalry and competition that is being satirised in ‘Donguri.’ This psychological state, however, does not exclude the notion of ambition or self-improvement, but means that one should be content with doing one’s best.10 As reiterated by Amazawa Taijirō, the tale of ‘Donguri’ signifies Kenji’s dekunobō ideal by involving a complete lack of desire, greed, conceit, rivalry and competition.11 Such dekunobō altruism is epitomised in the poem ‘Ame ni mo Makezu’. This ideal is also represented in other ways in tales such as, ‘Kenjū’s Wood’ (Kenjū Kōenrin), ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ (Serohiki no Gōshu) – both the subject of Chapter 5 – and, as Kerstin Videaus points out, in ‘Polano Plaza’ which suggests that any thoughts of superiority, for instance, are ‘disgraceful’ or ‘shameful’ (mittomonai).12 Selfish activity inevitably exerts an influence upon other beings somewhere, because “we are inseparably bound up with one another, and we all exist through being permeated by the same life energy.”13 This is intrinsically connected with the transience of life which contrasts with materiality. The aim of Buddhism is nirvana, “the negation of the egoistic perspective and the cessation of suffering, … positively understood as bliss, although it would be misleading to characterise the aim of Buddhism in terms of the Western ideal of ‘happiness.’”14 As mentioned in Chapter 1, ‘happiness’ is perhaps better considered as ‘harmony’, as a balance among all things in the cosmos. One should be free from any ‘deluded’ belief in the ego and all that  goes with it – desire and frustration, ambition and disappointment, pride and humiliation – to 42

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gain enlightenment and the end of misery, nirvana.15 A similar delusion leads us to believe that our egos have a material ‘reality.’ Instead reality is a series of momentary existences, it is impermanent, and there are no enduring substances. There is “no permanent self or soul. A human being is just a temporary composite of body, feeling, thoughts, dispositions and consciousness. There is no larger eternal self ….”16 No individuated thing exists, but “every ‘condition’ of the world arises from another, and that reality involves an extensive, ultimately all-inclusive causal chain, linking everyone and everything to all else, before and after. Rebirth and karma are aspects of this complex causal network.17 While the main theme of ‘Donguri’ revolves around the explicit concept of rivalry or competition, then, it more implicitly revolves around the Buddhist negation of ego which allows for the full integration of humanity with the natural world. Such a non-impeded sense of being in ‘Donguri’ also involves the notion of an interconnected yet transient existence which encourages a jiriki concept of self-empowered enlightenment for everyone (as opposed to the tariki concept that involves enlightenment through belief in an omnipotent almighty). While foregrounding this kind of agency, ‘Donguri’s’ explicit satirisisation of the human constructions of competition and pride implicitly rejects the notion of an individuated self. Wildcat’s egoistic subjectivity, for instance, estranges him from any kind of interconnected ideal. His material pride and conceit contrast with the haecceitas of the forest’s organic phenomena who are oblivious to the mundane desires of this world. Before going any further, however, an outline of the tale will help contextualise the later analysis of four contemporary picture books of this story.

sets off towards the mountains in search of Wildcat. Following a path along the river eastwards, he stops several times to ask directions on Wildcat’s whereabouts. Some chestnuts say that Wildcat is on his way east (the direction from which Ichirō has come). A flute waterfall then tells him west, whereas some musical mushrooms and a squirrel both tell him south. Rather than following their advice though, Ichirō follows his instincts and continues climbing until he comes to a fork in the path which verges off onto another narrower, darker and steeper path uphill. He follows this path to a clearing where a strange looking half-animal, half-human with a whip is apparently expecting him (knowing Ichirō by name). This strange character solicits Ichirō’s opinion as to the quality of the postcard invitation. He is at first pleased upon hearing Ichirō’s praise. When Ichirō elaborates by saying that the writing resembles that of a fifth grader, however, the coachman is crestfallen. Seeing his reaction, Ichirō hastily remedies the situation by insisting that he actually meant fifth year at tertiary level. The coachman now happily identifies himself as Wildcat’s servant and the author of the postcard. When a sudden breeze ushers in the eponymous Wildcat, the coachman abruptly becomes obsequious. His curiousity peaked, Ichirō turns around to find the officious-looking Wildcat, in an old-fashioned formal jimbaori (a feudal military garment). Ignoring the coachman, Wildcat thanks Ichirō for coming and offers him a cigarette, completely insensitive to the coachman’s tears of craving. As Wildcat petitions Ichirō’s opinion about the annually recurring acorn dispute, a procession of golden acorns in red trousers swarm in. Quickly donning a long black judge’s robe, Wildcat orders the coachman to “ring the bell” and “cut the grass” for the ‘hearing’ which he begins quite anxiously with some haughty posturing. (The narrative mentions that he looks a bit like the statue of the Great Buddha in Nara). Despite his affected efforts at control, the commotion restarts. The acorns are squabbling over who is the best, the most pointy-headed, the

story synopsis The tale begins one evening when Ichirō receives an ill-written postcard from Wildcat, inviting him to assist in a problematic trial. Ichirō is so excited that he can hardly sleep. The next morning, he eagerly 43

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roundest, the biggest, the tallest, or the best at pushing and shoving. Although Wildcat keeps bellowing at them to be quiet, they persist in their bickering until Wildcat exasperatedly solicits Ichirō’s advice. Ichirō suggests he try this sermon: “… that the silliest, most unreasonable and scatterbrained is the best.” The acorns’ response (to Wildcat’s embellished sermon) is an immediate and astonished hush. Wildcat is so pleased with this result that he requests that Ichirō become his “honorary magistrate”. When he further suggests more formal (and inept) wording for his next postcard-summons, Ichirō’s gentle rejection causes Wildcat to look crestfallen. He soon recovers however, deciding to retain the previous wording and asking Ichirō to choose either a salmon head delicacy or a box of golden acorns as his reward. To Wildcat’s apparent relief Ichirō chooses the acorns. He then orders the coachman to gather these into a box with instructions that any shortfall be made up with gold-plated acorns. Wildcat escorts Ichirō home in an unusual coach pulled by ‘rat-like horses.’ During his return journey, however, the acorns revert to their ordinary colour and form and, upon arrival at Ichirō’s house, Wildcat, coach and coachman all disappear. Ichirō, continuing with life at home, waits in vain for another card and ponders the wisdom of having rejected Wildcat’s suggested wording for the next card. The concept of ego is foreshadowed from the outset. Besides Wildcat’s obvious posturing, even the coachman and Ichirō show their own small conceits. Wildcat’s initial postcard not only sparks Ichirō’s journey up through the mountains along the stream and deeper into the woods, but also inflates his pride at the prospect of playing a significant role in the trial. It tweaks an egoistic anticipation for adventure, the impetus that propels Ichirō – and the reader – forward. The coachman’s inferiority complex is foregrounded through his eagerness to receive a positive evaluation of the quality of his postcard, again signaling the motif of ego, especially when Ichirō quickly has to amend his assessment in order to bolster the coachman’s selfesteem. Apart from the organic characters briefly

encountered in the mountains, vanity is apparent at each turn, in either its arousal or assuagement. The tale’s ironic humour with its farcical ‘court’ scenario and the ludicrous conceits of the characters shines a light on the absurdities of human foibles and thus the ego as a material substance. As Tsuzukihashi points out, the scene recalls the Japanese proverb; ‘Donguri no sei kurabe’ which literally translates as ‘a comparison of height among acorns’ but basically means ‘they are all similar.’18 This intertextuality signifies the senselessness of their rivalry, and underlines ‘false’ egoism as the source of their discontent. Satō Takafusa indicates that the Buddhist sermon lauds a kind of dekunobō selflessness.19 Amazawa further points out that the acorns’ stunned silence after hearing Wildcat’s judgement clearly demonstrates an understanding that no-one and nothing is greater than anything else.20 The nonsensical bickering of the acorns and the effect of the sermon directly attacks the notion of an egoistic, individuated self. Set against Wildcat ostentatious yet ineffective governance over the nonsensical trial, the ironic scene foregrounds the futility of all ego. Although Wildcat is the epitome of insensitive elitism, he is also an ineffectual character who cannot control his own court, providing a parody of the jiriki (selfempowerment) moral. As he tries in vain to preside over the situation, he struts around in his fine samurai clothing in front of his court, overtly displaying his wealth and seniority in a classic example of an exaggerated sense of self and superiority which denies any sense of an integrated community. Wildcat’s capitalistic approach to the payment of Ichirō also highlights his materialism, selfishness and shallowness.21 He is not only ready to pay Ichirō for his services, but also to substitute gold with goldplate if necessary.22 While notions of inequality are underlined by the coachman’s and Ichirō’s deference to Wildcat, their very deference is as futile as ego, thus also underlining the emptiness of class or ranking differentials. Wildcat’s lack of understanding of his own pronouncement is clear against the dramatic contrast acorns’ instant realisation of their foolishness upon 44

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hearing the sermon. Although Ichirō’s rejection of his wording for the next summons briefly deflates his ego, Wildcat’s continued self-aggrandisement foregrounds the incongruity of his lack of understanding and underscores the fragility and hollowness of Wildcat’s sense of superiority. It is Wildcat’s attachments and conceit which deny him the ability to see the real problems at the trial and the true value of all beings. Not only does his conceit blind him from the truth, his own false sense of superiority also prevents him from acknowledging Ichirō’s involvement. Even though it is really Ichirō’s recollection of the sermon that Wildcat orates, as Onda points out, Wildcat is careful to avoid any replication of Ichirō’s words so that he can maintain a facade of complete authority.23 As such, Wildcat is the personification of pride. The contradictions between Wildcat’s words and behaviour foreground the paradox of the Lotus Sutra precept about contentment as both denial of ego and acceptance of self ‘as is.’ Through its satirisation of the notion of ego, this tale implicitly idealises the concept of a more integrated cosmos. The postcard provides Ichirō’s passport to knowledge of a more ideal world through nature. Ichirō enters this natural sphere with the first gust of the “fresh morning breeze” which showers chestnuts in all directions. While Tsuzukihashi notes that the ripples and breezes whisk characters into and away from settings,24 they also signal the ethereal atmosphere of a more intuitive space with which Ichirō becomes one. The deeper he goes into the mountains, the more his human rationality dissolves. He easily communes with all the natural phenomena; the squirrel, the nut-bearing trees, the mushrooms and the waterfall, but does not feel compelled to ‘obey’ their directions. Ichirō’s harmony during the early part of this foray into the mountains also contrasts markedly with the discontent manifest at the scene of the parodic trial. Nor are these natural phenomena at all concerned with Ichirō’s quest to find Wildcat. They simply go back to their own ‘jobs’ in nature – they are content/egoless in their own being.

The chestnuts, flute waterfall, mushroom orchestra and squirrel are so absorbed in their natural  ‘duties’ that they only briefly break off from their own activities to distractedly answer Ichirō’s mundane questions. They are indifferent to his cultural pursuit of Wildcat and the trial, and all return quickly to the task at hand. Although anthropomorphised in their speech, they are implicitly content in their own haecceitas, their own thisness in nature. Such harmony and serenity in nature contrast markedly with the turmoil and discontent evident in the uproar at the clearing, symbolising a harmonious nature against the discord of ‘culture’. For instance, the lush mountain valley of natural flora and fauna contrasts markedly with the barren clearing in which the trial is held. The clearing highlights the emptiness of such ‘cultivated’ activities and the impulses of pride. The golden grass that contrasts with the verdant mountains is hewn by the coachman’s scythe (at Wildcat’s orders) to further symbolise civilisation cutting away at the spiritual and creating the kind of emotional angst caused by the human foibles and conceits that run rampant at the trial. The dissatisfaction of the acorns (and other characters) at the trial show that material desires bring discontent in contrast with the contented sense of ‘being’ experienced by the organic creatures in the mountains. Moreover, the pompous Wildcat dominates this more material space and, apart from when he barks out orders, he completely ignores the nameless coachman. The coachman’s very anonymity, particularly when considered against Wildcat’s disregard for him, highlights the hierarchical, elitist social relationships. Yet together with his anonymity, the coachman’s otherworldly idiosyncrasies also suggest his role as a psychopomp, or spiritual guide who mediates between the real and the metaphysical worlds. His role as an otherworld being with spatula-shaped feet and gentle sensitivity corresponds with his ability to travel freely between and among these realms.25 In this case, he mediates between material attachments and desires and the more elusive state of egoless contentment. 45

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This court scene in the clearing, then, symbolises an alienating, self-absorbed and hierachical modernisation, the isolation from nature created by attachment to more material desires. Significantly, the elusive Wildcat, although mentioned, does not appear during Ichirō’s more instinctive part of the journey. In fact, the lack of certainty about Wildcat’s whereabouts suggests his status as a more ‘corrupt’ figure belonging to kono yo as opposed to the ‘otherworld’ (ano yo) of the psyche.26 The wind acts as a catalyst for all the vicissitudes of ego, pride and conceit. The breeze that whisks Ichirō away to “realise the other, ideal world in this one,” also symbolises a purifying quality, a symbolic sweeping away of all feelings of attachment, a kind of cleansing of the human foibles of this world.27 Such imagery enhances the ideal of the non-impededness of the otherworld where all material desires and impulses dissipate. The wind is also symbolic of the sense of transience and impermanence. The unpredictable power of its gusts and flurries suggests the fleeting quality of Ichirō’s journey into fantasy, the fleetingness of all life. Indeed, the volatile forces of the wind also correspond with the capriciousness of pride as an emotion, the ebbs and flows of pride experienced by all the main protagonists. The wind finally ushers all the characters away and with it, Ichirō’s short-lived pleasure at his newfound status as aide to Judge Wildcat. Like the wind, the open-ended closure signifies more than a simple return from a fantastical dream to the ordinary world; it implicitly reflects the futility of egoistic attachment. Just as there are no more breezes, there are no more postcards. Wildcat’s promises of another invitation have proved as superfluous and shallow as his uncontrollable court. In acknowledging his lack of tact as he waits in vain for another invitation from Wildcat, Ichirō’s last line shows not only Wildcat’s conceit, but his own egoistic yearning for his lost opportunity:

For Ichirō, any future chance for (self-gratifying) adventures seems to have vanished. Ichirō’s disappointment and recollection here underscores the futility of all material attachment to this world. In this tale, the traits of competitiveness and egoism are subject to ironic scrutiny, bringing an awareness of Buddhism’s true path (makoto no michi), an all-encompassing harmony with the world. The tale’s division into natural and cultural settings signifies that when humans are acculturated into egoism, competition or insensitivity to others, they are out of touch with life and therefore  in an ‘unnatural’ state, out of tune with the cosmos.

picture books – introduction The four disparate pictorial representations dealt with here all use ‘Donguri’s’ contrast between nature and culture to signify humanity’s alienation from nature in varying degrees. The artistic styles of Kobayashi Toshiya, Satō Kunio, Tsukasa Osamu and Lee Ufan range broadly from the more realistic through to Lee’s completely abstract brushwork, though not necessarily in that order. The following discussion explores how pictorial focalisation and reader positioning work with the verbal text to dialogically or monologically interact with a Buddhist sense of (non-) self. Bearing in mind that no representation is ever fully replicatory or representational, the styles of these artists and their choice of medium and use of colour represent various levels of faithfulness to the events in the verbal text. While none of the books modify Kenji’s original text they do adjust the written characters for a modern Japanese audience, with the exception of Lee Ufan. As with all the books in the Monogatari series, an older style of Japanese script is accompanied by English translations (by Tanigawa Gan and C.W. Nicol). The discussion of the first three picture books provides the context for analysis of Lee’s calligraphic brushwork which pushes towards an absorptive, psychological transcendence of the boundaries of this physical world.

Perhaps he ought to have let Wildcat write “your presence is formally requested,” after all?28

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kobayashi toshiya

which surrounds him (see fig. 1).32 Together with this merger, his role as a mediator between the worlds is immediately suggested by his odd appearance, the wheel of the disappearing coach in the upper left corner (which continues over the wraparound flap) and the mirage-like wavering mountains in the background. It is as if he has dropped in from a different space, which also signals the story as fantasy. The separate monochromes suggest a depth of plane rather than positioning the observer specifically, but the odd man’s one good eye directly confronts the viewer in what Kress and Van Leeuwen call a ‘demand.’33 The coachman’s gaze thereby hails the viewer directly into the fantasy, immediately calling for psychological dialogue. The cover thus attracts the reader into the story space, suggesting a significance that goes deeper than a simple story of the eponymous Wildcat or acorns. Kobayashi always includes different excerpts from Kenji’s other writing on the right-hand side of each of his first opening spreads. For ‘Donguri’ it is Kenji’s preface to Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (see Chapter 1), which reminds the reader of the how his tales were “found in the fields” and are intended to “nourish the psyche.” The peritextual function here is to underline the story’s signification of psychological or spiritual exploration and human connection with the wider universe. In case this preface is missed, the upward vector of the stem of a single autumn leaf on the opposite page (at the left – reading direction is right to left) directs the reader back to it. The leaf is prominent underneath the story’s (vertically written) opening words. It is in black and brown against the blank background, with a linear elongated ‘shadow’ that contrasts with the curves of the leaf and stem. The shadow stretches in the direction of reading to the edge of the page on the left, leading the reader forward in anticipation of Wildcat’s invitation to come. This first picture thus creates an inquisitorial viewpoint and suggests a tension between linear and circular concepts of time and space (implied by the seasonal reference, the curves of the leaf, and the length and linearity of the shadow). The leaf

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ) graduated from the Tokyo University of Arts in 1970 and has made it part of his life’s task to illustrate Kenji’s work. After beginning with ‘Donguri’ in 1979, by 2003 he had completed a collection of fifteen of Kenji’s works for which he was awarded the 13th Miyazawa Kenji Prize. Each book took him about a year to complete.29 (Kobayashi’s depictions of ‘Snow Crossing’, ‘The Wild Pear’ and ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ are discussed in later chapters.) Besides writing more general works on Kenji and illustrating other picture books, he has depicted at least eighteen of Kenji's stories, mainly for Parole-sha (Paroru-sha). Paroru-sha are now defunct, having become insolvent in 2011, but they provided Kobayashi with full editorial control of design and pictorial layout and were renowned for taking great care with their book production (mainly picture books and children’s books). ‘Donguri’ had reached its 15th print run in 2009, and to date a total of about 39,000 copies have been printed.30 Kobayashi’s distinctive scratch style was inspired by the earlier methods of Tsukasa Osamu (1936 – ), whose own version of ‘Donguri’ utilises computer graphics (discussed in this chapter). Kobayashi mainly works in subdued monochromes. As with his other depictions of Kenji’s tales, Kobayashi’s ‘Donguri’ has more illustrations than most other picture books, with much shorter textual excerpts. This does not mean, however, that he has simply conveyed the story events. Although Wada Hiroshi suggests that this is an ‘orthodox’ picture book that is “simple to understand,”31 Kobayashi’s scratchwork peels away at deeper layers of meaning, provoking the imagination and conveying the interdependence of existence and the transience of life. Such multilayering signals the complexities behind the ‘real’ world. Kobayashi foreshadows this complexity on the jacket cover where, rather than depicting the Wildcat or the acorns from the title, he introduces the phantasmic coachman whose lower body is partially blending into the grass 47

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and its shadow at once signify the story’s different temporality, complementing the merger in time and space that is about to occur, and the transience signified by the wind later in the tale. Kenji’s first sentence above this leaf is:

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); jacket cover; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

within the black leaf whose shape also suggests the shape of the top of an acorn, further indicating the layering of time and space and the ephemeral and interlinked quality of all phenomena. Ichirō’s conspicuous absence throughout the pictures places the reader in alignment with him in a first person pictorial viewpoint. As Nodelman suggests in his discussion of the double-sided nature of the interaction between first and third person points of view in picture books, there may be a more absolute empathy between “a sympathetic

One Saturday evening, a most peculiar postcard arrived at Ichirp’s house.34

The wording of the postcard is repeated subliminally (in brown, showing through the leaf’s veins) 48

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first person narrator who is not also shown in pictures” than with, for instance, a character speaking from first person yet seen from a third person perspective (as found in most picture books with an autodiegetic verbal text).35 Autodiegetic texts, in Gérard Genette’s terms, are those verbal narratives that are told by first person narrators who are centrally involved in the events.36 As Nodelman points out, however, most picture books cannot so directly focus a viewer’s attention on the narrator’s perceptions of the same events because, unlike an autodiegetic verbal narrative where the person who speaks is the person who sees, in a picture book with an autodiegetic text, the speaker is not always the same viewer.37 For example, the words might be in first person but the pictures in third or vice versa. While the latter is the case in Kobayashi’s pictures, they are heterodiegetic in that they have switching viewpoints (like most picture books). Together with Kobayashi’s ‘demand’ on the cover and double signification of the words of the postcard (within both the leaf and the narrative text), the first person alignment (in Ichirō’s pictorial absence at the first opening) encourages an interactive experience of the receipt of the card with Ichirō – both his inquisitive anticipation for adventure and an observation of the layered time and space. As Ichirō reads the card on the next page, Kobayashi again signifies the interpenetrative quality of Ichirō’s dreamworld by superimposing a huge silhouette of Wildcat against the landscape above Ichirō’s home (fig. 2). Wildcat’s barely discernible outline merges with the mountain backdrop whose contour in the next picture echoes the line of Wildcat’s brow to suggest the merging worlds. Wildcat’s suggested omnipresence stimulates visual awe, signifying his invitation as a foreboding yet exciting temptation. This kind of layering utilises Ichirō’s dream to underline entry into a multi-dimensional heterotopia. Kobayashi’s scratch medium, subdued colours and subtle pen- and brush-work resonate in this way throughout, suggesting the interconnectivity yet fragility and impermanence of all phenomena in time and space. Along with Ichirō’s complete absence from most of the pictorial scenes,

the viewer is immersed into the rather sombre, yet excitingly ethereal space of the psyche. Kobayashi also cleverly conveys the contrast between the haecceitas or ‘naturalness’ of the natural world of the mountains and the starker, civilised world of the clearing where more negative human traits and desires prevail. In his pictures of Ichirō’s journey through the mountains, for instance, the organic phenomena that Ichirō asks directions of mostly remain unanthropormorphised. Beginning with the chestnut tree through to the squirrel, Kobayashi devotes separate images to each of the phenomena as Ichirō and reader questions them. The very ‘thisness’ of these natural phenomena is pictorially foregrounded, their contrast with the less representational forms around them signifying their contentment in nature. The realistic squirrel, for instance, is sharply realised against the less representational leaves and nuts of the walnut tree in which it is sitting, thus signifying its very squirrelness and emphasising its complete contentment and absorption in its own ‘being’ (fig. 3). It is scratched against black, its transparency here also suggesting its merger with the cosmos. Only the waterfall is anthropormorphised in very abstract, geometric shapes in which shading and lineetchings indicate spaces for eyes, nose and a mouthwaterfall. Even this abstract personification of the waterfall heightens the squirrel’s sense of place in nature. Kobayashi’s pictorial alignment of the viewer with Ichirō also encourages  an instinctual attitude of dialogue with each of these natural phenomena in the mountains. His depictions of the naturalness of nature here further contrast with the more caricatured protagonists who are set against the barrenness of clearing scenes. This contrast is emphasised when Kobayashi’s artwork signifies a dramatic change just before reaching the clearing. Ichirō and viewer are dramatically plunged into the darkness of the surrounding  yew forest. (The verbal text, too, changes to a dramatic white against the blackness.) Coming out  of this darkness, Ichirō and viewer are then confronted by the coachman in the centre of the 49

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next double spread which suddenly opens into a wide expanse (fig. 4). This is the first of only two double spreads in the book, the width thus heightening the impact of meeting the strange coachman who, in the narrative on the following page, “was watching him” (kocchi o mite ita) (p. 20).38 This confrontation, the oddness of the coachman and the more open space all emphasise a symbolic transition from the natural abundance of the mountains to the secular emptiness of the clearing. This whole

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 5; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

scene with all its significations – the broader spread with no accompanying verbal text, the change in colour and tone (black against dark brown to whitish strokes against tan), the introduction of the peculiar coachman, the now more direct viewer positioning (first person at eye-level, mid-distance) – intensifies the impact of the unusual encounter and foregrounds the tension between nature and culture. Kobayashi’s open expanse and the unusual appearance of the coachman focus on the clearing 50

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magnification in starker black and white. Like filmic tracking shots, in cohesion with the narrative’s positioning (where Ichirō gradually moves towards him), these plates simultaneously move Ichirō (and the viewer) into a more dialogic interaction with the coachman, increasing the sense of angst and thus the contrast with Ichirō's earlier ease in nature. In the narrative accompanying the third picture, Ichirō “starts back” (p. 22) at the coachman’s strange appearance and silent gaze. As Ichirō tries to suppress his unease he asks if the odd figure happens to know Wildcat. Although this seems to break the ice, Kobayashi maintains the tension by omitting the coachman’s solicitations about his writing efforts, (and Ichirō’s suppressed amusement). Taken together, these three spreads of the coachman create a pictorial ‘demand’ that builds tension and awe at the transitional phase between the natural forest and the cultural angst at Wildcat’s  trial. Kobayashi then further heightens the contrast between the natural state of contentment of the mountain creatures and the cultural state of dissent to follow with his dramatic introduction to the now-anthropomorphised Wildcat (different from the image of the more ordinary cat in Ichirō’s initial dream, see figure 2). In the following two gradual enlargements of Wildcat’s gazing figure, the viewer is steadily drawn even closer to the picture plane. As Wildcat is moved forward in the second plate, his initially neutral stance changes to a more ostentatious posture and the viewer meets his challenging outwards stare at close distance (fig. 5). Wildcat is set against a flat black background which, besides bringing him forward against the picture plane also heightens his exaggerated ‘civility’ as empty posturing , especially in light of his apparent insensitivity to the teary coachman who is prominently pale against black in the corner foreground. Wildcat blows out a stream of cigar smoke that wafts past just above the coachman’s head, drawing attention to his pathetic desire. Wildcat, however, is completely oblivious, his arrogance and insensitivity evident as he questions Ichirō (and the viewer). Kobayashi increases the sense of Wildcat’s ostentation here by changing the narrative’s ‘tobacco’

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 15; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

as a transgressive space, where the pride, ego and competition exhibited during the trial are discordant and unnatural. Further, Kobayashi’s positioning of the coachman, in the centre, and his shape and direct frontal gaze immediately heighten the tension between the worlds. The triangular shape of the coachman’s head and the shading of his face and one eye on either side of the spread and in front of the unmodulated but blurry-edged backdrop emphasise his dualistic and illusory essence. He stares out, beckoning Ichirō (and the viewer) out of the safe haven of the forest into the more intimidating openness of the clearing. Two subsequent pictures firmly reiterate the coachman’s challenging ‘demand’, bringing him forward on the picture plane through increasing 51

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 18–19; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

to a more pretentious cigar. Satō Kunio’s depiction   of Wildcat is similar on this point (see later discussion). The diminished sense of natural landscape continues as Kobayashi intersperses his pictures of Wildcat with shots of the acorn mêlée, where the squabbling acorns first swarm through the grass in a single spread, then are outlined more clearly in the book’s second double spread (fig. 6). In contrast with his earlier natural phenomena in the mountains, the acorns are anthropormorphised all the while they continue their bickering. Their similar shapes, with faces arms and legs sketched under their pointy heads, are crowded en-masse across the flat, monochromatic darkness, underscoring their similarity with each other and reiterating the absurdity of their claims at being better (taller, smarter etc) than each other.

Kobayashi then switches viewpoints completely, punctuating the narrative point of the acorns’ first silence with an incongruous viewpoint that gives pause for thought. Whereas the narrative has Wildcat in ostentatious robes, sitting and “looking just like pictures of the Great Buddha at Nara” (p. 34), both he and the coachman are significantly reduced in size and set at top and bottom of the periphery of a huge circle of negative space (fig. 7). The coachman is situated up-side down at the upper-left edge while a frowning Wildcat is placed at the bottom, seemingly turning everything on its head. The shape and size of the central negative expanse bring to mind the contemplative aspects of a mandala. A mandala’s essential feature is a circle which, like the circle of the full moon in Buddhism, symbolises completeness or “perfect truth.”39 Mandalas usually represent a visual metaphor for the 52

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complete “structure of the universe as it would be perceived in meditation.”40 This pictorial symbolism at such a climactic point accentuates the irony in the narrative, the futility of both the acorns’ discord and Wildcat’s ‘sophistication.’ The picture’s difference from other pictures also causes a cessation in reading speed that encourages deliberation on these absurdities. After this unusual image, Kobayashi returns to his now-familiar panning technique to present

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 29; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

three more close-ups of Wildcat’s open-mouthed, haughtiness as he directly confronts the acorns (and viewer) (fig. 8). An enlargement of the narrative’s font here also accentuates Wildcat’s verbal attempts at control: “That’s enough! … Where do you think you are? Silence! Silence!” (p. 38). Considering how ineffective he is at controlling the situation in the narrative, this kind of dialogic pictorial style again underlines the irony of Wildcat’s ‘unnatural’ sense of importance. 53

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 35; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 32–3; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 39; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

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In his final two scenes, Kobayashi’s contrast between subject matter and viewpoint heightens consideration of Ichirō’s altered viewpoint after his experience of the otherworld (ano yo). Ichirō makes his first visual appearance after he has been borne home (fig. 9). He is seen from behind, in front of his home, contemplating his return to ‘reality’ (kono yo). As he holds the box of acorns that have now transformed to their “normal brown” acornshapes, a barely visible silhouette of a rat running away in the shadows under the house (in black against black near the uppermost pillar) subliminally evokes the remnants of the ‘rat-like’ horses that drew the mushroom coach of his otherworldly journey. The viewer thereby witnesses this return home as a transformation, seeing both Ichirō and the phenomena as he sees them, now returned to their natural forms. Rather than anticipating another adventure the journey Ichirō and the viewer are now contemplating the relevance of the journey that has now ended. This viewpoint thus underlines the difficulty yet also the possibility of bringing ‘home’ new lessons about the ‘unnatural’ conceits of materialism. Kobayashi’s final picture underscores the story’s point about nature and contentment by showing the acorns back in contented haecceity, in their more conventional unanthropomorphised acornstate (fig. 10). This visual re-transformation emphasises the story’s moral about simply ‘being.’ This picture also highlights the contrast between ordinary calm and prideful discontent as Ichirō laments the lost opportunity for further such adventures as he considers whether he should have allowed Wildcat to rewrite the postcard as he liked. This final thought again signifies human ego, both Wildcat’s and Ichirō’s. The stillness and calm in these two final pictures contrast with Wildcat’s earlier flamboyance and arrogance. Kobyashi thus gently provides a sense of contemplation of the psychological meaning of Ichirō’s journey.

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 53; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

devoted much of his later life (over 30 years) to making woodblock prints of Kenji’s works.41 After graduating from high school, he went to Tokyo where he studied Buddhism at Tōyō University which is famous for its philosophy courses. He studied in the evenings while working at various jobs during the day. After returning to Hokkaidō in about 1980, he focussed his artistic energies on making woodcuts of Keni’s work. In 1984, his first picture book of Kenji’s Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night on the Milky Way Railway) was published. From that time he became a full-time artist, holding many exhibitions around the country and publishing many other picture books of Kenji’s tales (three of which are discussed in later chapters). Currently, Satō offers wry commentary on today’s society and creates woodblocks for a

satō kunio Satō Kunio (1952 – ) is a well-known artist from Hokkaidō who started out as a carpenter but has 55

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resource publisher in Australia, so it will now go to an even wider audience in English. In comparison with Kobayashi’s subtle irony through sombre monochromes, measured spareness of line, and flat planes for ‘Donguri’, Satō’s bright, spontaneous woodcuts appear more lighthearted, emphasising the story’s humour and Wildcat’s narcissism from a more distanced yet playful perspective. Rather than inserting the viewer into an interactive first-person viewing position, the reader instead observes the action, watching Ichirō through a more staged framework as he sees, thinks and feels. The viewer thus perceives the story’s dream/reality and culture/nature dichotomies from a less subjective position. Moreover, in comparison with Kobayashi, (and Tsukasa Osamu discussed later), Satō draws attention to the organic nature of his chosen medium, foregrounding the artistic process by manipulating and colouring the natural grain and texture of the wood with a spontaneity that, besides shading and contouring, enlivens the black expanses of the inked picture plane. His bold energetic woodcuts are reminiscent of the sense of process apparent in Munakata Shikō’s aforementioned mingei (folk art) style.44 The sharpness and strength of line suggest a similar psychological or spiritual communion from which such art evolves; the loss of self that is inspired by a spiritual energy which proceeds from the subconscious.45 Such foregrounding of the artistic process highlights the idea of communion with the natural world or the cosmos in quite a different way from that of Kobayashi’s art. The very spontaneity of Satō’s technique suggests the fleeting temporality associated with such communion, bringing to mind the ideal of the non-impeded cosmos that is signified through the stories’ breezes and Ichirō’s dialogue with nature. Satō’s depiction of characters in traditional attire also foregrounds the ideals of the mingei movement and a simpler, less complicated time and space. Ichirō’s summer yukata (casual kimono) and thonged geta clogs hark back to an era when communities were less ‘cultivated’, where people used

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 55; Donguri to Yamaneko; Paroru-sha, 1979.

column called ‘Dr Wildcat’s Monologue’ published in the Hokkaidō News. His affinity with his chosen medium is evident in his reference to Japan as a “wood and paper culture”, and his perception that wood is neither too hard nor too soft, its mere touch providing him with a sense of wonder and deep peace of mind.42 Satō’s ‘Donguri’ was first released in 1989 with Benesse Publishing, with an initial print run of five thousand. Numbers reached up to about nine thousand by its final (5th) print impression.43 It is now out of production with Benesse, but was taken up by Kodomo no Mirai-sha in 2010, so it is still being read today. Moreover, Satō is currently reworking ‘Donguri’ (and his other Kenji books) for publication with RIC Publishing, an educational 56

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functional, handcrafted materials, wore more natural, indigo-dyed cloth and were closer to the land, for instance. Such allusions foreground the concept of a simple life amongst nature that contrasts with the superficial ‘sophistications’ that reign at Wildcat’s trial. In contrast to Kobayashi’s absent Ichirō, Satō presents Ichirō more conventionally, as the main focaliser of the action. The events are doubly, and sometimes triply focalised through Ichirō who is the most salient figure in all but three tableaus. The cover, for instance, immediately introduces him reading and dreaming about the postcard, replicating events from a third person point of view (see fig. 11). The viewer is thus aligned with Ichirō’s

point of view, but can also observe events from a broader perspective. Satō’s double signification in the mise en abyme in the book’s first opening creates a clever metafictive distinction between reality and dream that highlights Ichirō’s movement out of the here-and-now into nature. He is set within the acorn-shaped thought-balloon. (See fig. 12). Satō juxtaposes the ‘real’ with the imaginary. Ichirō appears twice, once realistically, reading the postcard in his ‘real’ house (at bottom left), and again above, in a magnified replication within an acorn ‘balloon’ which protrudes from the branch of the oak tree in the foreground. Another smaller acornballoon portrays the contents of the ‘real’ Ichirō’s

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Satō Kunio (1952–); cover, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

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Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 2–3, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

imagination where he visualises the pompous Wildcat at court in his jimbaori. Set against Ichirō’s ‘reality’, the acorn-balloons are also sequenced to emphasise this dichotomy between dream and reality. The eye is led from the more salient Ichirō on the left against the direction of reading (right to left) to disrupt the flow of reading and move away from the reality of the ‘known’ world from which, according to Kress and Van Leeuwen's theory of reading direction, emanates (on the right).46 This movement of the eye accentuates awareness of the different space (nature) that Ichirō is about to enter as he goes in search of Wildcat. It also emphasises his perspective of the drama to unfold. Satō’s signification techniques here, his visual replication of Ichirō’s thought and dream against ‘reality’, also draws attention to the fictionality of the fantasy, and encourages the viewer to self-reflexively observe the story’s irony. Like Kobayashi, Satō contrasts Ichirō’s encounters in the mountains with the chaos that prevails at the clearing. Yet he does this through framing  techniques that maintain a more distanced viewing perspective throughout. Having interwoven Ichirō’s dreams within a natural framework (acorns, branches and leaves in the first opening),

Satō continues to frame Ichirō’s dialogue with natural, organic flora and phenomena during his initial journey in the mountains. For example, when Ichirō first asks the chestnut trees about Wildcat, Ichirō, the text and the landscape are all enclosed within the outline of a huge tree-trunk, presenting an external view of Ichirō’s dialogue within nature (see fig. 13). The extraordinary coach is small and notably outside the tree-frame (at the upper-left) to highlight the dream-state, but this positioning also emphasises its (and Wildcat’s) exclusion from nature. Although Satō anthropomorphises the characters along Ichirō’s journey, his organic framing devices emphasise this journey as an idealistic dream, a disruption of the reality of here-and-now. Thus, while Satō signifies Ichirō’s dialogue with organic phenomena as a more natural, harmonious ideal, the harder-edged framing during the more ‘unnatural’ trial scenes signals the less organic, more human restlessness of the ‘cultured’ protagonists at the clearing. The straighter lines of the frames in this middle section of Satō’s book help separate the satirical scenes of the trial, signifying the material concerns of Wildcat (and the acorns) as alien to nature. These scenes are set against sparser backgrounds 58

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Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 4–5, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

with less natural woodgrain seeping through, emphasising the absence of nature at the trial. Like Kobayashi, he marks off these scenes to draw a distinction between the harmony of nature and the false desires of humanity, making the similar point that, at the clearing, Wildcat and the acorns (and humans) are alienated from nature when acting within a cultural or more material topos. In contrast to Kobayashi’s more unanthropomorphised characters which demonstrate how ‘to be’ naturally, Satō emphasises how ‘not to be’ through the salience of Wildcat’s pomposity. Wildcat and the acorns are depicted as megalomaniacs who are acting against their true natures. The ‘natural’ framing devices disappear at the introduction of Wildcat in magnifico, puffing on his (extra-textual) cigar (fig. 14). Indeed, his upper head and ears break through the more rigid line of the straight, upper border of this double opening, as does the cloud of smoke from his cigar which forms the more artificial ‘cultural’ frame for the written text. The flamboyant Wildcat is thus visually excluded from nature and this ‘puff’ of smoke further emphasises the fragility of this state, highlighting the instability of his pretentiousness. Satō’s introduction of Wildcat here as a mannered,

feudalistic overlord, foregrounds issues of classism, elitism and ego and his more linear framing highlights these egoistic ‘cultivations’ as more estranged from nature. With Ichirō absent from the pictures for the first time here, the viewer is shifted into a first person pictorial point of view (also for the first time) to perceive and respond to Wildcat’s superior gaze from on high as he offers Ichirō (and the viewer) a cigar (from his personal cigar box – another extra-textual device). Satō focuses attention on Wildcat’s insensitivity, affected mannerisms (which relegates others to positions of inferiority) and superficiality. His superiority and self-satisfaction confront Ichirō (and the viewer), juxtaposing his elitism and insensitivity against the subservience and unfulfilled desires of the coachman who is yearning for a smoke. The lowering of pictorial viewpoint on the picture plane not only allows for an interactive subordination to Wildcat’s affectations, but also positions the viewer in alignment with the coachman’s feelings of misery as Wildcat obliviously expels smoke towards him. The vectors of Wildcat’s cigar and whiskers extend (in the direction of reading) down his arm along the bottom of the smoke cloud (at left) to 59

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Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 12–13, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

create a visual path towards the pathetic figure of the miserable coachman who also ‘demands’ the viewer’s empathy through his teary, oneeyed gaze. The picture thus underlines Wildcat’s insensitivity. In a similar way to Kobayashi, Satō punctuates  the introduction of the acorns with a significant flattening of the picture plane and lack of perspectival referentiality that help emphasise their confusion (fig. 15). The sudden dissonance in viewpoint accords with the acorn’s misunderstanding about their own sense of ‘being.’ While the audience seems to look up with the acorns from behind, they are also seen from above, so together with the acorns, the viewer encloses yet is simultaneously enclosed within a kind of semi-circle of elevated human culture. While engendering the confusion of the acorns, this picture, rather than inspiring any sense of awe for Wildcat for instance,  gently pokes fun at the pomposity of the figures of culture. The line of sight is towards the (cut-off) lower legs and feet of Wildcat, Ichirō and the coachman in a semi-circle at the top of the page. Furthermore,  similar to Kobayashi, Satō contrasts the anthropomorphised ‘unnaturalness’ of the acorns in their confused state here with their

later unanthropomorphised, therefore ‘natural’ forms (see, for example, fig. 16), to further emphasise the contrast between how ‘to be’ and how ‘not to be.’ Satō also makes several extra-textual references to Wildcat as an urbane character who is completely insensitive and out of touch. For instance, in contrast to the narrative where Wildcat neglects any mention of Ichirō’s advice to him, Satō devotes a spread that foregrounds the wisdom of Ichirō’s ‘sermon’ (figure not included here). Ichirō draws attention to Wildcat’s ‘plagiarism’ by heightening both his egocentrism and his lack of understanding of his own (or rather Ichirō’s) sermon. Satō elaborates the text even further where Ichirō has to choose between the salmon head or golden acorns. This picture dramatises the exotic desires of Wildcat, juxtaposing them against Ichirō’s simple dreams (fig. 16). Wildcat is imagining himself at a refined French restaurant ordering salted salmon heads in a Western dinner-suit. The French language in his thought-balloon-framed-as-smoke underscores his affectations, translating as: ‘Plate of salmon with sauce in the style of the wandering Wildcat.’ The reappearance of smoke-framing here serves as a reminder of Wildcat’s material concerns 60

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Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 14–15, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 24–25, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

and insensitivity. In comparison with his exaggerated sophistication, Ichirō is imagining using his gift of more ordinary-looking acorns as spinning  tops  (yajirobē  koma,  as  identified  in Ichirō’s thought-balloon). The extra-textual thoughts both emphasise the humour and underscore the ludicrousness of pride and material aspirations. Satō’s interactive closure further pushes the significance beyond this kind of negative state of

‘being,’ underlining the moral about the importance of communion with the natural world. His final picture foregrounds humanity’s alienation from nature yet also offers some hope through introspective reflection. In contrast with Kobayashi’s final picture where the child Ichirō is present for the first time, Ichirō’s absence in Satō’s closure presents a first person contemplation of the story (fig. 17). The viewer is situated to look out into the 61

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future over the desk, which is unenclosed by walls and open to the elements, to wistfully anticipate another postcard (with the absent Ichirō). The upper right corner of the desk leads forward, advancing into the future (with the direction of reading) into the animated black woodgrain. The negative space of the desktop whose sharp edge protrudes into this animated blackness counterbalances the negative space which shapes an arched window/moon across the top of the scene. This and the flattened picture plane help distort perspective to merge the indoors with the outside: the arch rises over the landscape, simultaneously framing the house/room and the natural world. The window/moon thus offers a bridge over and into the wider world. At the same time, the window is inserted into the natural world as the source of (moon-)light. It illuminates the whole scene, connecting indoors and outdoors. The evening scene (signifying a reflective time of day) also contrasts with Satō’s introductory mise en abyme, encouraging reflection on the distinction between ‘reality’ and fiction. It metafictively draws

Satō Kunio (1952–); p. 29, Donguri to Yamaneko; Benesse, 1989.

attention to the story as a creation, and the possibility of ‘re-writing’ it. This possibility is significant, especially as it interacts so well with Ichirō’s final contemplation of Wildcat’s request to reword his next postcard. The nostalgic objects on the desk – the fountain pen, postcard and old-fashioned gramophone with a record of Kenji’s favourite Beethoven – are all objects which enabled Kenji himself to access his utopian otherworld. These metafictive and intertextual references infer an adult perspective, perhaps the author’s own yearnings for ano yo or, indeed, the adult Ichirō recalling his childhood experience or dream.47 Together with viewer positioning here, this intertextuality helps reconstitute the reader as a now more active reading participant who can reflect upon the significances inherent in the story, provoking consideration of the vicissitudes of ego and humility, life and art. On the one hand, the items on the desk (pen, postcard etc.) evoke the author’s (and perhaps, the artist’s) sense of nostalgia for a simpler past, thus a longing for a better future. On the other hand, 62

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Kenji E Dōwa Shū – The Miyazawa Kenji Picture Book Collection). This series is edited by two renowned Kenji scholars, Amazawa Taijirō and Hagiwara Masayoshi.50 Its Donguri to Yamaneko was in its second print run by June of the same year and has had its most recent print run (the 14th) of about 1,000 copies in 2009, so is still available today and is likely to remain so for some time yet.51 In contrast to the other picture books under discussion in which one story constitutes the entire book, like the rest of books in the series, this holds several illustrated stories (illustrated by different artists). Tsukasa’s artwork forms the cover and frontispiece for this volume, demonstrating its prominence among the four included stories. His computer graphics provide an interesting contrast to the other books and offer the opportunity to explore how modern media techniques can signify the transcendence of more material ‘this world’ attachments. The following discussion concentrates on the cover, frontispiece and title spread. Unlike Kobayashi and Satō who dichotomise the realistic and fantastic settings of the story and exaggerate Wildcat’s human-like foibles, Tsukasa’s fewer pictures present a more abstract artistic representation which is less linear or replicatory of the story events. His contrast of positive and negative opposites on the cover seem to reverse natural light and dark, immediately establishing the essence of an evanescent world throughout (fig. 18). Wildcat is portrayed in negative, outlined in yellow against a black background, his bright yellow eyes and red lips ‘inviting’ the viewer into the different space that is implied by the positive/negative contrasts. Against this naïve portrait Tsukasa creates a strange, numinous otherworld through the reflective luminosity of the psychedelic squiggles and curlicues and, for instance, the ‘shooting’ star behind Wildcat on the cover. These squiggles later form much of the shading and colouring of the characters and natural phenomena, such as the acorns, to also suggest interpenetrative qualities. They signify the blending of opposites, positive against negative, the blurred contours and

together with suggestive mergers with ‘reality’ through mandala-like circular knots of woodgrain, the natural world signifies the life of Kenji’s ideal otherworld. The reflections in the ‘stream’ that runs diagonally through the middle of the picture work with the merging realities to signify the blending of all dualities; past with present, outside with inside, human with animal. This integration suggests a more immersive intersubjectivity which allows a blending of the human subject in ‘this world’ into the ‘otherworld’, suggesting a nonimpeded interpenetration among phenomena. Whereas this final picture merges home and landscape and creates an ambiguity among past, present and future to merge all temporality and spatiality, the barrier of the (civilising) desk and even the ‘stream’ also reiterate the moral that material (and adult) egoisms must be conquered in order to find and accept ‘true’ being as part of the natural cosmos.

tsukasa osamu Tsukasa Osamu (1936–) is a well-known awardwinning artist, novelist and scholar who has illustrated many of Kenji’s stories. He won the 20th Kawabata Prize (1993), which is “presented annually to the year’s ‘most accomplished’ work of short fiction” for his work Dog (Inu).48 He also won the 48th Mainichi Arts Award in 2007 for his novel, Mediterranean Bronze (Bronzu no Chichūkai). A self-taught artist, he has mastered various media such as oil and woodblocks, but has mainly utilised a scratch or engraving technique (apparent in his Serohiki no Gōshu, discussed in Chapter 5) and, more recently, computer-graphics (as in this ‘Donguri’). He was influenced by the work of the 15th century artist Hieronymus Bosch and the 17th century Japanese monk, Enkū, who is famous for having carved many rough wooden statues of Buddha. An exhibition of Tsukasa’s artistic work was held at the Museum of Modern Art in Gunma Prefecture from April to June, 2011.49 His ‘Donguri’ was originally published in January 1993 as part of Kumon’s series of picture books of Kenji’s work (Miyazawa 63

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Tsukasa Osamu (1936–); jacket cover; Donguri to Yamaneko; Kumon, 1993.

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contrasting colours implying a less permanent and more interpenetrative heterotopia, the sense of an imaginative ano yo (otherworld). The contrasts suggest the disrupted order of things and signal the transcendence of the more familiar world. Such multi-layering continues throughout Tsukasa’s pictures, suggesting the integration of self with the universe. The frontispiece for the book, for example, foregrounds the notion of layered subjectivity. At first glance the picture appears to be a simple outline of an acorn, but Wildcat’s subliminal silhouette can be discerned in its dark centre (fig. 19). This image thus reflects his underlying subjectivity (his conceit) within that of the acorns who are at the centre of the trial and, by extension, the egoism inherent in all human activity and desire. Tsukasa’s title page of the story proper (see fig. 20) continues the sense of transcendence of the material through the wider double spread of even more colourful abstractions against a flat plane of

Tsukasa Osamu (1936–); frontispiece, Donguri to Yamaneko; Kumon, 1993.

darkness. These iridescent, abstract squiggles and geometric forms seep through and vividly animate the expansive blackness. The boundaries between ‘this world’ and the other are suggested in the purplish line of the foregrounded ‘landscape’, but their translucency suggests their merger and dissolution into the higher realm, signalling the realm of the psyche. Colours and images flow out and reverberate through the blackness to create an atmosphere of lively interpenetration and suggest a transcendent ano yo (otherworld) that signifies Kenji’s more spiritual cosmos where “anything is possible”52 and where all things can merge together. This metaphysicality is further symbolised in other contrasts of positive and negative. The represented participants are all diaphanous yet reverberate iridescently through the negative black to intimate their capability for immersion into the wider cosmos. The surrealistic shapes and figures 64

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20 Tsukasa Osamu (1936–); pp. 50–51, Donguri to Yamaneko; Kumon, 1993.

of the three main characters, Ichirō, Wildcat and the coachman, emanate luminosity and seem to vibrate from and through the depths of the dark background environment. The more dominant outline of the ‘real’ Ichirō (in opaque white at bottom right), represents him as the font of connective ‘power’ as the instigator of Wildcat’s sermon and at the initial reading position on the page (reading direction is right to left). He links all the characters together through a zigzag-like diagonal vector which seems to cut through and into the atmosphere. Behind him, a series of diaphanous whitish silhouettes reverberate upwards suggesting the ethereal nature of his power. Ichirō’s vibrating images form the beginning of the zigzag movement   which follows up through the mediating coachman’s similarly reverberating silhouettes towards Wildcat and beyond at upper left (in the direction of reading). These reverberations are dominant across the page, reinscribing the coachman’s

mediating role. The zigzag acts like a vinculum between Ichirō on the ground and Wildcat in the air, connecting all the positive and negative contrasts among the characters. It also traces a path for Ichirō (and the reader) in his positive whiteness to the more static Wildcat who is negatively etched against yet also within the dharma-like moon. The latter highlights the journey’s ideal of a metaphysically negated ego. The opaque moon that subsumes Wildcat’s silhouette is also set within another circle whose spiralling lines do not quite meet but change colour to merge into the blackness, suggesting an incomplete circle that is open to the negative (and positive) aspects of all beings, including Wildcat. The moon-shape, however, does not fully enclose Wildcat’s outline (his ears are protruding from the circle), indicating his unrealised enlightenment. Wildcat appears less permeable, thus resistant to change and interpenetration as suggested by his egoistic actions in the narrative. 65

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In contrast with Kobayashi and Satō, who exaggerate Wildcat’s mannerisms (with the ‘demand’ or cigar imagery, for instance), the perspective of inverse reality of Tsukasa’s Wildcat presents his egoistic traits less than it does his non-integrative ability. While the other characters seem to echo through the atmosphere, thus signifying their transitivity, Tsukasa’s Wildcat is more stable and remains less mutable throughout. His more saturated shading suggests his intransigence and his kono yo attachments that prevent his full immersion into the inifinite where a less essential self is more accepting of other life forms. Wildcat’s opacity also suggests that his competitive traits, his pride and conceit, will continue to prevent his successful merger with this larger cosmos. His pictorial immutability demonstrates his limitations. Tsukasa’s artwork ultimately signifies a higher plane, immediately connoting Kenji’s different space through a more interpenetrative utopia whereby positive and negative should coexist harmoniously. With lower modality throughout, there are few clearly delineated background settings to distinguish place. His flatness of plane provides little or no depth of perspective, constructing a sense of infinity, a mysticism which works to achieve a cosmological heteretopia. The reading subject is thus encouraged to explore the different, more spiritual consciousness of integration with the universe. The appearance of a merging, interpenetrative world is achieved through Tsukasa’s effervescent luminosity and the flow of his repetitive shadowing effects. This surrealistic movement situates them in the intangible, more spiritual world of Ichirō’s journey: a higher world where the interconnectivity among all phenomena can be explored.

education (in philosophy, literature and art). He became one of the theoretical and practical leaders of the Mono-ha (School of Things), the minimalist art group which arose in the 1960s to become Japan’s first internationally-famous contemporary art movement. The group’s aim was to critique modernity by rejecting representation and embracing all existence, encouraging a meditative contemplation of the “fluid coexistence of numerous beings, concepts and experiences”.53 Lee’s paintings and sculptures revolve around the notion of encounter (deai), uncovering the bare existence of all phenomena to focus on the world as it is and the space around it. Two of his early series, From Point and From Line (1972–84), use the tools of abstract expressionism, particularly monochrome and repetition, to affirm the infinity of existence with the idea that everything comes from and returns to points or lines. Through repetitive points and lines in monochromatic blue (of the sky), brown or burnt orange (of the earth) against the white space of inifinity, Lee creates what he calls an ‘art of emptiness’ (yohaku) that is paradoxically vivid and generative. As indicated in the philosophical title of his 1970s works, Relatum, he is interested in the relationships among all phenomena. His recent 2011 retrospective, Marking Infinity, was held at the Guggenheim in New York. His philosophies are influenced by Eastern and Western thought, from Buddhism to the work of Jacques Derrida.54 As such, Lee’s ‘Donguri’ accords with many of Kenji’s ideals. It is the first volume in the abstract series of picture books of Kenji’s tales commissioned by the late Tanigawa Gan for the fiftieth anniversary of Kenji’s death in 1983.55 It had its second print run in 1994. It is Lee’s complete lack of mimetic representation of story referents that makes his ‘Donguri’ both meditative and dialogic. His brushstrokes throughout appear as a set of haphazard daubs spread over each blank white page in horizontal, circular or vertical directions. Yet their considered, deliberate placement on each page synthesises beautifully with the spiritual journey of the narrative. While the brushstrokes are calligraphic

lee ufan Lee Ufan (1936 – ) is an internationally renowned, award-winning artist, philosopher, and poet who works in Japan, Korea and France, and resides in Kamakura, Japan. Born in Korea, he went to live in Japan at the age of twenty (in 1956) to further his 66

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in style, thus according with the writing and semantic traditions of the East, they do not attempt  to reproduce any conventional or fixed ideographic meaning (that is, kanji or other recognisable script). Like his paintings and performative sculptures, Lee’s calligraphic brushwork is both metafictive and intertextual. In its refusal to fix any determinate meaning (to ‘Donguri’’s verbal text or otherwise), his dynamic daubs draw attention to themselves and actively involve the reader in the process of creating meaning. They implicate the beholder in an intensely dialogic reading experience that complements ‘Donguri’s’ integrative ideal of communion with all life. By making the reader work hard to draw associations between the words and images, they encourage contemplation of the psychological or emotional significations in the story. Lee’s cover, for instance, with its seemingly haphazard brown brushstrokes against the stark white background, bears no resemblance to either of the subjects mentioned in the title, Wildcat or the acorns, or to the setting (fig. 21). The open, centrifugal nature of the initial brushstrokes here suggests a more explosive psychological journey (with the protagonists in the accompanying verbal narrative). Because there is no obvious link to the narrative or subjects of the tale, no concrete reference to scenes or characters, the story is opened up to more metaphysical processes. In having to search for possible connections, the reader is left with few options but to infer connections from the colours, shapes, and rhythmic qualities of the seemingly random daubs across each page. The centrifugal swirls on the cover and frontispiece connote the unseen torrents and unheard sounds of the wind, rain, sun and light: the natural chaos that conjures the anti-materialist Buddhist precepts about (non-) attachment to this world and its desires as exemplified in the tale’s moral. The physical spontaneity of the connection of brush to the blank white surface reveals the working process and, as Tani indicates, paradoxically connects both the concrete and transcendental. “Minimum contact and maximum resonance” work to create

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Lee Ufan (1936–); cover; Donguri to Yamaneko; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1983.

an open dialogue which “intimates the infinite.”56 Lee’s brushwork is reminiscent of his From Point (Ten Yori), From Line (Sen Yori) and From Winds (Kaze Yori) series of exhibitions in the 1970s and 1980s when, according to Minemura, Lee’s thirty years of experience had culminated in creating an ethereal ‘cosmic chaos.’57 The rhythm of Lee’s brush, his use of colour, broken lines and brushwork ‘points’ animate the blank white picture plane to suggest a universalistic strength, a rhythmical ‘accordance’ or ‘correspondence’ (chōwa) – of those phenomena which we can’t see and can’t hear – that accords with the spiritual profundity of nature’s life forces.58 Like each touch of the brush, all creation arises from a point, which then “extends into a line.”59 Each point and line hints at birth and death, or presence and absence, to evoke a strong sense of existence in space which “dynamically takes in 67

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its surrounding spaces as well as its viewers.”60 This recalls Hagiwara Masayoshi’s explanation of Kenji’s dynamic ‘galactical consciousness’, where the origin of life becomes death and death revives life, life and death thus becoming the one continuous ‘life.’61 Lee’s lines and points of creation against each blank page open up the empty infinite to contemplate the spiritual suspension of ego against, for instance, Wildcat’s attachment to ego. Lee’s sense of ‘cosmic chaos’ also coheres with the vicissitudes of the wind and sunlight that whirl and radiate throughout ‘Donguri.’ It is further redolent of Kenji’s feeling for the whims and whiles of nature from whence, as expressed in his preface to his Chūmon, he received his stories, “tast[ed] the beautiful transparency of the wind … [and] dr[a]nk in the glorious peach-coloured morning sunlight.”62  As elements of nature, wind and sunlight accord a transient, spontaneous correlation with the natural world. Lee’s brushstrokes encourage contemplation of an intuitive, open ‘accordance’  with the natural world that coheres with Ichirō’s (and the reader’s) suspension of individualistic subjectivity. Lee’s attention to process also promotes a more  intuitive interconnectivity with the universe  that is similar to Ichirō’s natural instinct in the mountains. Besides learning that all painting begins from a point and that all forms consist in  points, Lee’s early practise of ink-painting (sumi-e) taught him the importance of breathing life into each touch of the brush. As a fundamental component of painting, this formed the basis of the subsequent step of producing interrelationships between individual brushstrokes.63 His ‘splashedink’ style breathes life into each brushstroke and connotes the suspension of all subject/object or mind/body distinctions, with the fleetingness of brush to picture plane encouraging a sense of oneness with the cosmos.64 The life-force of the brush in turn evokes an absorption or loss of consciousness, a sense of simply ‘being in the moment’ that is  similar to that loss of consciousness suggested in  the mingei (folk-art) philosophy of Yanagi Sōetsu  or the aforementioned Munakata Shikō

and, of course, to Ichirō’s communion with nature as an ideal. Yet the style and placement of the daubs that ‘encounter’ the void also evoke contemplation of the interrelationships between semblances and dissimilarities that the ‘Donguri’ narrative also draws attention to. As Okada points out, the life of each brushstroke, the dynamic of rivalry and co-operation that are perceived through mental vision, are more important than the images or ideas, or the materialistic phenomena such as the canvas or paint, colour or shape.65 In conjunction with the narrative, these tensions suggest themes of rivalry and cooperation, pride and humility, content and discontent. In the touch of the brush to plane, Lee’s pigment and canvas simultaneously penetrate and repel each other to cohere with the frictions between Wildcat’s alienated, individuated ego and nature’s more organic, intricately intertwined universality. Furthermore, the tension between the colours, groupings and styles of brushstroke, for example, the closed (or limited) and the more open, represents similar fissures. For instance, the transition from the ‘constraint’ of the linear black trail on the book’s front end-page (fig. 22) to a looser orange tick-like flow of daubs in the frontispiece (not reproduced here) implies the tension between the ‘loss of way’ in the constrained civilised environment of the trial, and the freer, more centrifugal, generative force of natural law such as the whims of the gusts and blusters, or lulls, calms and silences, of the natural breezes that accompany, Ichirō (and the reader) during his instinctive foray in the mountains. Lee’s linear ‘flash’ of broad black strokes or ‘points’ on the book’s front and back end-pages also contrasts with the looser strokes and spaces on the internal pages to suggest Ichirō’s journey, and indeed all life, as the speed of an intuitive flash of imagination (fig. 22). The repetition of this same trail on the back end-page further indicates the cyclical flow of time that suggests what Inui, in relation to other works by Lee, refers to as a “continual-recurrence pattern of life, death and rebirth of the points (or lines), … in … a non-continuously 68

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continuous tension.”66 The white of the page seeps through the essential black ‘line-points’ to further suggest a tension in the transient yet mercurial vitality of the communion signified in the tale. The repetition of colours from black to orange to brown to blue to black recurs twice through the book to also signal the more intuitive, ‘non-continuously continuous tension’ within all life. The differences among Lee’s brushstrokes also suggest the subtlety of difference within similar phenomena, and accord with the story’s higher significance of commonality among all beings. Within Lee’s similar monochomatic clusterings and sweeps and thrusts of brush to canvas, their shadings, style and shapes are at once slightly different from each other and from strokes on previous and following pages. While the similarities suggest the underlying common relationship among all things, the differences also register a uniqueness of quality to each. The different shades or thickness of ink within the same hue complement the story’s moral about concepts of rivalry and cooperation, content and discontent, and equality and superiority. In other words, in opening up a dialogue of discordance yet connection among all types of phenomena, Lee’s brushstrokes access the story’s Buddhist cosmic principle. According to Tani, Lee uses the primary colour blue because it is “impregnated with life and death,

Lee Ufan (1936–); endpages (inside cover), Donguri to Yamaneko; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1983.

[it is] the colour of nothingness.”67 Aoki further notes that Lee chooses familiar colours such as blue, yellow, white and black to avoid reminiscences of ‘superficial phenomena’ and evoke a more “essential world.”68 In Lee’s depiction of ‘Donguri’, the ‘superficial’ can be equated with pride or culture, and the ‘essential’ with the natural world, so his secondary orange (arising from two primary colours, red and yellow) and tertiary brown daubs (produced from the combination of secondary orange and primary blue) can be proportionately connected with the more superficial and material. Lee marks the beginning of Ichirō’s intuitive journey with a change to his ‘life and death’ blue as Ichirō begins to communicate with the chestnut trees and the flute-waterfall in the mountains (fig. 23). The blue contrasts with the tertiary brown strokes that represent Ichirō’s material world and the receipt of the postcard as culture and ‘reality’ on the first single page spread (not reproduced here). The open breadth of vertical blue strokes on this double spread conjures the brighter life-force image of long fine fingers playing the flute of the waterfall. Though these brushstrokes are more tightly clustered together on the left, they gradually ooze more light, bringing the intervening voids to life on the right (in the direction of reading, left to right). As if with Ichirō’s progression, the 69

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accompany the narrative at the point where the coachman; “seem[s] to be having such a hard time controlling his own desire for a cigarette that great big tears trickle[…] down his cheeks.”69

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These tear-shapes not only highlight Wildcat’s insensitivity to his longings for a cigarette, but also the story’s moral about uniqueness and commonality (and inequality). The tertiary brown rows at once suggest the acorn’s uniform obstinacy, their rebellion against culture, and general cultural constraints. Their shallow materialist rivalries and fixations have festered amongst the constraints of culture. The darker brown tear-drop shapes in the next picture (not reproduced here) continue the critique of competitive culture. Although looser in space, they are heavier in shading (often applied with a second layer), making them seem to drop to the bottom of the page to produce a gravitational effect downwards that dramatises the heaviness and repetitive hopelessness of the continuing acorn dispute. In the next double spread where the acorns have fallen silent in astonishment and realisation, there is another change in colour and style of brushstroke that conveys the trial’s resolution as a release of all such constraint. Lee returns to his life-affirming primary blue here with less constrained ticks of the brush (not reproduced here, but in a similar manner to strokes on the cover). All uniformity and weight is diffused into a mixture of lighter, looser and freer-flowing dynamic blue daubs, signifying the positive effect of the sermon. The ethereality inscribed through these thrusts reinscribes the story’s moral about the insignificance of all material desires, emphasising the Buddhist concept of being freely at one with the more explosive natural cosmos. This airy release conveys the experience of the moral of negation of ego as signified in the silent realisation of the acorns at their own stupidity. Lee’s penultimate image returns to essential black daubs that coincide with Ichirō’s break with

Lee Ufan (1936–); pp. 6–7, Donguri to Yamaneko; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1983.

surrounding spaces open up and flow forth from beneath and around the blue, suggesting a loss of inhibition that coheres with Ichirō’s more instinctive moments in nature as freer, open and harmonious in time and space. Significantly, however, a dramatic change in style and colour of brushstroke signals the transition between the life force of nature in the mountains and the ‘darkness’ of materialist culture at the trial. At the point when Ichirō enters the dark forest, Lee’s live-giving blue suddenly gives way to another more intense double spread of dense and overlapping black ‘points’ (not reproduced here). This dark stillness on the page challenges the sense of vitality in nature by closing off much of the background light, thus signifying the beginning of ‘un-natural’ confusion of the acorns at the trial. The ‘closed’ density here also marks the beginning of the emotional loss of way which is inscribed in the chaos and confusion of egoism at the trial. When the squabbling acorns appear at the clearing, Lee sets a range of pear-shaped brown ‘points’ in horizontal formation, to suggest both their similarity and their en masse approach to the scene of the trial (fig. 24). Lee’s roughly acorn/tearshapes also forge a visual link with the coachman’s tears, suggesting further images of desire as they

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Lee Ufan (1936–); pp. 16–17, Donguri to Yamaneko; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1983.

fantasy and his return to reality. The strokes are now horizontal in direction and contrast with the earlier vertical strokes to signal the transition back to the more individual subjectivity inherent in the material world. Yet the break in the penultimate stroke, together with the gradual fading of inkdepth, simultaneously evokes its fragility. This sense of transience is also apparent in the last single orange daub in the centre of the final page which accompanies the disappearance of Wildcat’s carriage. It evokes the image of the instant that Ichirō is left standing by himself to contemplate the wording of the postcard, and again represents the ‘point’ from which all creation begins and ends, suggesting hope for a more complete unity. The secondary orange and bleeding of hue within the daub simultaneously suggest the fragility of such a hope.

All the shifts and subtleties of Lee’s suite of brushstrokes evoke the oppositions between the stasis of egoistic materialism and transcendence into a non-materialist Buddhist merger with the universe. Moreover, the aforementioned colour sequencing, which repeats twice through and is framed by the black on the inside covers, signifies the continual vitality and pulse of all life and rebirth. The impulse behind Lee’s encounter of pigment and canvas both permits yet resists permeation to achieve a dynamic opposition of rivalry and co-operation that signifies, for instance, the paradox between uniqueness and commonality; with the moral that nothing is superior or inferior, just different and thus entitled to occupy its natural place in the world. A similar dynamic between his colours and points and lines also foregrounds the

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fissures between content and discontent as exhibited respectively by the organic phenomena and the egoistic characters in ‘Donguri’; the cosmic accordance between Ichirō and the natural world in the mountains as set against the rigidity of the competitive acorns who, in striving for uniqueness and superiority, are fundamentally discontent. The impulse of the brush encourages a dissonance between all subject-object dichotomies that paradoxically suggests notions of infinity that then swallow  the reader into the cosmological concerns of ‘Donguri’s’ verbal discourse. Lee’s calligraphic medium thereby explores the tensions between the superficiality of the egoistic individual (such as Wildcat) and a more essentially organic universality.

integration with nature. Together with his contrastive framing that extends the nature/culture dichotomy, his extra-textual mockery of Wildcat’s behaviour in the trial scenes emphasises the story’s irony. In a similar way to Kobayashi, Satō’s personified acorns gradually lose their human features in the last scenes as their newfound understanding returns them to their more ‘natural’ state, thus signifying their contentment. While Satō provides a more replicatory representation of story, his metafictional and intertextual closure is intensely dialogic. In contrast with Kobayashi and Satō, Tsukasa’s computer-graphics reflect the infinite depth of universe rather than creating a clear distinction between the two realms. His iridescent squiggles and colours against the flat black backgrounds distort all sense of ‘reality’ and execute a dazzling ‘otherworld’ quality that suggests the possibility for merger between all the positive and negative aspects in the universe. Tsukasa’s graphics thus blur the distinction between the material and immaterial worlds, engendering a sense of communion with the cosmos through universal immersion. Tsukasa’s depiction of ‘Donguri’ has the least images and is far from a replicatory rendering of the story. Its bright otherworldly computer graphics against the darkness provoke deep contemplation of the metaphysical, layered world beyond the story. Lee Ufan’s completely abstract artistry, on the other hand, with no replicatory representation of story or characters, stands apart as one of the most dialogic responses to the story’s moral about interpenetrative, cosmological ‘being.’ Lee’s abstractions encourage free association, yet to create meaning from the accompanying abstract strokes – to connect the coloured daubs with emotions found in the narrative – requires a mixture of thought and intuition. This technique encourages a loss of selfobsession that accords with Ichirō’s more intuitive,  absorptive journey in the mountains. The indeterminacy in Lee’s strokes encourages a psychological suspension of disbelief  that accords

conclusion All of these picture books of ‘Donguri’ work at somehow transcending anthropocentric (egoistic) pride of the individual and dialogically signifying the submersion of ‘self’ into nature. Kobayashi’s more numerous monochromatic etchings suggest a multilayered universe but his predominantly first person viewpoint also inserts Ichirō (and reader) into a dialogic interaction with nature in the mountains. This same autodiegetic viewpoint highlights the contrasting discord at the trial. By directly confronting the viewer with both the coachman and Wildcat in the pictorial discourse, Kobayashi dialogically interrogates Wildcat’s self-aggrandisement. By creating a more interactive viewing participant, Kobayashi enables a direct experience of the comparison between the more harmonious creatures of nature and the aggressive ‘demands’ of Wildcat. Satō’s more distant third-person viewpoint is more conventional in its replication of characters and scenes, but his bright, naive woodcuts are executed with a creative spontaneity that accords with the story’s significance, the suspension of ego through harmony with nature. His particular blend of woodcut line and ink bleeding breathes life into the picture plane, suggesting the psychological

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with Kenji’s ‘galactical consciousness’, which in turn entails a rejection of ego and pride, subject/ object dichotomies that alienate humans from the natural cosmos. While this chapter has shown how the artwork   helps transcend dualistic notions of egoistic   pride, conflict and competition, the next

chapter explores pictorialisations of ‘Snow Crossing’, a story in which a symbolic exchange occurs between two children and some fox cubs. The narrative signifies the transcendence of the human/nature dichotomy through the establishment of mutual trust between animals and humans.

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4 Beyond Dualism in ‘Snow Crossing’ (Yukiwatari)

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hereas the previous chapter shows how ‘Donguri’ satirises notions of conceit and pride in order to signify the ideal of a less individuated self, this chapter explores how ‘Yukiwatari’ uses a symbolic exchange between two different groups of children, human and animal, to push beyond dualistic views of the universe. The exchange occurs when two children go out to play in the snow. When they meet a fox cub, they cross into a different setting, an extraordinary space and time where ‘anything is possible’, offering a heterocosm for the ‘crossing’ of the title. This heterotopia functions as the bridge between the two worlds, the real and the imaginary.1 They interact together in a symbolic breaking down of the divisions between humans and nature, the climax exemplifying the merging of all dualities in a kind of transcendent cosmic moment. Like the fluctuating light of the lamp in Kenji’s poem, ‘The Phenomenon of I’, the concept of exchange is itself transient, inherently signifying the notion of the integrated yet impermanent existence of all things, including self, in time and space. ‘Yukiwatari’ is one of the few tales published while Kenji was still alive, and the only one for which he received a small fee. It first appeared in the journal Aikoku Fujin (Patriotic Woman) in two parts, in December 1921 and January 1922.2 Kenji

made repeated corrections after this publication and now most productions, including the picture books discussed here, adopt the last revised version. The story is taught in primary school at about grade five.3 It is still being published in illustrated form, showing its continuing receptivity for modern audiences. All of Kenji’s tales are, in one way or another, about transcending dualism, but ‘Yukiwatari’ in particular constructs a set of dualistic relationships that are gradually broken down. It accesses traditional folklore to establish these binaries and suggest the conventional view of ‘this world’ (kono yo), indicating the problematic ‘othering’ that occurs among beings in the material world, thus cultural differences to be transcended. As Hirasawa suggests, the tale signals the strangeness of any one particular world to another.4 It works towards reconciling these relationships through a set of intercultural negotiations, demonstrating the positive potential of dialogue and mutual trust. As indicated in Chapter 3, dualism is not only about false attachment to ego but also about attachment to any fixed notion of identity or existence. Buddhist thought sees all duality, separation, division and individuation as illusion. The highest level of enlightenment brings the knowledge of the empty nature of all phenomena. All forms of substantialism, including self, are empty of the independent identity they appear to have.5 Whereas the ultimate reality beyond duality is absolute emptiness however, this does not mean it is empty of

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 28–29, Yukiwatari; Benesse, 1990. Detail of fig. 32.

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existence.6 Interdependent ‘emptiness’ means there is everything in nothing. It is neither negative nor nihilistic: in its emptiness it is also ‘full’. This involves a state of ‘thusness’ or ‘suchness’, with the self (and everything else) as impermanent and subject to constant change.7 In Buddhist thought, all conventional, everyday phenomena are only what they are because of their fluid relationships to everything else. The negotiations in ‘Yukiwatari’ work towards this kind of positive expression of cosmic unity amongst all sentient beings.

The initial union is sealed with their promise to meet again. In the second part, ‘The Slide Show at the Fox Primary School’,11 when Shirō reminds Kanko about the slide show, she reacts with a yelp of delight that alerts their older brothers. They express an interest in going, but Shirō shows them the tickets that refer to the age limit. Following a farming tradition of giving offerings to fox deities, the brothers send the children off with home made rice cakes (mochi), gently warning them not to look into the eyes of an (adult) fox (for fear of bewitchment).12 As the children arrive at the forest the foxes usher them into a clearing where some fox cubs are playing and tossing chestnuts around. One tiny cub is reaching for the stars from atop another fox’s shoulders. Konzaburō is the Master of Ceremony and in the first half of the slide show, he screens two photographs. Titled “Alcohol Prohibited,” these represent human gluttony and show two inebriated (human) adults, Taemon and Seisaku, eating some dung-fi lled dumplings that have been disguised as buns or noodles. At interval Shirō and Kanko are offered of two plates of dumplings that look suspiciously like those in the slides. Tentatively, they plunge in. To the foxes’ delight, they find them unexpectedly delicious and eat them all. The second half of the show screens two drawings of foxes in the act of thieving (from humans). The first is of Konbe caught in a snare, and the second is of Konsuke, his tail alight with fire as he steals a grilled fish. At the end of this show, Konzaburō formally thanks the children for their attendance and the fox cubs press farewell gifts of acorns and chestnuts into Shirō and Kanko’s pockets before they set off across the snow. As they near home, Shirō and Kanko encounter three black silhouettes. They are relieved to realise that it is only their older brothers coming across the snow plain to meet them. Several binaries and tensions signal the uneasy social negotiations between these two sets of youngsters. Firstly, in Japanese folklore, foxes have a reputation as mischievous tricksters with magical powers and the ability to change into human shape (usually women). As Goff points out, however, they

story synopsis The first part, ‘Konzaburō the Fox Cub’, begins when a brother (Shirō) and sister (Kanko) go out to play together one morning when the fields are frozen solid enough to walk over, giving them rare access to the forest.8 As they “kick, kick, tap, tap” out onto the hardened snow, Shirō and Kanko chant a folk ditty about offering a bride to a fox.9 Part 1’s eponymous young fox cub comes out of the forest singing that he doesn’t need a bride. He offers them kibidango (millet dumplings) and in return Shirō offers him some mochi (rice cake). Shirō’s sister is hiding behind him, murmuring that fox dumplings are made from rabbit’s droppings. Konzaburō objects good-humouredly, explaining that drunkard or cowardly humans often grossly exaggerate about fox tricks. He recounts a recent experience with one such human, Jimbē, who sang drunkenly in front of his house all night. Konzaburō then encourages them to try his own home made dumplings. Shirō and Kanko politely decline saying they’ve just eaten, but suggest: “Perhaps next time.” Delighted at the prospect, Konzaburō gives them tickets to a slide show that will be scheduled for the next night that the snow is hard enough to cross. The children ask for some tickets for their older brothers, but Konzaburō replies that, as their brothers are over eleven, they are too old to be admitted.10 All three sing and dance their way deeper into the woods where, after trying together to summon a deer whose faint ‘peep’ they think they can just catch, Konzaburō hastens them out of the forest so that they can reach home before the snow melts. 76

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have a dual image. They are also respected as part of the natural world and revered for their benevolence. In Shintō tradition, for example, foxes are associated with the Inari deity, the rice spirit, and worshipped as a symbol of fertility and bearer of good fortune.13 While they have powers that enable them to lure humans into danger, grateful foxes can also use these powers to return favours. They lead travellers astray with their fox-fire (kitsune-bi), often portrayed as glowing star balls (hoshi no tama), or a luminous pearl in a fox’s mouth or tail.14 Therefore, foxes are both the stuff of suspicion and spirits to be worshipped, and this ambiguity makes them the ideal mediator in ‘Yukiwatari.’ Moreover, the temporal space of the story’s second half, evening, is ‘bewitching time’ when foxes are known to be at their most active in enchanting humans. Secondly, the strained relationship between animals and humans is another tension that the children’s chants immediately call up. They signal both an adversarial atmosphere and a sense of celebratory participation or ritual as an instrument for reconciliation between different parties. Shirō and Kanko’s chant initially conjures Konzaburō, and when he appears they sing and dance together in an act of appeasement. The chants themselves are a variation of an Iwate nursery rhyme that is itself evocative of an incantory mating ritual, a symbolic wedding between animals and humans.15 As Hirasawa suggests, the deer’s timidity, its reticence to appear to humans, further indicates the strains between creatures.16 Nishida also suggests that the answering fox’s choruses reflect the humour and ritual of the old dialogues chanted between young men and women, again signalling the need for conciliation.17 These chants thus work like the poetic purification rites of archetypal gatherings such as harvest festivals or ancient Japanese dancing and singing parties. As Hirasawa notes, before any fraternisation occurs, both parties have a basic understanding that these assemblies are “competitions based on opposition between the gods and spirits with a magic dialogue.”18 The increasing tempo of the auditory performance, the “kick kick, tap tap” of the children’s feet against the frozen snow evokes

the magic spells of ancient Japanese spirit lore in which it was thought that, as the speed increased, the spirits in the words would themselves leap out.19 Indeed, Takao Hagiwara notes the chants’ similarity with Japanese Buddhist sutras that are chanted primarily for their incantory effects.20 The chant that begins with the children’s taunt leads to Konzaburō’s offer of friendship. It is thus the catalyst for establishing mutual trust. The chant itself creates a kind of absorptive ritual celebration of the natural world that helps overcome the inherent tensions among all things. This sense of ritual facilitation also works with the story’s imagery and language; the onomatopoeia and assonance in the sounds of the transaction, and the translucence and transparency of the snow and light imagery throughout. Each time the children and foxes meet, the social negotiations centre around the exchange of food, so it is food that facilitates their intercultural relations. Whereas the food has a unifying function (with the children’s eventual acceptance in episode 2), its separation into clean and unclean creates an obstacle to first be overcome. In the first episode, Shirō’s chants mention foxes who disguise dung as food and trick humans into eating it. Konzaburō then instigates the negotiations by offering his rice cakes but, despite his reassurances that they are home made, the children refuse them. Their reticence signifies the mistrust that must later be bridged. The prime negotiation is centred around the food test in Part 2, at the interval to the slide show, after the children have just witnessed the drunk humans eating the disguised food. The sense of unease is intensified by Konzaburō’s presence in the slides, implying his knowledge and complicity in the dupe. Konzaburō’s offer of the cakes to the children thus becomes a test of trust. The fox cubs wait anxiously to see whether Shirō and Kanko will eat their dumplings and when both declare them delicious, it is clear that both parties have successfully negotiated a tricky social interaction. The exchange is completed through offer and acceptance. Their newly found trust and respect are celebrated through a final song and dance. 77

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While food operates as the central element of the negotiations, it also provides the basis for a moral exemplar about the public presentation of self. In the second episode, the social correctness of both sets of children contrasts with the deviant or ill-mannered behaviour of the human and fox adults in the two sets of slides. In contrast to the over-indulgent drunkard humans or thieving foxes, both children and fox cubs are well-mannered hosts and guests. The fox cubs are polite and generous, while the human children act in accordance with standard Japanese etiquette of one or two polite refusals before accepting an offer of food or beverage. Such reticence is not only polite but accords with abstinence or avoidance of “harmful illusions” of attachment and greed as taught in the Lotus Sutra, for instance, where one should not be “greedily attached to the five desires” or swayed by pleasures of any of “the five sense organs: eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body.”21 The more reserved behaviour of the children highlights the basis of mutual respect and goodwill. Other aspects of the transaction between opposites signal difficulties to be overcome and the fragility of any outcomes. For instance, the foxes’ slides of their adult relatives’ misdemeanours in the slide show demonstrate cognisance of the kind of behaviour they themselves must avoid in adulthood, signifying their appreciation of the tenuousness of the exchange. Further, as Hirasawa suggests, the silhouettes of their brothers coming to meet the children give pause for the same fear that foxes might feel of humans.22 The difficulty of sustaining trust upon return to the ‘real’ world is further signified in the momentary fear the children experience when they see the black figures in the middle of the snow-field at the brink of the two worlds on their return home. The fact that the unusual transaction can only occur at certain times and between certain parties also indicates the delicateness of the situation. The magical time and space only happens on a moonlit night when the snow is hard enough, and only the young and innocent – those below the age of twelve – have access to it. Through their youth they

have the openness and willingness to make the required effort. As Colligan-Taylor has also suggested, this space helps erase the dichotomous landscapes of people and animals, placing them on equal footing.23 Yet any such equality is tenuous, requiring constant work. The semantics in Konzaburō’s final speech further reiterate the fleeting temporality of all transactions and the need to work at them. For example, the temporals (underlined) suggest the unlikely recurrence of any such exchange: That’s the end of the show this evening. Tonight we have experienced something we should remember, deep in our hearts, forever. The clever human children were completely sober when they accepted and ate our food. So, from now on, even after we grow up, IF everyone is honest and doesn’t tells lies or envy people then our bad reputation MIGHT be dispelled. That’s all for this evening.24

The modals, ‘if’ and ‘might’ (in upper case), imply the difficulty of maintaining such seemingly simple moral behaviour.25 These modals further suggest duplicity, emphasising the necessity for trust in overcoming cultural barriers of misunderstanding and misrepresentation. Morality is subject to the capriciousness of willpower, so this acknowledgement of duplicity signals trust as difficult, yet moral and necessary. The suggestion that the experience is one to be remembered forever also accentuates its special qualities and its momentary nature. The story’s theme of exchange thus indicates dualisms to be transcended, suspicions to be overcome. Their union ultimately symbolises the transcendence of all the coinciding opposites that exist in mundane time and place. Many of the dualistic forms, such as the sunny day and moonlit night, combine, for instance, to symbolise the expression of completeness, thus moving towards the ‘emptiness’ of the dharma-realm in which all things are interwoven. Further, the whole transaction is reminiscent of the passage across a stream which is the Buddhist metaphor for salvation after death through which the subject is reincarnated thus 78

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integrated into a larger cosmos.26 The narrative represents a deep, transcendent interculturality that acknowledges, surmounts, and reorders all cultural differences.

picture books The artists of ‘Yukiwatari’ all push towards the signification of reconciliation between nature and humanity by foregrounding various elements of story. While some emphasise moments of cosmic union between the children and foxes, others focus on the food negotiations or heavily distort the sense of here-and-now throughout. Whereas some engage with the dichotomous aspects of the story with more representational openings, they usually collapse these in various ways later in order to evoke the metaphysical heterotopia of the union. The artists thus all utilise clever strategies to move beyond a dualistic (humanist) view of the world of here-and-now.

25

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 3, Yukiwatari; Paroru-sha, 1989.

kobayashi toshiya The snow had completely frozen over, harder than marble,

Kobayashi and his artistic style have already been discussed in Chapter 3, and his depictions of ‘The Wild Pear’ and ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ are explored in Chapters 6 and 7 respectively. They are all part of his award winning Gahon Miyazawa Kenji series, along with his ‘Yukiwatari’ which was first published in 1989. ‘Yukiwatari’ had its sixth print run in 2005, with a total of 15,700 copies printed by 2011 (when the publisher, Paroru-sha, became insolvent).27 In his first single page plate, Kobayashi’s introductory landscape cuts a line between sky and earth, at once establishing the emptiness and fullness of the extraordinary spatiality (fig. 25). His “cold, smooth sheet” of fully saturated blue sky is separated from the negative white space of frozen snow (in which the verbal narrative – read from right to left – is placed). Further, the absence of human characters against the expanse evokes a sense of vastness and emptiness, working with the initial words of the narrative:

and even the sky seemed like a cold, smooth sheet of blue stone. “Hard snow, clink clink; Frozen snow, swish swish.” The sun blazed a pure white, glinting down upon the snow and casting a scent of lilies. The trees all around sparkled with frost as if they had been sprinkled with sugar crystals.

The white plane contrasts with the solid plane of blue sky yet complements the circle of white sun amidst the blue, creating a balance that works towards bridging the dualism. The negative space also works with the blazing white of the sun on the snow to suggest the cleansing qualities of nature, while the emptiness emphasises humanity’s insignificance against the universe. After introducing the children in third-person in the following two spreads, Kobayashi suddenly disrupts this pictorial viewpoint with a dramatic double spread. This fourth opening presents the encounter with Konzaburō as an abrupt pictorial ‘demand.’28 Konzaburō now addresses the viewer 79

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from a second person perspective in four different postures. The picture and layout thus construct an active subject position for the implied reader with Konzaburō ‘demanding’ attention (fig. 26). At this point in the narrative Konzaburō is trying to demonstrate his own sincerity by denying fox mischief and inviting the children to the slide show, so the viewpoint is impelling the viewer to believe him and enter into a contract with him. Kobayashi’s chequerboard layout separates yet simultaneously links the pictures and words by interspersing four pieces of text in white rectangles with four blue rectangles of a beckoning, anthropomorphic Konzaburō. The first four boxes position Konzaburō against his narrative denial of fox trickery and his recount of Jimbē’s drunkenness (at top) and his offer of

dumplings (at bottom – reading direction is right to left). On the second (left hand) page, he is inviting the children to the slide show after the children politely refuse Konzaburō’s offer of dumplings. This aligns viewers with Shirō and Kanko’s position as Konzaburō entreats them to both believe him and accept his invitation. The viewer is being positioned to trust Konzaburō but also to share in the joke about the drunken Jimbē’s all night antics, to be similarly bemused by the human’s behaviour. Such positioning establishes a contract with Konzaburō before the invitation to the slide show is issued. The dialogic interaction helps breaks down the dichotomy in human/animal relationships and forms the basis for further negotiations. By interpellating viewers

26 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 8–9, Yukiwatari; Paroru-sha, 1989.

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into a first person viewpoint with Shirō and Kanko at this first meeting with the fox cub, the opening simultaneously signals the unease and solicits viewer complicity in overcoming the unease. The audience is interpellated into a kind of contract with Konzaburō, into accepting his invitation when it comes on the second (left hand) page. This interpellation of observers into a dialogic transaction with Konzaburō thereby emphasises the moment of agreement as an important aspect of trust. The abrupt shift of Konzaburō into a secondperson pictorial position disrupts the reading process, encouraging a reciprocal contract between a cheekily waving Konzaburō and the first person viewer (and Shirō and Kanko). Konzaburō’s friendly gestures and demanding gaze make it hard for the viewer to disbelieve him or to ignore his polite invitation to the slide show. Although this picture cannot result in total alignment with Shirō and Kanko (because of the previous third person pictorial positioning and the turn-taking verbal dialogue, for instance), Konzaburō’s direct appeal here is similar to a protagonist’s digressive address in a play. He is taking control and imploring the audience (and by implication Shirō and Kanko) to trust him. At this particular moment such autodiegetic positioning propels the relationship forward in a forceful, yet positive manner. Kobayashi’s clever manipulation of subject positioning here encourages a dialogic negotiation between Konzaburō and reader that contrasts with the more conventional third-person pictorial observation. Satō, for example, focalises the retelling of the Jimbē incident through the foxes, with the viewer observing Konzaburō’s memory of Jimbē’s antics (see fig. 30). Jimbē is salient on the page, exaggerated in size. This combines with the vector of the fox’s gaze and the outstretched arms to show Jimbē as contemptible, but Satō’s more distant viewing position encourages a much less subjective interaction with Konzaburō and thus less of a ‘contract.’ Kobayashi has selected two other particular moments to create a sense of higher communion.

These are the unification at the end of each section of the tale: Part 1’s summoning of the deer (see fig. 27), and Part 2’s farewell scene after the slide show (see fig. 28). Each is the penultimate picture in its section, the hatching and transparency contrasting with the saturated colour, flat planes and comparatively dualistic connotations in surrounding pictures.29 The change of style, viewing perspective and the sense of transparency all signify the special moments of alliance between the foxes and children. In the penultimate picture for Part 1, for example, Kobayashi aligns the viewer with the three children poised together at the edge of the forest as they summon the deer (see fig. 27).30 They are viewed from directly behind (for the only time). Kobayashi’s bare scratch method here suggests spatial layering through superimposition of one feature upon or through another. This transparency insinuates the connections among all phenomena and highlights the ethereality and fleeting temporality of the epiphanous moment. The monochromatic blue of the etched forest seeps through the darker shading of the children’s outlines. This signifies the human fusion with the natural world and the depths of the transaction among different yet linked phenomena. This merging also coincides with the mystical power of the chant that initiates the negotiation. The forest’s varied intensity of hatching creates a higher modality that contrasts with the children’s three less realistic figures. This signifies its higher level ‘reality,’ that they are about to enter the depths of a less familiar space that is actually of a higher order as they call for the deer (barely perceptible on the right). The foregrounded trees, due to their density of colour, appear closer to the children than do the other trees or even the elusive deer. The lighter colours and shading and less solid contours of the deeper forest contrast with the lower modality of real world space to enhance the ‘actuality’ of the space about to be entered. The children (and the viewer) are looking away from, thus rejecting, their known world (in viewing space) for the higher ‘reality’ of the natural world beyond. 81

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27

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 16–17, Yukiwatari; Paroru-sha, 1989.

The elusive deer, too, is comparatively transparent behind the more solid, realistic trees, thus merging into the deeper forest, showing other layers of ‘being’ in the world. It more naturally ‘belongs’ in nature. Despite the deer’s higher modality, it is well camouflaged, its rear-end fading into the background, merging with the trees deeper in the wood. Although barely visible to the viewer, it is in prime reading position on the right, yet imperceptible at the periphery of the children’s field of vision. Its subtle salience draws attention to its obscure ontology. The viewer perceives the deer while witnessing the children miss it as they call straight ahead with cupped hands. The deer thus registers as existing in harmony with its environment, naturally

exempt from any need for negotiation. Its positioning here signifies the ideal, the merging-as-belonging within the forest. While Kobayashi shows the children at the verge of belonging in nature as they seal the negotiations, the audience also sees the fragility of the merger into the natural ‘otherworld’ of the forest. For his Part 2, Kobayashi uses a deeper blue background that contrasts with the lighter ‘daylight’ blue in Part 1 to signify the twilight, but also the binaries that still need bridging. In his penultimate picture, he utilises a similar transparency to emphasise the final moment of union as the fox cubs press gifts upon the children after their final promises (to trust each other) (fig. 28). This 82

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28

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 38–39, Yukiwatari; Paroru Sha, 1989.

moment is salient as a bold double spread without any text, highlighting the children’s departure. The transparency again contrasts with the fuller colour planes in previous pictures and signifies their immersive qualities just as the children are about to return home (to the left, in the direction of reading). The hatched striped background, suggestive of slants of moonlight, evokes both their immersion and the fleetingness of the moment. The varied shading of the foregrounded trees signifies the ‘reality’ (on left) into which the children are about to re-emerge with new awareness. The trees and the children are now outlined in solid black, yet the blue shading is again seeping through, suggesting that they are now part of the same world. A sliver of

‘moonlight’ highlights Shirō’s regret as he looks back, yet he is also wide-eyed with optimism while Kanko fondly pats one of the now less anthropmorphised foxes. The whole picture suggests the bathos of their return and the tenuousness of being able to maintain the contract. In these penultimate openings to each part (fig. 27 and fig. 28), Kobayashi presents the crossing as an interpenetrative yet fleeting union by playing with notions of vision and reality, using transparency and the ambiguity of presence/non-presence (especially with the deer). Together with his earlier interpellation of the viewer into dialogue with the fox Konzaburō, Kobayashi draws a vision of transient communion that suggests the possibility of 83

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moving beyond the dualistic nature of this world. He presents the children on the verge of entry and exit into the merger with nature as a netherworld of time and space, suggesting the etherealilty and ephemerality of each moment. Yet, as seen in the second such instance, Kobayashi also highlights their regret for the inability to sustain the moment. The children’s regretful return to the trickier reality of the here-and-now (where promises are hard to keep, for example) signifies not only the mutability of the transaction and of higher moments of realisation but also the difficulty of maintaining them.

graining allow the natural fawn-coloured background to seep through, evoking a sense of immanence in the ‘glittering and glimmering’ surface of the frozen snow. Such play of light dramatically captures the sublime atmosphere of the “millions of tiny little mirrors” from the text. According to Hara, light and brilliance intrigued Kenji so much that he often used them as a metaphor for nature.33 Further, in Shintō belief, mirrors suggest the presence of kami (gods) and show the true qualities of all phenomena.34 Several circular patterns seem to push out centrifugally from the knots of grain like giant natural finger prints, driving the shadowy silhouettes of the two children out into the surreal space beyond their village home. The negative space to the left further suggests the edges of a glary pool of sunlight, establishing a path across the snow-covered plain through which the children can now walk. This stunning opening reverberates with spiritual evanescence. The shadows here are, for instance, reminiscent of the Neoplatonist metaphor of the shadows deep in the cave where everything becomes One. The salience and the doubleness of the silhouettes against the emptiness suggests them as representations only; the material world as itself spiritual, like a reflection of this world on the other. Whereas the smaller black silhouettes of the ‘real’ Shirō and Kanko, joined at the hands like paper cutouts, make their way out onto the frozen snow, their reflected, foreshortened shadow replicas that join each real figure at the feet stretch into the foreground towards viewer space as if to herald a challenge to enter this extraordinary world. The largeness of the looming shadow replicas evokes the Jungian notion of shadows as the repressed or imperfectly acknowledged part of the unconscious self. The very suggestion of the double nature of things in the two sets of silhouettes heightens the sense of another dimension of being: a higher order of reality where we are all just shadows. Their salience on the page also suggests the reversed nature of this world (and human participation in it). Satō’s minimal perspective distancing further suggests the possibility of integration; there is no horizon,

satō kunio Satō Kunio and his artistic style is introduced in Chapter 3, and his depiction of ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ is discussed in Chapter 5. His ‘Yukiwatari’ was first published by Benesse (originally Fukutake Publishing) in 1990. It had smaller print runs than other books in the series, but in 1996, the boom-year anniversary of Kenji’s birth, it had its third impression. In total about six thousand copies have been printed. Satō’s Benesse book is now out of print, but along with his other renditions of Kenji’s work, it is currently being reworked for electronic publication in English for R.I.C. Publications.31 In contrast with Kobayashi’s introduction to ‘Yukiwatari,’ Satō’s opening and closing pictures suggest a more mystical heterotopia. Comparing Satō’s ‘Yukiwatari’ with two other versions (not discussed here), Shibamura Kiyo recommends Satō’s woodgrain as bringing the story’s unique spatiality alive.32 While Satō’s intervening pages present a more dichotomised world, he frames beginning and end with a sense of profound spirituality, establishing the ‘different space’ of the exchange. In his first scene, for instance, the landscape is brooding and mysterious, making little reference to the dualistic division between forest and plain (fig. 29). The prominence of the natural woodgrain resonates deeply with nature, and graduated smears of blue shading over the blackened imprint of grain suggest the remnants of night amidst the stillness of the early dawn, the extraordinary space of the intercultural transaction. Variations in the wood 84

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29

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 2–3, Yukiwatari; Benesse, 1990.

30

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Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 6–7, Yukiwatari; Benesse, 1990.

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and the sky and landscape blend together in one great expanse. It is only the children’s silhouettes that indicate perspective and the smallness of their real figures contrasts with the wide expanse to render human insignificance against the natural universe. Strong vectors in the line through the shadows, children, pool edge and the sun, and those between the tree in the foreground and sun in the background also evoke the mysticism and immensity of the space. These vectors lead up from the viewer space, merging together in a triangular shape to focus attention on the circular sun, symbolic of a perfectly integrated dharma-realm. By situating the viewer higher on the vertical axis above the children and closer to the tree in the foreground, viewers are positioned to look down across the vast emptiness of the infinite almost like a supreme spiritual mind. Yet the viewer is simultaneously drawn (in the direction of reading – right to left) into the brooding eeriness that at once seems to emanate from viewer space, illuminating and ensouling the spirit of the forms. The heavier blue aureoles around the silhouettes of the ‘real’ children, their shadows and the bare tree in the foreground, closer to viewer space, further arouse a sense of the supernatural. All sense of the material world is therefore infused with the spiritual in a supremely beatific vision.

31

Moreover, the children’s diaphanous inky reflections blend with this wide expanse of the landscape, signifying their immersive ability while their open arms welcome the whole experience. Their transparency within this shadowy, insubstantial time and space is further suggestive of the world as representation only; getting beyond all subject/object dichotomies to insinuate the ‘empty’ yet full transcendental world. Replete with the suggestion of reflection, transparency and translucency, Satō’s introduction evokes an ephemeral and ethereal entry to the story that seeks to bridge all subject/object dualism by creating a higher order infusion of all matter with a spiritual essence. Satō’s first scene is styled and positioned to contrast markedly with the brightness and humour of the following caricatures (see, for example, fig. 30). Yet he chooses another climactic moment to again heighten the mystical atmosphere. Like Kobayashi, this is the moment of union between Konzaburō and the children when they summon the deer (fig. 31). Satō’s deer scene closes episode one. Echoing the atmosphere of his opening scene, this moment is marked with more open, centrifugal imprints of woodgrain. The swirls of grain animate the picture plane and heighten the scene as an epiphanous moment of merger between nature and humanity.

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 12–13, Yukiwatari; Benesse, 1990.

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Like Kobayashi, Satō invokes the deer’s existence at the periphery here. In almost the direct inverse of Kobayashi’s deer scene, Satō positions the children at the right, looking out to towards viewer space. Although they still miss the deer, the direction of their heads leads the viewing eye towards it at the periphery of the scene on the left (in the direction of reading). Satō’s vectors lead the eye along the undulating line of the ground on which the children are standing, through the borders of the written text and following soft streaks of blue ‘cloud.’ Satō’s deer is outlined more solidly which, together with the pictorial vectors, makes it more salient than Kobayashi’s merging deer. Its salience here heightens the significance of its non-appearance, underlining the inherent fragility of the higherorder union with nature. Satō’s final picture to the book reverts to a similar mysticism found in his opening spread after several more ‘earthy’ caricatures of the narrative events. His opening and closing scenes thus surround the internal story with a transcendental atmosphere that represents the continuous journey of all life. Devoid of any verbal text, this scene reintroduces the silhouettes with all the previously mentioned connotations (fig. 32). An additional

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bluish shape, suggestive of a huge human silhouette, illuminates the entire landscape through the woodgrain. It projects from viewer space almost as if the beholder’s own shadow now engenders a spiritual effulgence over the whole scene. The penumbra of negative space around Shirō and Kanko further suggests the glowing radiance of their recent experience in contrast with the darker, more fully-saturated silhouettes of their three older brothers as they emerge from afar (against the direction of reading). The brothers and their foregrounded shadows that stretch towards the children are less luminous and transparent, the contrast underlining the children’s enlightenment against their brothers’ ‘experience’. Yet the warmth of the greeting and the light of the looming figure that illuminates the whole scene and breathes life into the woodgrain suggests that they too may be touched, that the children’s new ‘knowledge’ can be passed on. The full moon and the mandala-like concentric circles emanating from around the stars in the sky further symbolise the ideal of the spiritual within the material. Satō’s framing pictures thus enhance the spiritual focus of the story, imbuing it with the sense of a higher-order of reality. In doing so Satō signifies

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 28–29, Yukiwatari; Benesse, 1990.

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the crossing as an unusual moment which, in the hope for cosmic unification, also requires effort because it may not last. His highly numinous scenes present the transaction as a supremely spiritual endeavour.

higher meanings. Such disconnected iconographic representation further arouses the exchange’s sense of ritual and brings the reader/viewer into its ‘different space.’ This book has fewer pictures than the previous two picture books, and they are accompanied by longer passages of text. The first picture’s corresponding text, for instance, proceeds to the point where Shirō and Kanko chant for the fox at the edge of the forest. Suzuki’s economy of illustrations thus encourages an almost meditative reading act that coheres with the ritualistic union. He introduces the two children from afar, framed by abstract landscape on three sides. They are tiny, slightly tilted abstract figures near the middle of the snow-covered field (fig. 33). This once again emphasises their (humanity’s) insignificance against the vastness of all nature, but their ‘dancing’ figures also suggest the rhythm of the magical song in the last line, establishing the unusual atmosphere for the extraordinary union to come. This stylised movement of characters tilting across the field (to the right in the direction of reading) suggests their move into the unknown, towards a mesmeric union, anticipated but not yet apparent. In the next picture, which is situated alongside the children’s agreement to come to the slide show, Suzuki signifies the union by replicating and magnifying their figures and adding Konzaburō to the ‘dance’ in a similar uniformity of shape, colour and movement (fig. 34). They are static, yet the stance suggests movement, as if they have been caught suspended in time and space as they dance together in a line. They are decontextualised in a naïve artistic style that evokes the ceremonial heterotopia found in the text. Similar to Satō, Suzuki punctuates the end of Part 1 with a highly salient deer (fig. 35). In contrast with Satō’s (or Kobayashi’s) obscure deer, Suzuki presents it as a decontextualised portrait, alone on the page. Its relative size and comparative closeness to the viewer give it a salience that suggests its sacredness in nature as the children try to summon it. Surrounded by a white penumbra of negative space that contrasts with the more hard-edged outlines of

suzuki mamoru Suzuki Mamoru (1952 – ) is a professional artist and self-taught ornithologist who depicts his love for nature through his artwork and sculptures.35 He made his debut as a picture book artist in 1980, and has won at least two prestigious national awards for his work in 1986 and 2006. Apart from textbooks, posters and calendars, he has illustrated about 150 picture books, both as author/illustrator and as an illustrator for other authors, including many by his wife Takeshita Fumiko.36 Although he maintains a fondness for Miyazawa Kenji’s work, his ‘Yukiwatari’ is the only story of Kenji’s that Suzuki has illustrated to date.37 It was first published in 1986 by Kōdansha and is still available today, having had its fourteenth impression in about 2010, reaching a cumulative total of approximately 20,000 copies.38 Like Satō, Suzuki encloses the story within opening and closing landscapes. Although his introductory landscape initially suggests a more conventional pictorial narrative, his interceding pages move away from narrative signification, presenting a sequence of portrait-like stills, all set against different decontextualised, decorative backgrounds.39 Apart from the penultimate abstract to Part 1, these stills introduce a staccato-like series of characters and objects that help disrupt the forward-moving narrative. This technique elaborates on the narrative’s fractured sense of time and space by creating a spatial and temporal disconnection to the children’s here-and-now world. The changing backgrounds appear spatially unconnected to each other, disrupting the narrative flow but also encouraging a meditative contemplation on the unusually presented objects and characters from the tale. This type of disruption heightens the sense of artifice which in turn instantiates a psychic or imaginative space in which the reader can explore 88

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the characters and landscape in the preceding pictures, it has a particular aura. Both the play of light upon the deer and its surrounding aureole insinuate its transcendent evanescence. Set against a washed

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Suzuki Mamoru (1952–); p. 3, Yukiwatari; Kōdansha, 1986.

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Suzuki Mamoru (1952–); p. 9, Yukiwatari; Kōdansha, 1986.

bluish-green background of bleeding watercolours that penetrate into one another, the deer’s hallowed interpenetrative qualities are unmistakeable. Its higher salience in the sequential layout (as the 89

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punctuating picture to Part 1) also heightens the point about its very elusiveness and the transience of all material existence. Suzuki, in an engrossing pictorial climax, emphasises the final chant at the slide show as a unifying moment. His only double-page spread in the book here heightens the sense of dynamic absorption (fig. 36). In contrast with the predominantly calmer hues and stillness of the surrounding openings, the wider, more vibrant composition of

swirling fox shapes in warmer reds against yellows engenders the dynamism of the epiphanous moment. This contrast emphasises the children’s mutual promises as a vortex of absorptive emotion. The text of the foxes’ “kick kick, tap tap” chants (promising not to lie, steal or be envious), that end with Shirō and Kanko crying tears of joy, are incorporated into the image within a circle of larger fox outlines on the right. These fox shapes appear to swirl up from this centrifugal well-spring of yellow and white concentric circles as if surging up in a crescendo from underneath the words, from the power of the promises into a frantic cosmic dance. At the same time, the circles seem to spout forth towards viewer space as if to interpellate the observer into the whirlwind of emotion, moving the viewing eye (in the direction of reading) towards a frenzied blend at left, into a ‘new’ merger. As if through the rhythm of the performance, the viewer is swept along towards this absorptive vortex whose own gravitational force seems to be pulling the gush of fox cubs towards its central point. The sense of dynamic movement and absorption suggests the all-engulfing coalescence between song, dance, characters and viewers. The explosion of movement and colour signals the generative power and dramatic excitement of the epiphany, of belief and trust in the exchange, especially when contrasted

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Suzuki Mamoru (1952–); p. 13, Yukiwatari; Kōdansha, 1986.

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Suzuki Mamoru (1952–); pp. 24–25, Yukiwatari; Kōdansha, 1986.

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with the return to meditative serenity in the final two openings. Suzuki closes with a sense of calm that encourages deep spiritual contemplation on Konzaburō’s entreaty not to forget their promises. The fox is presented in statuesque portrait, anthropomorphised with dinner jacket, arms outstretched beseechingly (fig. 37). Yet his part-human, part-fox form is simultaneously blending into the petrified stump of a tree, merging with nature. His figure is darkened under the serene quietude of an illuminated moon, the symbol of perfect fulfilment. Yet it is only a three-quarter moon, signifying that enlightenment is both elusive and transient. While the children and foxes have moved towards it, any true enlightenment still needs effort. Suzuki’s final picture evokes a sense of the sacred realm beyond dualistic materiality, fostering deliberation on how to achieve it. Viewed in its entirety, Suzuki’s decontextualised pictorial layout encourages spiritual meditation on the story’s main intercultural transaction. While the suggestion of transparency around the deer heightens the sacredness of its interpenetration

with nature, Suzuki’s staccato pictures establish a sense of meditative contemplation. Shifts from stillness to movement and solidity to intangibility and back again represent transitional phases towards getting beyond here-and-now materiality. Everything marks the dance of the foxes as the climactic point of cosmic immersion, with the closure effectively pushing towards bridging the gap between humanity and nature.

katao ryō Like Suzuki Mamoru, Katao Ryō began illustrating in 1980. He works mainly in monochrome, and has illustrated children’s stories, horror works, and many book covers for authors like Miyabe Miyuki. Examples of his beautiful artwork can be readily found on the internet.40 Katao’s 1991 ‘Yukiwatari’ won the 1992 Kenbuchi Prize and the editor-in-chief of Ehon Navi recommends it to readers as part of the Miki House series of Kenji’s work illustrated by eminent artists.41 In 2009, the Fritz Gallery in Gunma Prefecture held a special exhibition of the original pictures from this book.

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llus. Suzuki Mamoru (1952–); p. 27, Yukiwatari; Kōdansha, 1986.

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‘Yukiwatari’ is the only Kenji story that Katao has depicted. The book had its eleventh impression in 2011, bringing the total of copies printed to 49,000. It is still in print and readily available today. Katao’s nuanced shading captures the story’s mystical atmosphere beautifully. He uses a range of lead pencils (from 6B to 7H) to capture the essence of a far-away time and space over twenty-two ‘Yukiwatari’ plates.42 His evocative black and white is at a further remove from reality than colour and allows a grainy mistiness and distancing obscurity that contrasts with the three previous artistic depictions. By rejecting any sense of representational spatiality or clarity, the everyday world is made strange, yielding up the mystical space of the children’s intercultural transaction. The whole suggests a meditative mind/body merger which signifies all existence as obscure and intangible, the transcendence of all subject/object illusion. The opening scene introduces some of the book’s recurring pictorial motifs, so it is worth considering in some depth here (fig. 38). Its granular and dreamlike incandescence engages with the emptiness in the narrative’s first sentence (which sits a at the top of the double spread):

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The snow had completely frozen over, harder than marble, and even the sky seemed to be made of a cold, smooth sheet of blue stone.

This first spread suggests a vast abstracted landscape, the blurriness defamiliarising the space and creating a sense of non-gravitational weightlessness. This not only evokes the vagueness of the infinite but also encourages emotional meditation on the boundless plane. Whereas the absence of human characters enhances this emptiness and intensity, the play of light and shade over the surface of three predominant planes and the reverse curves in the contours of the landscape are reminiscent of an abstracted human body. This hints at a human presence/nonpresence, a motif that recurs throughout the book. Together with the flashes of white that suggest moving streaks of light, the first scene also suggests an out-of-focus photograph. In the same way that a photographer moves a camera, or a picture is taken from moving transport, the grainy light and blurriness suggest movement beyond the setting, intimating another presence. When considered in light of the transgressive adult behaviour (in the slides), this implicit presence brings to mind human

Katao Ryō; pp. 2–3, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

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sensuality and desire. The graininess further suggests humanity as abstracted from sand. The evershifting and infinitesimally penetrating properties of sand symbolise the fracturing of the dualistic split between intellect and sensual vices that is a part of the tale’s theme of reconciliation with nature. A diagonal line divides the foregrounded from the backgrounded plane, extending down the page into and beyond viewing space (from left to right in the direction of reading), creating a path towards the unknown. There is a gentle explosion of light between the foreground and the background hills further beyond. Together with the haziness and lack of fully discernable features, this combination of light and line creates the depths of the planes, disconcerting the habitual way of looking to construct the atmosphere that augurs the children’s movement into the strange landscape. The main pictorial landmarks in the first spread are five blurry objects situated in the foreground, their vagueness suggesting their distance from both viewing space and from the curved line of the illuminated backdrop. While they are evocative of trees with ball-foliage atop trunk-poles, variations of which also recur throughout the book, they are not quite trees in the same way that the landscape only vaguely implies the human body. The number brings to mind the five Buddhist precepts: Not to 1) take life, 2) steal, 3) indulge in sensuality, 4) lie, or 5) become intoxicated by alcohol.43 The adult humans in the slides are guilty of most of these prohibitions. The number is also associated with the “Five Great Elements” that are simultaneously understood as the five main buddha-deities who each contain the others as the primary elements of the universe:

absolute truth and wisdom and who created the other four through his powers of meditation.45 Vairocana is at the centre while the other four are each allocated a cardinal direction and watch over their quadrant of the heavens. They are present through endless space and their role is to overcome the vices (or poisons) that obstruct enlightenment and transmute them to wisdom. According to Hall they “are wholly transcendental and without any terrestrial connections, past or future” and are often associated with distinguishing vices as well as the five wisdoms, the primary energies as understood by the enlightened mind.46 The five wisdoms are “ultimate reality perfection, mirrorlike clarity, equalizing, discriminating, and all-accomplishing wisdoms.”47 Further, in Buddhism self is simply a bundle of five aggregates (or ‘systems’) of grasping: body (matter or form); feeling (sensations); perception; mental elements (emotions and volitions); and consciousness. These aggregates “are momentary and illusory in the flux of Being – but they do cause and accumulate karma, the moral residue of their acts in this life and in past lives.”48 Katao’s five recurrent yet shifting shapes can therefore be seen to represent infinite flux and universality together. When five forms recur in other pictures, they remain together, serving as a moving reference point in relation to other objects, the perspective continually altering. (In Katao’s episode one, they reappear where Konzaburō explains the slide show to the children and in episode two, they re-manifest during the slide show). Together with the dreamlike moods and textures, this repositioning decentres viewpoint, creating a multifocal perspective that reinscribes the story’s point about the inherent mutability and merging capabilities of all phenomena. The whole book subtly suggests the cosmic interdependence that the climax of the story signifies, evoking the blurred boundaries, transience and weightlessness that suggest the poignant dissolution of any dualistic materiality. The children too are linked with the intangible and transient obscurity of this special heterotopia when they are introduced as hazy silhouettes. While their shaded figures suggest their dualistic

[They] … represent the five wisdoms [and] the transmutation of the five systems – consciousness, form, sensation, conceptions, and volitions – and … the five poisons – delusion, hate, pride, lust, and envy”.44

Hall explains the five buddha-deities as deities emanating from Vairocana (in Japanese, Dai Nichi, the Great Sun), the ‘Supreme Lord’ who embodies 93

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materiality of body, signalling them as still connected with the world of the here-and-now, the suggested lack of gravity also anticipates their adventurous move away from this ‘reality.’ In Katao’s second opening (not reproduced here), they are almost levitating under the full mandala-circle of the sun that signifies their search for perfect completeness. The contoured white foreground is in slightly sharper focus with clearer vertical lines of ‘grass tufts’ to suggest the ‘real’ world as close and the surreal background as more distant. As Shirō and Kanko leave home towards the forest, they are moving up (off the ground) towards the bright circle of sunlight, and this evokes their move into a nongravitational space where all things merge and the exchange can occur. In the next picture, too (not included here), the children lift further away from the ‘safety’ of the known space at left. The viewer, now closer, is aligned with them as they draw “closer to the forest” (in the direction of reading) towards the ‘unknown’ where “the big Oak trees drooped heavily … under the weight of exquisite, translucent icicles.” The children, simultaneously excited yet nervous about invoking a fox, are now at the edge of a darker uncontoured foreground, looking out over an expanse of negative space towards some dark, looming clouds separated by slivers of light from the (now absent) sun. As they call out together towards the forest, they stand waiting under the heavy plane of forest-as-clouds, the shading and ethereality expressing their apprehensive anticipation. Reality as we know it remains distorted in the distant forest, creating the unique temporality and spatiality that signify the spiritual move towards the infinite ‘unknown’, the forthcoming transaction with the foxes. In contrast with other artists, Katao draws associations with folklore, introducing Konzaburō as a ‘will-o’-the-wisp’ figure (fig. 39). Although Konzaburō’s answering refrain appears alongside the previous picture of the children, Katao introduces him alone in the following opening, highly salient in traditional fox-white, waving a luminescent sheet above his head. While the separate

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Katao Ryō; pp. 8–9, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

introduction of the children and fox highlight their differences, Konzaburō’s saintliness emphasises his role as a higher order negotiator. Somewhat like Kobayashi’s introduction of Konzaburō in the chequered opening, the viewing position suddenly shifts from third person to first at Konzaburō’s denial of fox tricks. As Katao’s Konzaburō gazes out here, the text is asking whether “you fine people would really eat rabbits’ brown dumplings.” He is thus imploring the viewer (and Shirō and Kanko) to believe his denial of fox trickery and enter a contractual agreement. In contrast with Kobayashi’s Konzaburō though, his huge white figure here inscribes him with foxly magic, with the sheet above suggestive of both the backdrop for the slide show and a stage magician’s scarf. The latter offers the potential, through consensus, to transport the children (and viewer) into a higher plane of understanding. Konzaburō maintains his distinctive translucent aura for the remainder of Katao’s first episode. This contrasts with the relative corporeality of Shirō and Kanko as indicated by their heavier shading and the absence of light around them. Konzaburō’s metaphysical status is thus apparent and engenders his world as something to aspire to as he offers them a unique opportunity to fully interact with nature. Katao’s episode one signifies the unifying power of the children’s acceptance of Konzaburō’s invitation with a kind of weightless ‘dance’ around 94

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a huge circular sun. Indeed, this moment is protracted over two spreads. Although Konzaburō has now morphed into the same shadowy form as the children, the mandala-circle at once references his kitsune-bi fox-fire or hoshi no tama starlight.49 The circle of light around the periphery of which they are floating seems to emanate from the feathered tip of his tail at the top, imbuing the children with aureolae and symbolising the endeavour for perfect dharma completeness (see fig. 40). This moment that engenders the beginning of their new relationship culminates in the next picture, the deer scene that simultaneously signifies the fragility of the union, especially as their circular gravitation dissipates against a different background (fig. 41). As the children enter deeper into the forest and begin to chant for the deer together, the perfect circle of the sun has now dissolved into a hazy background to foreshadow that the associations of unity through the dance are not yet cemented and need to be renegotiated at a deeper level (in the next episode). Viewer positioning is again disconcerted as the three of them float in a less circular, more arbitrary manner, engaging the beholder in the ethereal process of such union. Their figures are situated against a less definable shape, a mass of blurry white fox-orbs and shadowy contours that are

also evocative of the spotted markings of the deer. The picture further suggests the blended yet transient nature of all existence. Katao’s depiction of the fusion between the characters over two openings at this early moment in the story foreshadows his depiction of the later fusion in the second episode. His approach indicates his direct concern with getting beyond the earthly realm into the metaphysical or spiritual aspects of the tale, and his choice of this moment as that of absorption and unification exemplifies the significance of this process. The beginning of Katao’s Part 2 signifies the dualities of place by suggesting the more material world; trains and buildings in his first two tableaus. At the same time however, this materiality is diffused through his now-familiar eerie use of light over the abstracted landscape from which the children depart as the snow, frozen as solid as white marble, “glisten[s] like sapphire” (see fig. 42). The shafts of light that emanate from the lamps at the front of the train drive the viewer forward (in the direction of reading) to the next picture where light-as-smoke emanates from the chimney of a long, low house as the brothers (absent from the picture) send them off. The shafts of misty light that radiate out from the chimney, headlights

40 Katao Ryō; pp. 14–15, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

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Katao Ryō; pp. 16–17, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

Katao Ryō; pp. 20–21, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

and door in these two more mundane settings continue to project the children through a kind of time-tunnel into the pale smoky haze found in the third picture where a cloud mass on the right signifies their transportation to the different realm, the surreal space of exchange. In his Part 2, Katao reinscribes the foxes’ special aura and power with shape-shifting fox-light coronae to emphasise their ano yo holiness and their supernatural negotiating powers. The constant

presence of fox-fire luminescence in this episode also contrasts with the human children’s more mundane forms as if to remind the viewer of looming humanistic ‘desires,’ thus the duality between humanity and nature. Shafts of light, haloes and penumbra in Katao’s book play an important part in pushing the tale beyond the earthly realm. Somewhat like the various manifestations of the five forms and their transformative power, the movement and malleability of 96

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the light acts as an ever-changing referent and suggests an omniscient presence, insinuating its responsibility for change and movement, but also the infinitely transient. Pictorial allusions to the haloes and lights suddenly morph into the windows of a strange object that could be a space ship (or UFO). This vision occurs at the exchange of food between the foxes and children during the slide show interval (see fig. 43). Here, as a “female fox cub [brings] out two platefuls of dumplings,” the luminous radiance of the white orbs now form windows which cut a diagonal line across the page to suggest the UFO as a fantastical mode of transport for the ‘crossing.’ These fox-orbs-as-windows not only suggest foxes as ‘aliens’, but are also symbolic of openings or doors to a perhaps more frightening, yet simultaneously more integrated netherworld where fears can be overcome through trust and understanding. Such an evocative presence further disconcerts the reading process and, besides evoking an omniscient cosmic force, works with the moving ‘tree’ referents throughout to reject any sense of dualistic stasis and enhance the malleability inherent in crossing cultural boundaries. Katao signals the epiphanous crossing, the potency of complete trust, when these haloes-as-windows dissolve into a cosmic dance after the children

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have eaten each other’s food during interval (see fig. 44). Similar to Suzuki’s absorptive vortex, the shapes of the coronae shift and flow with the movement of the foxes. This non-gravitational, floating dance signals the fluidity and lightness of the negotiation, suggesting not only the whimsicality of temperament but also the moral promises from the accompanying fox-song. The corona shapes glide around with the movement of the foxes to indicate the possibility of slippage and suggest the difficulties of compliance with such promises. Katao’s dissolution then reformation of the coronae therefore not only suggests the foxes’ transformation but also reiterates the need for trust and effort to achieve true unity. Katao’s penultimate pictures of the exchange exude nirvana-like quietude, similar again, to the effect of Suzuki’s final mandala-like completion. After the slide show, Katao situates the children in front of a large, low-hanging mandala moon which acts as a larger, unifying circle of perfection. The surrounding floating foxes still have their five-asOne coronae of fox-fire balls as they all listen to Konzaburō’s final exhortation together (see fig. 45). The space of this picture is cut into two planes yet unified by the large mandala circle. The straw and darker contours as the bottom represent a more

Katao Ryō; pp. 34–35, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

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44 Katao Ryō; pp. 36–37, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

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realistic terrestrial space while the larger upper expanse and the glowing balls, the sacred and surreal. Shirō and Kanko are more grounded, sitting quietly together while the foxes, with their individual haloes, seem suspended around and behind the huge circular moon behind them. The perfect completion of the union suggests the spiritual unification of the cosmos. Katao’s pictorial play with light and gravitation as intangible, malleable forces that can penetrate space implies the interpenetrative and transient

Katao Ryō; pp. 40–41, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

nature of the world, shattering the ‘illusion’ of dualism and developing a sense of interaction between the spiritual and material, self and other. His light is translucent rather than bright, yielding the profound feeling of Buddhist emptiness yet fullness. It is like a dreamlike haze, an “inconceivable light, beyond the duality of bright and dark, the selfluminosity of all things.”50 Malleability of form is also emphasised by the transformation of the halo-orbs into the symbolic windows of life that transport the viewer out of this world into a higher 98

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plane where the double nature of the world can be transcended. The shafts projecting onto and around objects, the penumbra, the transparency and translucency of characters and objects, the rendering of the halo-orbs, all operate with his dissonance and distortion of space and final non-gravitational floating dances to realise an unconscious cosmological union. Katao’s low modality pictures extend “beyond the dualisms of subject and object, existence and non-existence … beyond the individual unconscious, … [to] a universal reality which lies ‘within’ all beings.”51 His artistic manipulation of elements such as light and shade, presence and absence, gravity and buoyancy create the aura of the ideal ‘dharma-realm’ as an intangible, non-gravitational integrated realm. His floating depictions of Konzaburō, the foxes and the children in cosmic dances in both episodes resonate with a quiet mandala-like fusion where everything merges together to transcend all boundaries – all sense of matter is imbued with the weightlessness of one huge amorphous realm. Katao, in comparison with the other artists, distorts notions of reality throughout, evoking a sense of a higher consciousness. His pictures lead to a more dialogic, intertextual examination of the story’s sense of cosmic unity as a symbiotic relationship between humanity and nature.

contrast, Kobayashi’s and Suzuki’s introductory landscapes draw attention to humanity’s insignificance within the wider spatiality. Kobayashi, on the one hand, heightens readers’ consciousness by disrupting the third person narrative perspective and encouraging first person dialogic interaction between the viewer and Konzaburō at the first contractual moment. In addition, he emphasises the two moments of union between the children and foxes – at the deer-summoning song and during the penultimate gift-giving scene – by using transparency to collapse dichotomies between subject and object. Suzuki, on the other hand, constructs a flickering temporality by alternating the ‘still’ with the ‘active.’ Like Katao, he renders the magic merger of the foxes’ dance as a vortex of climactic apotheosis, heightening its depth with the quietude of his final still of Konzaburō as a monument of petrified wood. Kobayashi, Suzuki and Satō all emphasise the deer-scene as an epiphanous moment that signifies both its more ‘natural’ being as sacred and any unnecessary fear of nature and the unknown. Despite some occasional monologic orientation, none of these books has completely replicated the narrative mimetically. Ultimately, each artist evokes the spiritual atmosphere of immersion into an interdependent cosmos. Each, through different moments or moods, uses various levels of non-representational abstraction to enhance the reader’s relationship with the spiritual essence of the text. This heightens the spiritual sense of cosmic union, the sense of transcendence of all subject/object illusion. Through consciously evoking such an unconscious, all the artists, but Katao in particular, explore the interpenetrative synthesis with nature as a loss of ‘self.’ The ability to perceive beyond rationalist notions of a substantial ‘self’ also involves an ideal that Kenji called dekunobō in his famous poem known as ‘Ame ni mo Makezu’ (see Chapter 1). The next chapter considers this concept with regard to two stories, ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ (Serohiki no Gōshu) and ‘Kenjū’s Park’ (Kenjū Kōenrin), which respectively demonstrate the process towards the ideal and the ideal itself.

conclusion Despite the abstract qualities of their art, Kobayashi, Satō and Suzuki have used relatively more conventional and replicatory representational styles than Katao whose black and white ‘otherworldly’ distortion of everyday time and space conveys an eeriness that transcends the ‘real’ world throughout. Satō’s evocative woodgrain landscape and hazy, shadowy silhouettes in his introductory and closing frames suggest a similar sense of the immateriality of this world as an imitation of a higher reality. His mystical framing of the internal, more replicatory pictures that present brighter caricatures of the foxes and children reminds readers of the illusionary qualities of the ‘real’ world. In 99

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5 Kenji’s ‘Dekunobō’ Ideal in ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ (Serohiki No Gōshu) and ‘Kenjū’s Park’ (Kenjū Kōenrin)

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chapter examines how dekunobō intersubjectivity is reflected in these contrasting characters and their pictorial representations. Miyazawa’s dekunobō ideal is rather paradoxical and thus more complex than any simple dictionary definition can offer. While the literal meaning of the word is something like blockhead or dunce, Miyazawa used the term as an exemplar about how to live life in the poem known as Ame ni mo Makezu (Not yielding to the Rain).5 This poem was found in the notebook which he kept with him until his death and expresses his main principles and practices.6 Kerstin Vidaeus notes it as a kind of prayer for the strength to maintain a life dedicated to serving others.7 The conclusion ironically introduces the dekunobō (dunce) as a model:

n contrast to the signification of the pointlessness of ego in ‘Donguri’ (see Chapter 3) or a supernatural sense of union in ‘Yukiwatari’ (see Chapter 4), this chapter deals with Miyazawa Kenji’s dekunobō ideal.1 Two quite disparate protagonists from ‘Serohiki no Gōshu’, written in 1925, and ‘Kenjū Kōenrin’, written in about 1927, embody contrasting aspects of the altruistic ideal.2 The striving Gōshu can be seen to represent the struggle towards the ideal, while the intellectually impaired Kenjū can be seen to epitomise its aim. There is some debate about the latter point, however, with some scholars arguing that Kenjū cannot exemplify the dekunobō ideal because of his lack of conscious purpose.3 In contrast, Gōshu’s striving is seen as representative of the effort needed to achieve the ideal. Tokita Tsutomu, for instance, sees “the desire for hidden detachment exhibited in Gōshu” as a positive acknowledgment of “trying to actively connect with the future.”4 This

someone called a dunce by everybody someone who is neither praised nor troublesome this is how I want

Nakura Yasuhiro (1959–); p. 9, Serohiki no Gōshu, Kumon, 1992. Detail of fig. 47.

to be.8

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The kanji characters for Kenjū are made up of ken, meaning “to modestly carry something through to the end,” and jū, which means the number ‘ten.’15 This jū immediately connotes the Buddhist notion of jūriki, the ten fields of knowledge that only belong to a Buddha (hotoke),16 whose wisdom surpasses all human knowledge.17 When the scholar in the closing scene of ‘Kōenrin’ says: “It is simply astonishing how the effects of jūriki are everywhere” (Tada doko made mo jūriki no sayō wa fushigi desu), he is referring to the wisdom of Kenjū.18 Taken together, the characters for Kenjū thus have similar connotations to jūriki and, indeed by association, jiriki self-power. It is paradoxically Kenjū’s intellectual disability that allows his stoicism and ‘wisdom’. The complex concept of dekunobō, as awkwardness, selflessness, equality or rejection of elitism, is tied in with notions of overcoming superficial social judgements, but is also about deeper selfassessment.19 It expresses a respect for the intrinsic qualities of things, rejecting comparisons between things and valuing individual differences.20 Kenjū’s mental weakness amounts to genius while Gōshu’s inner demons are valued as part of a necessary struggle towards achieving a dekunobō awareness. Aspects of dekunobō-like self-assessment are also found in the underlying sense of struggle between competitive elements like shura (demons) and makoto (truth/sincerity), both external and internal.21 Whereas Suzuki maintains that dekunobō is an investigation of conflict between the shura and makoto as the two extremes within the self,22 Hara sees it as more concerned with reconciliation, the resolution of the internal drama.23 Nishida Yoshiko suggests something similar to Hara in that, because Miyazawa acknowledged the pain of shura but was always searching for sincerity (makoto), his spirit of dekunobō was the product born out of the interaction between shura and ‘the true path’ (makoto no michi).24 In this sense, Gōshu’s personal struggle demonstrates the angst-ridden path towards the ideal, whereas Kenjū, through his naïve innocence, is closer to the aim. They contrast with the type of external conflict apparent between the acorns in ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko)

In the same notebook there is also an outline for a play called Dekunobō. A note near the title says; “this is how/ we want to become” (wareware kō iu/ mono ni naritai) and indicates Miyazawa’s preoccupation with the concept of selflessness.9 As Hara Shirō suggests, Miyazawa’s specific use of the pronoun ‘we’ (wareware) instead of ‘I’ (watashi) here shows his concern with pushing beyond any modern notion of individualism to include respect and hope for all life.10 According to Suzuki Kenji, Miyazawa’s use of the term dekunobō originates from the image of the bodhisattva figure he emulated in his lifestyle, Fukyū (Fukyū Bosatsu) from the Lotus Sutra.11 Fukyū continued to worship in this world, enduring people’s contempt and persecution in order show that anyone could become a Buddha.12 Fukyū thus symbolises the idea of a more ‘practical’ path which has similarities with both Kenjū’s endurance in the face of ridicule in ‘Kōenrin’ and Gōshu’s striving in ‘Serohiki.’ Fukyū also raises the notion of jiriki (the path to enlightenment through self-effort) within the dekunobō ideal. According to Miyazawa’s Lotus Sutra ideals, enlightenment should be attainable for anyone through struggle and active practice in this life. This involves a process that, despite the aforementioned assertions of his lack of conscious intent, is not entirely absent in Kenjū, but is expressed more explicitly through Gōshu’s overt struggle. The names and distinguishing characteristics of the two main protagonists also reflect the two related yet seemingly contradictory aspects of dekunobō. On the one hand, Gōshu is derived from the French word gauche and, as Vidaeus points out, although his gauche, awkward ineptitude resonates with the dekunobō ideal, the character has “deeper psychological scope” than the usual pejorative connotations associated with gaucheness.13 According to Satō Taihei, the name Gōshu came to Miyazawa as he was playing the cello, and the term involves Gōshu’s ability to surmount his own inadequacies and achieve a dekunobō-like spirit through effort.14 On the other hand, the source of Kenjū’s special powers as a dekunobō is also signified in his name. 102

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and the hawk and nighthawk in ‘The Nighthawk Star’ (Yodaka no Hoshi), both of which deal more overtly with the theme of rivalry between protagonists. If Miyazawa’s dekunobō could be described in a word, it might be selflessness, the ideal expressed in Miyazawa’s famous poem and which he himself strove so hard to achieve. This selflessness also intrinsically involves this sense of striving though, one that involves an earthly concern for all sentient beings as part of an integrated cosmos.25 While dekunobō reflects this concern through Kenjū’s naïve innocence and perfect makoto ‘wisdom’, it is also paradoxically associated with the ‘clumsiness’ and human fallibility found in Gōshu’s shura demons. The process towards dekunobō will become clearer through an outline of the two tales, ‘Serohiki’ and ‘Kōenrin.’

that Gōshu has something more to offer. Their visits not only gently help him develop his playing but also his awareness of his effect on others. Gōshu doesn’t acknowledge their input until after the mother mouse manages to convince him that his music has curative powers. At this point, Gōshu develops some compassion and gives some bread to the mice. At each successive visit his own temperament and compassion for others, together with his music, have unwittingly improved despite, or because of, the interruptions by the animals. The day of the concert finally comes, and the orchestra plays their well-practised Sixth Symphony (Beethoven’s Pastorale), receiving a standing ovation.27 The conductor, under pressure to supply a different piece as an encore and having prepared nothing else, bids Gōshu to perform. As he takes the stage, the audience applauds but he thinks they are making fun of him so he plays Indo no Toragari with a vengeance, recalling the cat’s earlier distress as he comes to certain parts. Upon finishing, he rushes backstage looking for refuge from assault but is instead greeted by the stunned silence of his mesmerised colleagues. They then praise his performance generously, remarking at his stamina for practice. Softened, he returns home and looks up through his window to where his second visitor, the injured cuckoo, had flown to escape him. He apologises for his earlier anger, thus finally acknowledging the help received.

‘serohiki’ synopsis Gōshu is a cello player in the Venus Orchestra which is preparing for a concert in ten days time. His playing, however, lacks expression and the conductor constantly reprimands him. After rehearsals, he dejectedly trudges back to his run down mill-house. He begins to practise at home and continues late into the night when a neighbourhood cat unexpectedly requests that Gōshu play Schumann’s ‘Traümerei’ (Reverie). Resenting the cat’s impertinence, Gōshu screeches out a more boisterous piece called Indo no Toragari (Tiger Hunt in India), much to the cat’s chagrin.26 Gōshu seems to enjoy the cat’s discomfort. Visits from animals continue for three consecutive nights: a cuckoo who asks Gōshu to teach him the musical scale; a badger child who wants to learn how to beat the drum to Gōshu’s cello, and a mother field mouse who implores him to play the cello in order to cure her sick child. He vents his wrath on all these creatures and they flee in fear. Gōshu is particularly cruel to the cat and the cuckoo. As he blindly pursues his own narrow goals, each of the animals enjoys his music, recognising

‘kōenrin’ synopsis In contrast to Gōshu’s angst-ridden path toward awareness of others, Kenjū in ‘Kōenrin’ personifies perfect harmony with the world. Kenjū’s odd openmouthed smile immediately signals an intellectual handicap but he is always happy and, in contrast with Gōshu, takes great pleasure in the natural world around him. While other children make fun of him, Kenjū simply responds by hiding his wonder. One day, he asks his parents to buy him seven hundred cedar saplings. Although poor, his parents agree as he never asks for much and always helps in 103

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the fields. His older brother helps him plant the cedars in the field behind their house. Even after nine years, however, the trees have still not grown very tall. One day, a local farmer teases Kenjū into pruning them so hard that only a few branches are left at the top of each tree. Initially upset at how shorn they look, he soon recovers when he sees that many children are able to play under them. Thereafter, he quietly continues to care for the plantation, even getting drenched during downpours when the children are indoors. One day, a mean and ill-natured neighbour, Heiji, orders Kenjū to cut the trees down because, he says, they overshadow his field. Kenjū refuses. Despite being pummelled for his defiance, he stands passively unwilling to defend himself under the assault. Heiji himself finally desists, discomfited when Kenjū begins to reel from the blows. Later that same autumn, both Heiji and Kenjū die from typhoid. The children, however, obliviously continue to play in the grove. In the following year, a railway is built through the village. Before people realise, more and more houses appear and the village eventually becomes a town. The playground of cedars which annexes the school, however, is owned by Kenjū’s father who keeps it protected in memory of Kenjū. After about twenty years, a young scholar returns home to the village from America and, discovering the grove, is astonished at Kenjū’s foresight in planting the cedars, especially as he had always thought Kenjū “a bit soft in the head”.28 While looking at the grove, he ruminates upon the impossibility of knowing who is or isn’t endowed with ‘real’ intelligence. He organises donations for a stone monument, naming it ‘Kenjū’s Park.’ The tale concludes with the remark that the park remains to this day, continuing to bring joy to thousands of people who still visit. Studied in isolation, neither of these tales provides a complete picture of dekunobō. By taking dekunobō as a kind of inclusive selflessness that nevertheless involves a struggle between shura and makoto within the self, a comparison of the two main characters reveals the progression towards the

ideal. Gōshu’s outward struggles in ‘Serohiki’ essentially reflect an internalised shura/makoto rivalry, whereas Kenjū in ‘Kōenrin,’ through his naïve virtue, reflects a makoto purity that epitomises selfdenial but, in its humility, goes unrecognised by either self or others. Gōshu certainly does not fit the ultimate ideal, especially at the beginning, but he exemplifies the angst yet achievability of the path, whereas Kenjū represents the simplicity of the effect and the integrative sense of harmony it offers. As in the poem Ame ni mo Makezu, Gōshu is, for example, ‘troublesome,’ ‘selfish,’ ‘aggressive,’ ‘conceited’ (and even ‘praised,’ after the concert), thus his character underlines the difficulties inherent in achieving the ideal, or indeed any kind of balance. Such imperfections highlight the earthly, material process of Gōshu’s physical and psychological progress whereas Kenjū’s intellectual handicap renders his inner ‘intelligence’ almost invisible. Kenjū is neither ‘praised’ nor ‘troublesome,’ ‘selfish’ nor ‘conceited.’ He is at peace with himself and the world and symbolises the ideal of caring for others. To borrow Takao Hagiwara’s image in regard to innocence in Miyazawa’s tales, Gōshu and Kenjū, taken side by side, are almost like the two sides of the Möbius strip intertwined and moving to expose glimpses of the internal workings of the ever-elusive ideal.29 The contrast between Gōshu’s angst and Kenjū’s quiet, reflective and self-effacing contentment suggests the difference between a more contemplative transcendence through acceptance of the status quo as opposed to a gruelling, physically anguished struggle to achieve the ultimate aim of enlightenment. From the outset Kenjū takes delight in his closeness to nature in a way that signals his sense of instinctive belonging. His complete disconnection from the pecuniary or earthly concerns of striving and achieving emphasises his internal contentment in contrast with the worldly desires and foibles of others around him (and of Gōshu). Whereas nothing bothers Kenjū and he takes a quiet joy in all experience, Gōshu finds little joy in anything and is completely insensitive to any deeper appreciation of life around him as he struggles for 104

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musical competence. Gōshu’s interactions with others represent his anguished, cultural progress, a laboured road to achieving his goal in contrast with Kenjū’s quiet, non-combative nature, even in the face of adversity. Gōshu’s progress towards dekunobō enlightenment is thus a violent struggle that is brought into relief against Kenjū’s centripetal calm as he drinks in the sheer delight of the natural world. The paradox of Gōshu is that even though it is necessary to strive, the real ideal is achieved when all effort ceases.30 Only when he lets go of his ‘selfish’ aims, does he really begin to ‘be’ and belong, becoming aware of his effect on others and theirs on him. With practice, both his music and his awareness improve. Despite attacking the encore in a spirit of resentment, as if trying to assault the audience with his music, it is Gōshu’s ability to ‘lose himself’ and become one with his instrument that brings him internal and external success. It is his absorption in the music, with no thought of ambition or appraisal, that finally allows this sense of release. After his encore, he realises, to his own astonishment that he has played exceedingly well. As Vidaeus indicates, like the words of the sermon from ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’, he starts off as “the most stupid, the most foolish” and ends up as “the greatest.”31 Music has allowed him to reach a deeper connection with the wider world. While Gōshu holds to his purpose too tenaciously, he cannot achieve the ‘true happiness’ that Kenjū instinctively has. Until he stops striving Gōshu has little regard for nature or his own sense of being within the wider world. He only becomes a dekunobō figure when his material desire is somehow subsumed into a more accepting awareness of nature like Kenjū’s. Comparison of the two characters as dekunobō figures shows how different types of jiriki agency can surpass the notion of the modern alienated urban individual. As Vidaeus points out, Gōshu’s underlying anger and resentment stem from his insecurity, which is the basis of his angst.32 Gōshu’s struggle for higher awareness arises from his internal insecurity and demonstrates that the path towards “happiness for all” is far from simple for the

individual. Kenjū, on the other hand, is outside the ‘normal’ realm. He appears blissfully unaware of the presence of any malice in the world and when he encounters it, in Heiji for instance, he maintains an equanimity which is immediately apparent as an unusual quality. While the ridicule of others demonstrates his intense isolation, it also shows his active pacifism. For Kenjū is not entirely passive. He feels, but consciously ignores the ridicule of others and stubbornly cares for the cedars. Kenjū is brought into sharp focus against the callousness of the miserly Heiji to highlight the simplicity of both his jiriki agency and its lasting effect. Kenjū’s ‘difference’ upsets the selfish Heiji, and brings out his aggression. Whereas this brings no pleasure to anyone, it is not only Kenjū who delights in the consequences of his unintentional actions, but others too reap the rewards of his conduct, the enjoyment of his cedar trees. The contrast is further marked by the death of both. Whereas Heiji disappears into oblivion, his life and death having had had no lasting impact on the world, Kenjū’s unexpected dekunobō effect after death is eternal. The closure reveals the unforeseen benefits of his ‘being,’ of actions instigated through his instinctive affinity with nature. By contrast with Gōshu’s internal struggle in achieving the dekunobō ideal, Kenjū’s resilience, even in the face of adversity, reflects the unexpected outward effects of his selfless jiriki stubbornness. It is both characters’ relationship with nature that brings them both into harmony with the world as dekunobō figures. Whereas Kenjū is in complete harmony with his natural environment, Gōshu comes to a higher awareness through the animals. Contrasted with the intellectually impaired Kenjū whose affinity with nature is the source of his real ‘wisdom’ that moves outwards in effect, Gōshu is the essential gauche dolt who has little capacity for inner peace until he moves away from solipsism through his awareness of the help offered by the creatures of nature. Gōshu’s musical aims and Kenjū’s desire to plant cedar trees both mediate culture and nature in different ways. In ‘Serohiki,’ Gōshu apparently has 105

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no ‘natural’ musical talent. He is both ‘out of time’ and ‘out of tune.’ Gōshu’s subjectivity is achieved intersubjectively; that is, in his musical interactions with others.33 It is the encounter with the cuckoo that is a significant turning point, initiating Gōshu’s path to awareness.34 When the cuckoo attempts to teach him the musical scale, Gōshu recognises that it is better than him and subjects it to his screeching cello. He is somewhat chastened upon realising that it is more in harmony with the world and begins to mellow, finally showing more compassion to the mice as they alert him to the curative potential of music. He thus gradually becomes aware that he can actually have an impact on others. By the closure, the apology to the cuckoo for his anger shows new awareness that approaches a dekunobō-like understanding of the world. Gōshu is initially so selfobsessed and arrogant that he is oblivious to the hurt his actions and music may inflict. “Gōshu’s waves of emotion”35 are similar to the emotional celebration of country life expressed in the Pastorale itself.36 The musical encounters bring his undekunobō-like egotistic nature into sharp relief against the animals’ tolerance. Like true dekunobōs, they gradually help him improve and his belligerent attitude softens. Whereas Gōshu mediates culture and nature through his restorative music, Kenjū’s mediates them through his cultivation of the cedar trees. Kenjū’s trees are non-fruit-bearing trees in contrast with the more ‘practical’ food cultivation of the agricultural community that surrounds him, thus indicating his different impulses. Their lasting effect emphasises the simple appreciation the natural world over more cultivated pleasures or needs. Unexpected rewards are found even in the cultural act of pruning, whereas Gōshu’s music, as a healing medium, has a contrasting ‘civilising’ effect by bringing humanity into harmony with nature. Another significant difference between the two tales is that, whereas Gōshu’s is a more personal epiphany that opens outwards, ‘Kōenrin’ expresses other people’s outwards awareness of Kenjū’s internal foresight. Those who have previously ridiculed Kenjū recognise their own shortcomings

through his more sustained instinctive ‘wisdom.’ Others are the beneficiaries of Kenjū’s communion with the natural world. Through the eternity of his cedars, they come to acknowledge the worth of his ‘futility’. Both types of epiphany lead towards the sense of true “happiness” that is close to Takao Hagiwara’s ‘realm of restored innocence’; the notion of redemptive innocence inherent within the womb but lost at birth.37 As Hagiwara points out elsewhere, the paradox in ‘Kōenrin’ is that it is not Kenjū who sees his own innocence as ‘extraordinary,’ but “the eyes of the author and reader who more or less belong to the world of the ordinary and of experience.”38 Hagiwara also draws a link between nature and innocence, suggesting that just as nature is indifferent to itself, the innocent are indifferent to their own state. It takes an adult perspective to see the innocence of children and the intellectually disabled. As two characters who exemplify two such contrasting aspects of dekunobō selflessness, the contrast between Gōshu and Kenjū highlights the complexities of the process of working towards a true dekunobō spirit.

picture books The four pictorial representations of ‘Serohiki’ are respectively illustrated by Nakura Yasuhiro (1959 – ), Satō Kunio (1952 – ), Akaba Suekichi (1910–1990) and Tsukasa Osamu (1936 – ). ‘Serohiki’s’ more numerous pictorial reproductions demonstrate a receptivity to the kinds of contradictory dilemmas inherent in Gōshu’s very human foibles. The tale, as a representative of the anguished approach to achieving the dekunobō ideal, serves as the foundation for the examination of Itō Wataru’s beautiful depiction of Kenjū’s more contemplative path.

‘serohiki’ Nakura Yasuhiro: Nakura’s ‘Serohiki’ is the first of three stories in volume six of Kumon’s Miyazawa Kenji Picture 106

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Book Collection. The volume was first published in October 1992 and in its seventh print run by July 1996, the centenary of Kenji’s birth and the boom year for his work. It had its fourteenth imprint in 2010 and the publishers intend to keep reprinting the book (and the series).39 Nakura’s pictures grace the front and back covers and frontispiece, indicating ‘Serohiki’s’ significance in the book. Besides ‘Serohiki,’ Nakamura is well known as an animator of Kenji’s Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru and Donguri to Yamaneko and for creating the illustrations for famous works such as Miyazawa Hayao’s Castle Laputa in the Sky.40 An exhibition of his work was held in Toyama Prefecture City Art Gallery in 2006. Nakura’s five surrealistic illustrations connect with the five movements of Beethoven’s Pastorale and exemplify how accompanying pictures can push the nuances of a text. They provide the point of comparison for the other three, more ‘descriptive’ picture books of ‘Serohiki’.41 Nakura shifts the

story from a monologic narrative of Gōshu’s fulfilment of his aspirations to a more psychological and dialogic exploration of his internal angst. By juxtaposing story elements against incongruous extratextual phenomena in a mastery of allusion, the pictures explore Gōshu’s internal discord with the world. Nakura emphasises Gōshu’s estrangement from both the cultural world and the natural world. In the first title plate, a disproportionately large, dejected Gōshu, his head bowed and turned away to indicate despair, is introduced at the centre of surrealistic ‘dream vignettes’ (see fig. 46). Despite the absence of human facial expressions, together with Gōshu’s posture, the colours and subject material register his psychological discord. The absurdities within the different vignettes exemplify his internal  dissatisfaction, provoking thought about the psychological processes that embody his inner landscape. The spread insinuates his gaucheness,

46 Nakura Yasuhiro (1959–) ; pp. 4–5, Serohiki no Gōshu, Kumon, 1992.

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the awkwardness or clumsiness inferred by his name, his inability to harmonise the internal worlds of thought which are juxtaposed around him. His size further reminds the viewer of an ‘out of proportion’ ego. The vignettes juxtapose the conventional against the non-conventional, provoking questions about the connections between the items on the page and their potential relationship to the story. Disproportionate sizes, shapes, objects and planes distort the world in a picture play that evokes a particular attitude to it. They encourage the eye to wander around the picture noticing various elements that contrast with normal conventions. For example, planets are visible within the bright daylight; an out-of-proportion cat sits atop a telegraph pole; a dysfunctional mill-house is situated on the hill without the water that is essential to propel the wheel and grinder that mill the seed; and the shaft of the ‘cello-house’ is cut off to expose the torso and legs of a man below it. All suggest Gōshu’s ‘brokenness’ and his discord with the world, with music, nature and humanity. Heaven, earth, sea and civilisation are transposed over or through Gōshu’s figure, visible within the outline of his back, suggesting elements of his inner psyche. Paths and vectors simultaneously lead back from the centre in all directions to the surrounding ‘vignettes’ pointing to the human figures as representations of Gōshu’s turbulence of mind during his long and lonely road home from cello practice. Three figures of the same little man in different places and times and in various stages of disintegration inscribe the inner turmoil and emotional disjunction during Gōshu’s path home. The lone figure lost at sea is ‘disintegrating’ in the boat, suggesting the isolation and dissipation of Gōshu’s chosen route. From this boat vignette the vectors lead back (against the reading direction) along a meandering path towards his severed ‘cello-home’ in the foreground, suggesting he is on the wrong path. The vignettes surrounding Gōshu’s out-ofproportion figure reiterate the illogical movement and progression of his angst-ridden internal aspirations. It is impossible to follow any one object

without it leading to another seemingly disconnected object or scene. The disconnections in these frames underline Gōshu’s psychological sense of isolation and dysfunction. Gōshu is ‘out of kilter’, both physically and psychologically, with the cultural and natural worlds around him and, consequently, with his own nature. Every incongruity signifies an isolated, broken Gōshu returning home. The juxtaposition of culture and nature further emphasise Gōshu’s discordance with the world. A discrepant array of animals, humans, fish, vegetation and planets are set against images of telegraph poles, trains and a dysfunctional mill-house. The unframed natural worlds stretch suggestively into the outer reaches of civilisation on the far left and right respectively, the boat on the sea on one side, and the train, telegraph poles and the mill-house on the other. The base of the hill in the left foreground is like a patchwork quilt with some of the intrinsic pieces scattered as ‘rocks’ to suggest missing pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. The blues, greys and greens of the sky, sea and earth that blend into and around them emphasise the capriciousness of the seasons and natural environment. The whole evokes a brooding atmosphere that underscores the friction between nature and culture that needs to be negotiated. Furthermore, the light and shadows in the discrete scenes are evocative of the light and shade within human nature, as seen for example in the ‘cello-house.’ It is flooded with light from within to suggest that the source of understanding is found within the self, but in his present turmoil Gōshu is ‘outside’ this, not yet able to find it. His raggedly attired half-figure with its outstretched arm gesturing to a bird in the nearby tree from inside the open house reiterates his fumbling blindness.  As this door opens against the reading direction (right to left), this also signifies that his current state is leading him backwards, in the wrong direction. The entire obstacle course composed in this title picture engenders Gōshu’s emotional turmoil. His discord arises from his being closed off from 108

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everything and the inability to ‘communicate,’ as suggested in his posture, the pole blocking his way home, his half-figure in the cello-house and the lone figure in the boat. He hasn’t yet learned the openness that will allow connection with and among others in the world; the realisation of one’s impact on the world beyond. Yet light also emanates outward through the open door of his home to symbolise hope for the future through nature (represented by the tree and the bird to whom Gōshu is gesturing). Nakura also signifies music as the most vital part of the communication process, as the interface between the natural and cultural world: the cello strings become electricity wires; telegraph wires stem from Gōshu’s back; the lines move along and across his path home from music practice where he also talks with the telegraph-pole man; his music grows on a bush; and his cello-house is simulated from all natural material. They all register musical communication as the key to synthesising culture and nature. Paths and vectors also draw attention towards the music score at the base of Gōshu’s back as the source of this communication. All the vectors emanating from and through cultural and natural objects lead to this music score which is simultaneously rooted at the base of his home to further suggest his path out of his predicament. A ‘bubbling’ array of natural elements (planets, sky, birds and sea) at the top of the page appears to sprout forth from the open pages of the score. The bow lying across Gōshu’s lap further represents it as the symbolic key to internal and external harmony, indicating his ability to unlock the door to his own discord. The transmission lines that connect with the shaft of Gōshu’s cello-home extend out from the foregrounded house towards infinity (off the page) on poles that resemble musical notes. These cellostrings link with the external, social world as lines of communication, signifying his cello music as the means to synthesise all the discrete aspects of life and suggesting the effect that music might have on the world if Gōshu can ‘unblock’ and get it right. Although currently out of time and out of tune, he can, through his music, eventually mediate nature

and culture. As the mice in the story realise, music heals, and music can harmonise humanity into tune with nature, as signified on the back cover where the telegraph poles turn into musical notes. The ensuing pictures integrate civilisation with nature to represent Gōshu’s spiritual metamorphosis. In the second opening, the earthy colours of Gōshu’s ragged-edged attire contrast with those in the first scene to signal the beginning of the transition that arises from his encounters with the animals (fig. 47). In this scene, Gōshu is represented as a procession of men linked by their telegraph-hat wires. He/they are trudging up a hill in single file under the weight of a huge cello case-as-house, establishing the intensity of his musical labour as communication efforts. The trail of communication poles leads into the internally lit mill-house as the inner source of understanding. Here, in Nakura’s closest representation of Gōshu’s encounters with the animals, a beam of

47

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Nakura Yasuhiro (1959–) ; p. 9, Serohiki no Gōshu, Kumon, 1992.

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light radiates onto the cat with his tomato offerings (also reflected below) to highlight communication with nature as the path to understanding. The main figure contrasted in blue atop the cello is another aspect of Gōshu. He has sprouted transparent wings in a partial metamorphosis into nature. A funnel of light from the lamp on his telegraphpole-hat simultaneously crosses in front of the beam from the window, projecting upwards to illuminate a blue cuckoo in flight, again symbolising communication with nature as the key. The cat’s blue tail also resembles the shaft of a cello in another blending of nature with culture. This integration of phenomena promotes a primal sense of community. Gōshu’s metamorphosis to dekunobō-hood through nature continues in the next picture (not reproduced here) where the gnarled tree roots twist and intertwine around and through fields, birds and sky, reaching upwards. Gōshu, now attired in vibrant green, intermingles with the tendrils of the roots within which he is sited, and the cello has become a beetle climbing the roots to further signify the nourishing effect of music and the fusion between the cultivated and natural worlds. The later pictures also allude to growth and fresh perspectives. This is particularly evident in the penultimate and final tableaus where Gōshu, nature, and music (the cello) all become integrated parts of a world entwined in buds and sprouts. In the penultimate picture, Nakura’s second double spread, the cello is formed as the cut-off base of a huge tree trunk to reiterate the connection between music and nature (fig. 48). Gōshu is again presented with dragon-fly wings, lit up within the cello-trunk and blended with the interior colours of this cellotree. He is connected to the strings which come down through the shaft of the cello, being lifted up like a dekunobō-puppet, suggesting music’s ability to ‘pull the strings’, to lift him upward towards a higher plane of spiritual understanding. (This also suggests a tension between jiriki and tariki paths to enlightenment.) The shadows of the darkened owl and hare with rays of light emanating from their eyes upwards and downwards, visible above and

48 Nakura Yasuhiro (1959–); pp. 24–25, Serohiki no Gōshu, Kumon, 1992.

below the cello trunk, respectively symbolise death and immortality to suggest a kind of death and rebirth.42 Tendrils of upright sprouts are bursting forth around the outline of the cello-tree trunk further symbolising Gōshu’s newfound spirit. In comparison with Nakura’s title scene (fig. 46) which suggests Gōshu’s psychological discord, the final picture (fig. 49) represents his epiphanous experience. Gōshu is now intertwined with nature, emerging from within the sprouting green vines. He is attired in a suit of green leaves with tails suggestive of feathered wings, and with a bird at his neck. Furthermore, he has reached a higher, more harmonious plane where he is looking out over his music onto more effulgent surroundings. Instead of depicting the concert in the hall, Nakura suggests a concerto of nature in a harmony of soft colours and light, interconnecting all the paraphernalia of civilisation and nature in consonance with the Pastorale now being played by the orchestra. Gōshu’s position in the foreground highlights his new viewpoint on the wider world represented by the landscape in the distance. With the natural growth of the sprouts, he has pushed through the constrictions of civilisation, through all material enclosures. Nature is bursting through the structures, sprouting tendrils pushing through walls to symbolise Gōshu’s breakthrough, emphasising the musical triumph.

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49 Nakura Yasuhiro (1959–); pp. 28–29, Serohiki no Gōshu, Kumon, 1992.

The electricity poles in the distance on the hill at the right have become cello-trees, their wires now joining together in accord. The windows and doors, as Gōshu’s metaphorical eyes are wide open and disclosing calmer versions of the more turbulent landscape vignettes in the first scene (fig. 46). The entire closing scene represents Gōshu’s newfound ability to communicate through music as an epiphanous immersion of culture and nature. Nakura’s surrealistic pictures ultimately push beyond story level to bring Gōshu from a gauche and dysfunctional individual, whose angst-ridden inner psyche is out of tune with the world, to a real dekunobō whose musical development can bring him into harmony with nature. His illustrations emphasise Gōshu’s metaphysical development over the literal story of material progression and achievement, showing how Gōshu’s intersubjective path from turmoil to inner peace reaches beyond the individual into the cosmos through music.

Satō Kunio, Akaba Suekichi and Tsukasa Osamu Satō Kunio’s ‘Serohiki’ was first published Bennesse (Fukutake Publishing) in 1992. It reached about five thousand five hundred imprints and, as of 2009 is now being published by Sankō-sha.43 It is also currently being reworked for publication in English with RIC Publications. Akaba Suekichi’s ‘Serohiki’ was first published as part of Kaiseisha’s Nihon no Dōwa Meisaku Sen (Selection of Classic Japanese Children’s Stories) in 1989. It was in its 29th print run by November 2009 with about 96,000 copies have been printed to date.44 It is still being reprinted and is available today.45 Tsukasa’s ‘Serohiki’ was first published in 1986 by Fuzambō, and was in its fifth print run by 1994 but is now out of print.46 Satō and Tsukasa have both been introduced previously (in Chapter 3), but Akaba is a renowned

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illustrator of many Japanese children’s tales. Kusano Akiko credits him with reinvigorating Japanese picture books with a ‘Japanese sensitivity’ (Nihonteki kansei) in the 1960s by reintroducing ‘traditional’ sumi-e (Indian ink) painting and the use of negative space.47 His style emanates from his investigation of folktales and historical materials. He has won numerous national and several international prizes including the American Brooklyn Art Gallery Picture Book Award in 1975, the Andersen Prize for Illustration in 1980 and the English Diamond Personality Award in 1983. Satō’s and Akaba’s artwork (and that of Tsukasa Osamu, the third artist under discussion later) is more replicatory of the story in terms of narrative linearity. Satō, Akaba and Tsukasa thus focus more on the sequence of Gōshu’s encounters with the animals, although there are considerable differences between their styles and techniques. Whereas Nakura signals the whole story as a surrealistic dream that synthesises culture and nature through

music, the other artists frame the process of dekunobō within the ‘reality’ of Gōshu’s orchestral experiences at beginning and end. This framing and the more linear replication of events help signify dekunobō as a more conventional ‘success story’, intensifying the sense of Gōshu’s jiriki effort and shura struggle. The extra-textual allusion in Satō’s frontispiece, for example, highlights the notion of effort by showing Gōshu as a hard-working farmer wiping the perspiration from his brow as he hoes his vegetable garden. Satō, Tsukasa and Akaba all emphasise Gōshu’s alienation through his journey home after orchestra practice (see Satō’s fig. 50; Akaba’s fig. 57; and Tsukasa’s fig. 63).48 Their respective pictures foreground his dejection as the beginning of his internal conflict, but Satō and Akaba add to the sense of pathos and present a point of comparison with Nakura’s surrealistic projections of Gôshu’s internal mind. They portray a pervasive darkness surrounding Gōshu’s small, isolated silhouette as he trudges

50 Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 6–7, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

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home dolefully after practice. This initial pathos contrasts with his lack of sensitivity for others in the sequence which represents his interactions with the animals that Satō frames with the only two full double spreads in his book (fig. 50 and fig. 54). Satō’s dark silhouette of Gōshu in the first plate (fig. 50) therefore signifies his inner darkness, his wounded ‘soul,’ in a similar way to the symbolic shadows mentioned in Chapter 4 (on ‘Snow Crossing’). This then acts as the spur for the tension in Gōshu’s encounters with the animals and his ensuing struggle for fulfillment. While Akaba’s only double spread (see fig. 57) represents this same scene in a similar doleful manner, Tsukasa (see fig. 63) uses distancing perspective to suggest the long lonely road winding from afar. He partially obscures Gōshu with his huge cello but situates him closer to his run-down millhouse in the foreground. This proximity to the disrepair apparent in Tsukasa’s mill-house metonymically signifies Gōshu’s need for restoration (available through nature, growing through the thatched roof, and music, represented by the large cello on Gōshu’s back). A comparison of Satō’s and Akaba’s renderings demonstrates their different approaches to Gōshu as a dekunobō figure. In contrast to their opening scenes which establish Gōshu’s alienation, both Akaba’s and Satō’s encounters with animals are rendered with minimal contextualisation, signifying these dream encounters as external to Gōshu’s earthly life. In contrast with Nakura, their emphasis on these encounters stresses a more monologic orientation to Gōshu’s internal dialogue. The turning of the pages that present Gōshu’s ever more fervent practice through the meetings provide a much more temporal and spatial sense of his intersubjective progression and effort than Nakura’s surrealist pictures. Yet Gōshu’s emotions are not actualised through his facial expressions. The connection between the emotional and the physical is instead apparent through images of the animals’ pain and anguish which highlights Gōshu’s gaucheness, his insensitivity as he progresses towards the dekunobō ideal.

Satō renders Gōshu as the main protagonist in nearly every picture, making him highly visible, but his naive woodblock prints minimalise Gōshu’s expression with lines and vectors that emphasise the animals’ efforts and discomfort. The image of their pain and frustration thus underscores Gōshu’s cruelty and his difficult path. Such emphasis creates a tension which signifies the process of Gōshu’s gradual awakening, contrasting with his eventual enlightenment. Satō highlights the discomfort of the cat, for instance, as it spirals about in frenzied pain at Gōshu’s rendition of Tiger Hunt in India (see fig. 51). Gōshu’s frantic playing is juxtaposed against the cat’s obvious anguish, registering his indifference to its feelings, his self-absorption and lack of compassion. He is solipsistically incapable of seeing the cat as ‘other.’ This also works in conjunction with the previous picture (not reproduced here) where the cat entreats the viewer (and Gōshu, absent from the picture) with his offer of tomatoes and his cheeky appeal for Schumann’s Reverie. This picture, the first within the ‘dream sequence,’ is one of only two pictures in which Gōshu is absent. This absence helps interpellate the viewer into the whole of the ‘dream sequence’ as a kind of ‘demand.’49 Satō thus encourages the viewer to dialogically experience the encounters as an ‘other’ who is subject to Gōshu’s cruelty and angst while he selfishly strives for musical success. Nonetheless, Satō’s use of light in the sequence of meetings is similar to Nakura’s use of light from the half cello-house, suggesting it as an interior source of resolve and thus reiterating self-reliance as a resolution to Gōshu’s problem. Two particularly symbolic pictures towards the end of Satō’s dream sequence foreground Gōshu’s internal acknowledgement that his music can cure the little mouse: one of the mouse and her child within an old-fashioned lantern which illuminates them from within (fig. 52); and the following opening which celebrates Gōshu’s more altruistic awareness through his presence within a circular, internally illuminated frame (fig. 53). In the latter, Satō has simultaneously drawn upon the symbology of the moon as representative of perfect dharma truth, 113

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51

and the owl as a symbol of death and reincarnation. This connotes a jiriki style of rebirth and enlightenment through effort which also works with the following picture of Gōshu feeding bread to the mice, drawing a close to the dream sequence (fig. 54). Satō’s final double page spread of a sleeping Gōshu surrounded by his newfound friends outside also signifies an end to his alienation and angst (fig. 55). Here, the door of his house is now fully open, with light spilling outside and illuminating the external landscape to signify the influence of his newfound enlightenment with his first, tentative altruistic gesture. This picture also expresses Gōshu’s inner peace as, after “flopping down on his bed, he was soon fast asleep and snoring”. It doubly signifies his newfound compassion after

Satō Kunio (1952–); p. 11, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

hard emotional exertion. Almost all the characters here are sleeping, exuding a penumbral glow to complete the picture of peace and well being and showing the effect of Gōshu’s achievement in contrast with the violence of his previous encounters. Satō’s owl references suggest heavier symbolic associations than the owl in Nakura’s final picture (fig. 49). In Japanese symbology, the owl is a harbinger of death. It is also associated with filial ingratitude due to the belief that it picks out its mother’s eyes.50 To Miyazawa Kenji, it symbolised the accumulation of bad karma for the brutal sins of life.51 There are no fewer than seven owls spread throughout Satō’s pictures, despite the fact that there is only one mention of an owl in the text, when mother mouse says to Gōshu, “and even that nasty old 114

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52

Satō Kunio (1952–); p. 22, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

53

54 Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 25–26, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

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Satō Kunio (1952–); p. 24, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

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owl was cured, wasn’t he, so in the circumstances I think it’s very unkind of you to say you won’t save this child.”52 Its visual prevalence in Satō’s pictorial representations of ‘Serohiki’ thus provides a metaphor for Gōshu’s spiritual death and consequent rebirth. Its appearance, firstly on a branch in Satō’s picture of Gōshu returning home alone (fig. 50) and then six more times, signifies the pain and alienation from the world that such karmic sin brings. It is usually perched in a tree, but in the picture of Gōshu sleeping it is hovering in the night sky outside Gōshu’s hut to suggest his transcendent ‘rebirth’ (fig. 55). Of the four artists, Akaba’s representation is the most emotionally charged, with more numerous pictures of Gōshu’s initial experience with the orchestra. His second picture, for example, presents Gōshu being scolded by the conductor, while the next shows a solitary Gōshu with tears falling towards his cello, and the following plate shows him walking home in the dark before the ‘dream sequence’ (fig. 57). This early focus therefore provides

55

a monologically descriptive pictorial orientation and evokes a closer alignment with Gōshu’s character than do the other books. Yet after initially signifying Gōshu as an isolated figure, unlike Satō’s or Tsukasa’s oft-depicted Gōshu, Akaba reduces his appearance during the sequence of encounters. For instance, a less representational silhouette of Gōshu ousts the cat with a threatening gesture (fig. 58). Together with his absence during his encounters with the animals, his shadow here not only marks the ‘darker’ aspects of his psyche, but also draws full attention to the animals’ discomfort. They appear by themselves at least three times each (apart from the mice who appear twice). Such a shift in viewer alignment thereby intensifies the reader’s perception of ‘other’ and, like Satō’s representation, underscores Gōshu’s insensitivity against the earlier pathos of his isolation. Both Satō and Akaba emphasise the cat’s pictorial distress, underlining Gōshu’s mistreatment of the animals as an abrasive reminder of his effect

Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 27–28, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

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56 Satō Kunio (1952–); pp. 31–32, Serohiki no Gōshu, Benesse, 1992.

57

Akaba Suekichi (1910–1990); Serohiki no Gōshu; Kaiseisha, 1989.

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58

59 Akaba Suekichi (1910–1990); Serohiki no Gōshu; Kaiseisha, 1989.

Akaba Suekichi (1910–1990); Serohiki no Gōshu; Kaiseisha, 1989.

upon others. Although Akaba’s cat does not ‘appeal’ to the viewer in the same way as Satō’s, Akaba uses two consecutive openings to powerfully represent the cat’s continued suffering. After rendering the cat’s frenzied reaction to Gōshu’s music in a previous picture, he depicts Gōshu cruelly striking a match on the cat’s heavily outlined, long red tongue, the contrasting colours conveying ever ‘hotter’ emotions with bolder, more vibrant and saturated colour (see fig. 59). The cat is now seen in profile at a closer social distance and Gōshu extends the lit match from outside the upper frame to register his superiority and the cat’s vulnerability.53 This projects the intensity of the unseen Gōshu’s cruelty and malice. Such signification stresses Gōshu’s ignorant and solipsistic lack of awareness of the repercussions of his own actions. By emphasising the tension in Gōshu’s encounters with the animals as a significant catalyst to his later awakening, both Akaba and Satō extend the story towards a significance of psychological striving, signifying its repercussions for others. Akaba’s external light source contrasts with Satō’s

use of light from within. For instance, when Akaba’s cuckoo flies down from the upper right to knock at Gōshu’s roof, it does so above the translucent outline of a lantern in red at the lower left (see fig. 60). In contrast with Satō’s internally lit lamp, the external light is from a source other than the lamp, from the red of some external flame such as the red fire of dusk, with the reddish-brown hues evoking evening. The lamp simply signifies the lateness of the hour rather than lighting the cuckoo’s way or symbolising an inner light of resolve. Both Akaba’s and Satō’s depictions of Gōshu’s musical encore amplify his effect on the world through music. Akaba’s Gōshu, for example, is on stage alone as his music ‘washes’ over his more impressionistically rendered audience which is mesmerised by his apparently more reflective rendition of Tiger Hunt in India (fig. 61). In contrast, Satō invokes the earlier frenzy of the cat swirling around Gōshu to draw a comparison between the cat’s previous reaction to his playing and the effect on the audience here (fig. 56). Satō’s Gōshu, now more absorbed and composed (compare, for instance, his 118

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straighter hair with the earlier scene in fig. 51), is at the centre of the musical vortex which cascades out towards the encasing semi-circle of the audience that embraces him and his playing (and which includes the mice and badgers). The cat is now ‘flowing’ with the musical sound waves rather than spiralling in pain. Gōshu is also in closer social proximity to the reading audience to emphasise the sense of unity. While Akaba’s impressionism signifies the music as a more centripetally gentle, passive source, Satō’s art demonstrates a more centrifugally passionate and vigorous force, both showing the effect that Gōshu has on the ‘world’ through his music. Tsukasa Osamu Tsukasa also engages with the idea of music in the story. His peritextual end-pages are replicas of Beethoven’s original manuscript of ‘The Pastorale’ to immediately signify its importance as an interface between culture and nature.54 His first opening initiates the contrast between nature and culture

60 Akaba Suekichi (1910 – 1990); Serohiki no Gōshu; Kaiseisha, 1989.

61

Akaba Suekichi (1910 – 1990); Serohiki no Gōshu; Kaiseisha, 1989.

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62 Tsukasa Osamu (1936–); p. 3, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

that Gōshu will later mediate through his celloplaying. This scene establishes the Venus Orchestra’s practice hall as a place of cultural activity with its visual references to art, music and humanity (fig. 62). It emphasises the symbolic through decoration. It is set within a Romanesque stone or brickbuilt amphitheatre, with arched doors leading in from outside to further the cultural associations. A smaller replica of this hall crowns the roof, underlining this building as an evolving and continuing centre of musical mediation. Animals extraneous to the story, as symbols of nature, make their first visual appearance here around the periphery of the hall(s). Although Gōshu has been introduced as a scratched silhouette on the cover and the frontispiece, he is absent from this first plate. The outline of a cello in the window at left of the human figure stepping out of the hall further identifies the musical link, but none of the visible human figures (nor half-figures) is clearly identifiable. In the first two openings (also see fig. 63), the implied viewer is at a far social distance, situated to observe the whole from above. In contrast with Satō and Akaba,

therefore, Tsukasa inscribes a less intimate, more universal orientation towards Gōshu’s traumatic orchestra practice. As in Nakura’s pictures, Gōshu’s face is rarely visible and he is most often rendered with his back to us or his head down. He does have a discriminating mop of wild hair though, to signal his frustrated yet vigorous efforts to improve. Such wildness is indicative of an undisciplined, unruly nature that is ‘out of tune.’ Tsukasa’s Gōshu is nearly always positioned over his more colourful, therefore salient cello, playing furiously, at once suggesting his fury and the ability of music to moderate between culture and nature. He first appears as a closer presence in the third opening, when he is either taken aback by the shadow of the cat or railing at it. Either way, this signifies that he is beginning to face his own fears (see fig. 64). Like Satō, Tsukasa here signals a more dialogic orientation with the animals. In the next scene, for example, Tsukasa’s conceptualised cat gazes out at the viewer as it challenges the absent Gōshu (and the viewer) to play the Schumann piece. The irony 120

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63

Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 5, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

64 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 7, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

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of this is apparent in the cat’s psychedelic appearance and hypnotic or hypnotised eyes (not reproduced here). Whereas Gōshu, in his state of ignorance, is unaware of the cat’s feelings, the viewer is forced to acknowledge the discomfort Gōshu’s music causes it. As Gōshu angrily responds to the cat’s request in the next opening, the effect of his grating music is highly evident as the cat ‘spirals’ around (fig. 65). Here, linear repetitions of Gōshu merge into the background blue whereas the cat and the cello are both in brighter, contrasting orange, thus highlighting the cat’s pain at Gōshu’s screeching music. Jagged ‘sound waves’ further signal the disharmony. Throughout, Gōshu’s monochromatic silhouette contrasts with the colourful renditions of other animals and the brightness of the cello and other paraphernalia. This contrast signals Gōshu’s discordance in the world, yet his scratched silhouette also suggests his underlying ability to merge. The penumbral glow around him further signals his more elastic ability to blend when he rushes to the window to save the cuckoo from crashing into it (at fig. 66). In the following picture (not reproduced here), after the window has been smashed, his long wild hair frames the lower corner to bring him

significantly closer to viewer space, also blending into the frame of the picture. He has begun to open up with the recognition that the cuckoo is more in tune than he is. This also suggests Gōshu’s dawning cognisance of ‘other’ as he looks out through the contrasting outline of the broken window. An extra-textual owl looks towards the cuckoo from the top of the broken pane to reiterate the signification of his new wisdom. As Gōshu’s awareness grows, the dream sequence shows more glimpses of Gōshu’s now-white face, and his open door suggests his new, open attitude as he readily receives the badger and mice and begins to benefit from their lessons. Tsukasa also follows the linear narrative by depicting each scene but he relies more heavily on the symbolic function by disrupting the compositional gestalt of any given plate. In other words, he evokes the symbolic through (dis)placement. His flat, monochromatic compositions display random diagrammatic or iconic pictures of animals extraneous to the narrative. Such pictorial (dis)placement contrasts with the rest of his characterisation, disrupting his linear pictorial narrative to impart symbolic meaning. For instance, his extra-textual animals are usually shaded in a chiaroscuro-like blue and white,

65 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); pp. 10–11, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

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66 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 19, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

as stamp-like figures that contrast, for instance, with his more flatly saturated scratchings of Gōshu and his story acquaintances. Together with Tsukasa’s explicit disruption to the narrative scenes, this shading increases their symbolic salience and works with the text to accentuate Gōshu’s internal dekunobō sensitivity and rebirth. The owl is of the most highly visible of the animals which, like Satō’s owls, emphasises the symbolic associations of death and reincarnation. Tsukasa’s frequently recurring owl, for instance, is highly prominent in light tones against the darker saturated colours in the first picture (fig. 62) and appears more often than do the other iconic animals. It appears four times in the final picture (see fig. 69). Besides the owl, Tsukasa introduces several other extra-textual, thus symbolic animals. The most prevalent are the tortoise, frog, hare and swallow. According to Hall, in the East, the tortoise symbolises endurance, strength and longevity; the frog, longevity and prosperity; and the hare, longevity.55 Such symbols allude, then, to Gōshu’s endurance and the longevity associated with reincarnation.

The tortoise is also a symbol of the universe, the shell representing the sky and its belly the earth, yang and yin respectively. The swallow also appears as an iconic symbol in later pictures. In Japan this bird is associated with unfaithfulness due to its predilection for changing mates. Its presence therefore underlines Gōshu’s fickleness in his attitude towards others along his path towards dekunobō. The swallow is also popular in Eastern painting as a harbinger of spring, with the building of its nest in the eaves of a house auguring joy for the occupants.56 Because the swallow first appears at Goshu’s meeting with the mice, Tsukasa signifies this as a crossroad on Gōshu’s dekunobō path, symbolising his road to renewal, also evidenced through the open door here (see fig. 67). Any tension between these positive traits of endurance, prosperity and longevity or the positive or negative connotations symbolised by the swallow also signifies the practical difficulty of overcoming obstacles on the path to dekunobō enlightenment. Tsukasa also draws upon tiger symbology from the musical piece, Tiger Hunt in India. Although not 123

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67 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 27, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

attainment of dekunobō as a powerful and enduring renascent strength. The suggestion of Gōshu’s presence, rather than being solidly or overtly actualised, is particularly evident in the final picture where he is barely visible within his mill-house; present only as spiky strands of hair through the window of his house (see fig. 69). The owl also makes its most prominent appearance in this picture, with four separate renderings (two salient in white and one larger, conspicuous yellow diagram in the foreground, and another smaller representation just below it on the same ‘branch,’ blending into the colours of the background). Such symbolism, against the context of Gōshu’s verbal repentance in the accompanying text, further underlines the transience of life in the Buddhist cycle of transmigration according to accumulated karma. Tsukasa’s Gōshu thus implies his spiritual merger with nature, yet in quite a different way from Nakura or Satō. Gōshu’s immersive

indigenous to Japan, throughout Asia the tiger is associated with strength, courage and longevity. Buddhism has adopted it as a beneficent influence, symbolising the strength and power of the faith.57 In Tuskasa’s penultimate picture of Gōshu’s vigorous rendition for the encore, an iconic tiger is especially salient, set apart through its black outline (see fig. 68). Gentle, more curved sound waves on the right link the cello and the tiger (in contrast with the jagged lines on the left), as if drawing on and emanating its power. In contrast to the other animals, the yellow of the tiger is formed from the yellow of the stage. Its apparent uniqueness here is suggestive of both the spiritual and practical connotations of Miyazawa’s dekunobō ideal. This picture notably introduces other animals nonindigenous to Japan – the rhinoceros, hippopotamus and a frill-necked lizard – suggesting the universal communality of Gōshu’s experience. Their symbolic presence helps underline Gōshu’s 124

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68 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 33, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

69 Tsukasa, Osamu (1936–); p. 35, Serohiki no Gōshu; Fuzanbō, 1986.

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insignificance in this important closing picture signifies his (and all human) insignificance against the natural cosmos yet also the harmony brought about through both his music and recognition of others. Although Tsukasa follows the narrative in a linear narrative manner, his more abstract style and limited use of colour, together with his symbolism, all create a more primordial immersive effect. Like Nakura’s surrealism which operates at a more dialogic level, Tsukasa’s symbology moves away from a literal orientation that, in consonance with the text, signifies a less monologic orientation to Gōshu’s internal development.

was his first book publication. It is still being thoroughly appreciated today, having had its most recent 27th print run in 2009.60 Itō conveys the jiriki spirit of dekunobō through abstractions that gently show Kenjū’s subtle influence on the world around him. In the first opening Kenjū is blended in the same relief and colour as the tree trunks and, together with the mellow tones, this strongly reflects Kenjū’s calm sense of being and connection with the natural world (fig. 70). Kenjū’s peaceful spirit is apparent in his upward gaze (to the left, in the direction of reading) that signals his simple delight in the natural world as he “jump[s] for pure joy and clap his hands”61 ready to tell everyone about the trees, hawks and blue sky. His head is often poised at a more awkward angle than other characters as he looks up towards the natural world above. This creates lines of vision that suggest his subtle influence on others (including the viewer), encouraging them to look up and around to appreciate the natural world with him.

‘kōenrin’ In contrast with Gōshu, Kenjū’s lack of guile is always apparent, even in the face of constant ridicule from others who think “a fool was always a fool.”58 While this highlights the ignorance of the others who tease Kenjū and emphasises their duplicity against his sincerity, it also provides a sharp contrast with the rancour that Gōshu exhibits towards the more beneficent animals. In contrast to the pictorial representations of the more anguished Gōshu, Itō Wataru (1921 – ) depicts Kenjū’s calm connection with nature and represents the effects of his more meditative jiriki ‘being’. Itō’s ‘Kenjū Kōenrin’ was first published as part of the Nihon no Dōwa Meisaku Sen (Selection of Classic Japanese Children’s Stories) by Kaiseisha in March 1987, with over 60,000 copies having been printed to date.59 Itō learnt his artistic expression through working in various employment including newspapers, advertising, publishing and artistic printing. In the 1980s, when ‘Kōenrin’ was published, he was working as a graphic designer, actively editing, designing and illustrating. He developed the method of paper relief used for this book while working in architectural design and applies what he learnt to his illustrations. While he has had many individual art exhibitions, his beautiful ‘Kōenrin’

70 Itō Wataru (1921–); p. 3, Kenjū Kōenrin; Kaiseisha, 1987.

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Itō Wataru (1921–); pp. 6–7, Kenjū Kōenrin; Kaiseisha, 1987.

This influence is particularly evident in the threequarter spread at the point where he requests the cedar saplings (fig. 71). His farming family look up with him and the diagonal vectors over the heads of the farmers create depth of plane to provide the viewer with a more inclusive multipoint subject positioning that acknowledges and connects with his perception of nature. Itō thus signifies Kenjū’s subtle yet firm influence on the world around him that contrasts with the presentation of the miserly and grumpy neighbour, Heiji, for instance. Itō introduces Heiji as a monumental figure looming large from the waist up. His head breaks through the upper frame, and he is external to the natural environment. He is set behind Kenjū’s small figure planting his precious saplings in the foreground. Heiji, who does “a little farming, but [makes] a good part of his living in other, not so pleasant ways,”62 wears a heavier, hooded jacket, and casually dangles his pipe over Kenjū’s back as if to tap him in command or reprimand (fig. 72). These items signify his contrasting materialistic pursuits and work with the text to evince his distaste for physical labour. The use of contrasting

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Itō Wataru (1921–); p. 11, Kenjū Kōenrin; Kaiseisha, 1987.

colours and sharper delineation of Heiji’s facial features, demeanour and garb distinguish him from Kenjū (and all other characters), underlining both his indolence and his threatening attitude. He looks down from on high, subjecting Kenjū (and the viewer) to his superiority as the vector of his pipe leads the eye to Kenjū’s cowering countenance. The viewer is situated at a lower angle, looking at Kenjū, but also looking up at Heiji with the vulnerable Kenjū, therefore being subjected to the effect of Heiji’s threatening power. His back to Heiji, Kenjū is looking up “uncomfortably” over his shoulder towards him (with the viewer, against the direction of reading to arrest the pace). He is powerless and passive as he fidgets “helplessly” against Heiji’s sheer immensity, and his vulnerability here intensifies the viewer’s sense of indignation on his behalf. Yet this scene also stresses Kenjū’s inner strength and contentment in nature as he tends his trees, especially in consideration of Kenjū’s later refusal to cut down his cedars in the face of Heiji’s pummelling and the

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respective influence Kenjū and Heiji each exert after their deaths. The contrast of power positions accentuates the contrasting effects of their respective lives after death, the different effects of Kenjū’s simple pleasure in life over Heiji’s forceful power. After the large, aggressive Heiji dies, his position towards progress initially prevails through the gradual encroachment of civilisation: towns, factories and rail begin to take over the farming areas. Kenjū’s passive resistance, however, results in a cedar grove that has a much more permanent effect on the world. The positive impact of Kenjū’s plantation heightens the sense of his naivete as dekunobō wisdom. Itō exemplifies Kenjū’s wisdom and its effects in his closure (fig. 73). Itō’s final picture projects Kenjū’s effulgence as having emanated from and through nature. It is like a reverse fish-eye lens, where Kenju, as an eternal dekunobō figure, is floating within a circle whose outline is defined by the tops of the trees in the wood below and the moon above. Kenjū is brought into relief at the centre, signifying his continuing mandala-like effect under the full moon as the symbol of “perfect truth” and representing the higher life cycle of enlightenment.63 He lies hovering as a type of sentinel spirit between the forest and the moon, projecting the eternal ‘wisdom’ beyond. The semi-flattened picture space, together with the moon that radiates this circle of light from above and reflects upon Kenjū, gives equal prominence to the background and foreground, drawing the viewer into the picture plane and shifting significance towards an inclusive sense of enlightenment rather than a singular subjectivity. A comparison of Itō’s and Nakura’s final picture of ‘Serohiki’ (fig. 49) demonstrates how both dekunobō figures mediate nature and culture. Where Itō’s Kenjū looks out on the world and directly at the viewer, now ‘demanding’ acknowledgement as an enlightened figure within nature, the viewer of Nakura’s Gōshu observes him looking onto a transformed natural world. Gōshu is now perceived as the orchestrator of a transcendent

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Itō Wataru (1921–); p. 35, Kenjū Kōenrin; Kaiseisha, 1987.

bliss in which all phenomena are interconnected. Nakura’s Gōshu with cello, both shaded in the green of nature, has now broken through barriers and become a musical conduit between culture and nature. The widest white ray from the bright sun casts Gōshu within its light at the right and this opens on to other planes on the left (towards the future in the direction of reading), highlighting his newfound influence on and ‘belonging’ within the larger world. Cultural and natural phenomena are rendered within all phenomena. Gōshu, his clothes, his cello and his music stand, are all sprouting stalks and buds and two cello/birds with ‘dragonfly/angel wings’ are flying above. It is as if Gōshu himself has sprouted and burst through the floor/wall of the (constructed) cabin upon which he is standing, his musical eyes now reinscribing the whole world. His music has opened the doors and windows (depicted at left) to show how it can open up in other planes. Nakura’s Gōshu is now an enlightened being who, as an intrinsic part of nature, carries the effect of his music through to everything in the cosmos. 128

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conclusion

plate of Kenjū in mandala-like relief. The vectors and planes here encourage an intensely spiritual view of nature and emphasise how Kenjū’s affinity with it has an ever-lasting effect on the world. Itō thus powerfully inscribes the eternal and outward effects of Kenjū’s simple ‘being.’ His style creates subject positions that demonstrate the eternal temporal and spatial flow-on effects of Kenjū’s simple and unintentional delight in nature. He shapes the reading of the dekunobō ideal as a transcendent spirituality. Like Itō’s final picture, Nakura’s closure focuses the dekunobō figure through nature to show Gōshu’s continued effect on the world as part of a larger integrated cosmos. Both Nakura and Itō signify the calm potential of the more timeless, eternal space of nature; Nakura’s extending outwards, showing the possibilities from Gōshu’s perspective, and Itō’s extended as an invitation to the viewer to join the ‘circle’ of contemplative serenity. Itō’s Kenjū is gravitating; recumbent betwixt and between the earth and sky in a perfect  contentment and, as Nakura’s Gōshu is entwined in the ‘action’ of growth, both represent a tranquillity that is designed to permeate and inspire. These picture books help show how Kenjū is more representative of a makoto (true) intersubjectivity with the world whereas Gōshu is representative of the asura/makoto struggle through fraught interactions with others. Both signify the ultimate ideal of release into dekunobō innocence or selflessness. The next chapter further explores how the asura/makoto struggle operates within two different cosmologies, the macrocosm of ‘Futago no Hoshi’ (The Twin Stars) and the microcosm of ‘Yamanashi’ (Wild Pear).

In contrast to Gōshu’s angst, Kenjū’s quietly contemplative sense of wholeness and oneness with the cosmos is completely without effort or struggle and naturally permeates outwards. While Gōshu’s efforts at musical improvement are rather violent and initially self-motivated, they eventually result in a less solipsistic state. Such self/other dichotomies between Gōshu and Kenjū are represented by the differences between their agency in the achievement of the dekunobō ideal. Kenjū brings others to awareness of their interdependent subjectivities whereas Gōshu’s interactions with others bring him to an awareness of his own interdependent subjectivity. In relation to ‘Serohiki,’ Tsukasa, Akaba and Satō render a more literal, replicatory story of Gōshu’s progress through their more numerous pictures. Tsukasa emphasises the reconciliation between nature and culture, mediating Gōshu’s angry struggle for dekunobō enlightenment through symbolic associations. While Akaba’s impressionism exploits the effects of Gōshu’s music on the world, Satō uses light sources to demonstrate Gōshu’s path as one of inner resolve. Nakura’s surrealistic ‘Serohiki’ similarly signals light as the source of jiriki awareness, but highlights Gōshu’s musical achievement as the ultimate force that brings him into tune with nature. His true dekunobō self arises from the music that connects him with all nature while also extending outwards to others (and then back inwards to self). In effect, through metaphorical, thus dialogic, exploration of nature and music, Nakura extends the literal story of success to a higher order spiritual awareness. Itō’s rendering of Kenjū’s permanent dekunobō influence on others is particularly salient in his final

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6 Beyond the Realm of Asura in ‘The Twin Stars’ (Futago no Hoshi) and ‘Wild Pear’ (Yamanashi)

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his chapter explores the ontological questions raised in ‘Futago no Hoshi’ (The Twin Stars) and ‘Yamanashi’ (Wild Pear) and demonstrates interpenetrative existence as reliant on the acceptance the light and dark aspects of all life. Makoto and asura reflect two contradictory aspects of life, the idyllic and the brutal.1 Any redemptive innocence (or, in Niwano’s terms, buddha-nature) is not one-dimensional, but involves a phenomenal or noumenal acknowledgement of the coincidence of such opposites. In other words, redemption takes cognisance of both positive and negative (or makoto and asura) aspects of any one thing. Only by integrating life’s more frightening, shadowy features can the true beauty of the world be understood.2 Just as there is no light without darkness and shadow, there is no makoto ‘truth’ without asura ‘demons.’ Good without evil is impossible. And just as one cannot, for instance, see light without shade, one cannot exist without the other because one has little meaning without the other. As Thomas Moore has pointed out, “… virtue is never genuine when it sets itself apart from

evil. We only sustain violence in our world if we fail to admit its place in our own hearts and identify only with unaffecting innocence.”3 The shadowy aspects of life need to be acknowledged and accepted in order to achieve a true or non-superficial acceptance of all life. This acknowledgement of the other, darker side of life (and the mind) demonstrates the (bodhisattva) path to redemption and is crucial to any understanding of a truly interpenetrative cosmos. ‘Futago no Hoshi,’ henceforth ‘Futago’, was one of Kenji’s first dōwa (children’s tales), written and read to his family in about 1918, although he later modified it.4 ‘Yamanashi’ was the first that Kenji wrote after the death of his sister Toshiko in 1923. It was published in the Iwate Daily in the same year on 8th April, Buddha’s birthday. This story represents Kenji’s attempt concerns with the cycle of life and death as part of nature. It is less didactic and more complex than ‘Futago’ although, as will be seen, both tales are mutilayered. ‘Yamanashi’ is still being widely read and taught in schools and universities today and is taught from about sixth grade of primary school.5 Although these stories take two different approaches to integrating the asura/makoto struggle,

Makino Suzuko (1951–); jacket cover, Futago no Hoshi; Kumon, 1993.

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together they demonstrate how two coinciding yet opposing extremes exist within each individual self. The struggle is symbolic of an inner life which strives to accept the asura darkness and makoto light within. While ‘Futago’ uses a macrocosm to present a more passive, almost tariki (enlightenment through an omniscient power) approach to the struggle, ‘Yamanashi’ incorporates the more brutal aspects of the cycle of life, paradoxically offering a holistic cosmology through a microcosm. The macrocosmic perspective in ‘Futago’ explores the inner life through two discrete realms, the celestial and oceanic, as representations of the saintly and demonic. The entire cosmos works as a metaphor of an inner struggle for transcendence of asura within the self. Examination of the asura and makoto aspects of ‘Futago’s’ macrocosm forms the basis for comparison of these aspects within ‘Yamanashi’s’ microcosm. Just as the macrocosm is symbolic of a subject’s inner life, the reverse is also true; a subjective view can also represent a microcosm of the whole world as it does in ‘Yamanashi.’ As explained briefly in the previous chapter, asura is the world of demons (dispute), one of the six worlds of unending strife (hell, which represents anger; hungry spirits – covetousness; animals – ignorance; demons – dispute; human beings – normal state; heaven – joy). These are the worlds into which humans are reborn in accordance with accumulated karma from a previous life or lives. They are known collectively as samsara, “the misknowledge-governed cycle of constant frustration and suffering….”6 They are also described as “the state of cyclic existence wherein the circumstances of beings are determined by their past actions and habitual mental patterns.”7 These six worlds represent ‘this world’ (or kono yo) where unenlightened beings perpetually repeat birth and death returning, through transmigration, to their former ‘state of ignorance’ within the six worlds of illusion and suffering.8 Further, there are another four higher realms of the saints, and it is important to note that all “ten realms exist in the mind of each person in each of the ten realms.”9 For example, the more ‘sordid’ worlds also exist in the minds of

heavenly beings while, as Niwano explains further, the seed of the buddha-nature also exists, albeit undeveloped, in the worlds of hell and demons. Because all the ten realms, the six of the ordinary person and the four of the saint, are manifest within the mind, the buddha is implicit within the self. While the concept of asura represents “a psychological state and self image that internalises Asura’s fight against the gods,” asuras are also one of the eight kinds of beings who protect Buddhism.10 The name Asura gradually acquired negative connotations and came to symbolise a demon or anti-god.11 According to legend, the god Asura, who is considered one of Buddhism’s two tutelary gods and lives at the top of Mt. Sumeru in the Tusita Heaven, is constantly in dispute with Indra, the main god in the Vedic pantheon. When Asura is thrown out of Mount Sumeru, the mountain that rises in the centre of the world, he falls into the ocean which surrounds the mountain. Due to the force of his fall, he eventually reaches the bottom of the deep ocean, where he opens his eyes for the first time. Realising that he has been deceived by Indra, Asura is vexed. Since then, Asura is said to have dwelt at the bottom of the ocean.12 It is not hard to see the similarities with the tale of ‘Futago,’ where twin stars, Chunse and Pōse, are deceived by a comet and thrown into the sea. Sarah Strong notes links between ‘Futago’ and the legend that two brother stars from Japanese folklore “were once chased by a demon and escaped by clinging to the net of heaven (Scorpio) and hauling themselves into the sky.”13 The imagery of the tale, with the first part set in the sky and the second in the sea, is also evocative of the scene of Buddha’s original sermon at Vulture’s Peak (Washi no Yama). This sermon was heard by various creatures such as gods who live in the heavens, serpent-shaped demons who live at the bottom of the sea, and flying yakusha demons.14 Kerstin Vidaeus further notes that while asuras contain the conflicting characteristics of anger and hatred, they simultaneously endure the pain of sadness. Those who are arrogant and jealous or suspicious fall into the world of asura after death, but an asura often empathises with human suffering and 132

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anguish. Kenji’s asura pain expresses the almost unfathomable pain of existence or transmigration.15 As has been previously noted, one of the central aspects of Lotus Buddhism is the ability to attain enlightenment in this life, and this is achievable through appropriate practice and right thought. It is the aim of each practitioner of Buddhism to overcome the makoto/asura struggle within and find an interpenetrative quiescence (nirvana). Such themes are manifest in both ‘Futago’ and ‘Yamanashi’, albeit in quite different ways. Although both tales are rather fatalistic, ‘Futago’ represents a more didactic parable through the almost one-dimensional saint-like twin stars who display no real agency. They feel, experience, and succumb to temptation but, ultimately, they are tossed around by events and are subject to the actions of others. The all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful, yet invisible king in ‘Futago’ is the vehicle by which their buddha-hood is determined. ‘Futago’ is thus a metaphor for the hierarchical macrocosm of the redemptive life cycle, whereas ‘Yamanashi’ illuminates an interpenetrative life through acceptance of autophagy (life living off other life forms) in the natural world of here-andnow. This natural life cycle is explored from the perspective of two young crabs in an underwater setting where things happen around them, some bad, some good, but they have to actively grow to accept this as part of an integrative cycle of life. Despite some fatalistic elements, ‘Yamanashi,’ presents a less didactic view of the complexities of life by raising ambiguities (around, for instance, the crabs’ asura-like fear of death). Such ontological issues in ‘Yamanashi’ are explored later but an initial outline and discussion of ‘Futago’ and two of its pictorial representations will first provide the context for that discussion.

the shore of the Milky Way and dutifully play their silver flutes to the ‘Song of the Circling Stars’.18 Both the story and the song evoke the concept of correspondence within the universe. One fine morning after they have finished their ‘work,’ they leave their pedestals to go and amuse themselves at the fountain in the sky. They witness a fierce battle between the Crow and the Scorpion who have gone to the same spring to drink. Both fall wounded, Scorpion having sustained a deep gash to his head, and Crow having been stung by Scorpion’s tail. The twins suck the poison from Crow’s wound and cleanse Scorpion’s gash. They then proceed to help carry the more seriously hurt Scorpion home. Despite their pleas with Scorpion to pull his weight a bit, his lack of effort makes their task more harrowing. They become increasingly anxious about reaching home in time for the nightly concert. Pōse eventually collapses under the strain, and Scorpion, finally realising his own selfishness, begs forgiveness. A lightening bolt suddenly arrives and provides Scorpion with some medicine from the king. He then ‘flashes’ the twins home in time for their nightly duty. In part two, on a rainy evening when the celestial orchestra is off duty (and unable to ‘orchestrate’ the twinkling of the stars), the twins are lured off on a trip by a comet (Sky Whale). He tells them that the king has granted his permission for them to go. He promises; “If I’m lying, may I be struck down and split into tiny pieces, dropped into the ocean and become a sea slug.”19 They go off with him on a spree in which he ‘lords it over the skies’ by sending the weaker stars fleeing. He soon tires of this however and, like the mythical god, Indra, flings the twins down into the depths of the ocean where they find themselves transformed into starfish. A red starfish informs them that stars who misbehave become starfish. Now they have to crawl along in the mud at the bottom of the sea, unable to return to the sky. A whale nicknamed Sea Comet bullies them but as he is about to swallow the twins for their audacity in not showing him any identification papers, along comes a sea serpent who recognises their true virtue. They apparently have haloes that

‘futago’ ‘Futago’ is a fantasy set on the grand stage of the heavens.16 Chunse and Pōse play key roles in the celestial orchestra that makes the stars twinkle.17 They sit upon their pedestals in their crystal palaces on 133

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bodhisattva saints.22 Like Kenjū, they represent the ideal, the makoto aspects of the self and the world, the antithesis of asura. Their saintliness contrasts, however, with the asura-like gruffness and conceit explicit in, for instance, the Scorpion, Great Crow, and the sky and sea comets.23 Together, all represent the makoto and asura aspects of one mind. The duplication of heavenly characters with corresponding sea counterparts, dual personae such as Comet/Whale (with the attendant nicknames of Sky Comet and Sea Comet) from the celestial and oceanic settings, further suggests transcendence of the inner psychological conflict between the asura and makoto aspects of the self. Although the twins are depicted as more virtuous bodhisattvas, they are not completely onedimensional ‘saints.’ The twins should be happy to stay where they are but they cannot – they are tempted and fall into the hellish lower realms. The twins’ fall from grace symbolises their asura side, also represented in the characters of Scorpion and Crow in Part 1 and in Sky Comet who lures them off in Part 2. As Niwano points out, the perfect world without hardships is illusory so, in Buddhist thought, even if someone rises to a heavenly world, s/he may fall at any moment to the world of demons.24 Despite this darker side, the twins, as bodhisattva-like innocents, are able to transcend their asura demons and re-ascend to a type of restored innocence. By being able to move between the worlds, the twins exemplify the possibility of ascension or enlightenment for anyone, both within the mind and as the result of transmigration through a series of lives. Such restoration to the heavens, however, is achieved through the good graces of the king(s), reiterating the aforementioned fatalism. Just as the verbal tale constructs a viewpoint of transcendence of the asura/makoto struggle, the pictorial rendering positions audiences to understand the tale’s ideologies in certain ways. The following comparison of two contrasting picture books of ‘Futago’ contrasts how the artists have re-inscribed some of the abovementioned transcendental concerns.

are invisible to lesser beings. The sea serpent takes them to meet the king of the sea (another serpent), who knows they risked their lives “to save that vicious Scorpion.” The sea king arranges for them to be returned back to the heavens on a waterspout.20 There, after apologising to the king of the heavens (omnipotent in absentia), they beg for mercy for the comet (Sky Whale) who has become the sea slug (Sea Comet). They then take up their silver flutes and resume their musical duties in the nightly orchestra. In essence, the twins’ adventure may be seen as birth, life, death and rebirth, all within the mind. Their ability to move between the worlds epitomises transience, particularly the instability of the attainment of right thought or deeds. Such a fall offers death (or nirvana) which, in Buddhist terms, means that “we do not die, our lives only change in form” and that the perfection of consciousness through religious practice will offer eternal life.21 The tale reveals that nothing is forever, nothing is permanent, and the twins’ journey between these representations of asura and makoto further demonstrates that nothing is strictly good nor bad but that each (and the whole) has an element of both. As one of the first tales that Kenji wrote, ‘Futago’ approaches the Buddhist concept of the asura/ makoto cycle(s) of life from a rather deterministic perspective where life simply happens to one. When the twins are saved after their fall, for example, the answers are simply provided for them. This involves a view of karma in which they are tossed around by events, subject to the actions of others. Such determinism breeds resignation where the only way out is to live out one’s karma through the cycle of death and rebirth and the only hope is for a better next life. ‘Futago’s’ otherworld allegory, however, does acknowledge the contrast between the makoto world of heaven and the asura world of the sea that immediately connotes binaries of good and evil, the positive and negative sides of an individual. The suffix used for Chunse and Pōse is dōji, meaning children, but as Kida points out, it is also an alias for bodhisattva, so the twins can be considered as 134

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picture books of ‘futago’

of washed grey that suggests their divinity against a wash of pale mauve. His naïve style provides a less subjective expression of emotion and, together with pictorial stillness and the indeterminate and unframed background settings, this limits, rather than enhances, the potential exploration of the inner psychological struggle of the self. Their much less anthropomorphic ‘characterisation,’ presents them as less human and thus less active and more flexible than Makino’s twins (compare fig. 74 and fig. 80). Tōyama thus reinforces the twins as rather one-dimensional ingénues who are completely subject to outside forces. They are represented as passive and naïve, and therefore the world is reinscribed as a more beneficent place. While this lack of characterisation suggests the twins’ innocence, it does little to elaborate the depth or layering of the emotional complexities of the asura/makoto viewpoint on the world. Yet Tōyama’s less fixed viewer positioning, together

The two picture books illustrated by Makino Suzuko (1951–) and Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–) respectively deal with the story through dramatically contrasting styles. Tōyama uses a more abstract naïve style while Makino’s Romantic artistry overtly accesses the story’s Graeco Roman mythology. Tōyama’s ‘Futago’ was originally published in 1987 and had its 24th print run in November 2008, with about 54,000 copies having been printed to date.25 Makino’s ‘Futago’ had its 11th print run in 2010.26 Both books are still available and widely read today. Tōyama’s and Makino’s disparate styles for ‘Futago’ evoke the asura/makoto significance in quite different ways.

tōyama shigetoshi Tōyama Shigetoshi was born in Nagano Prefecture in 1953. He studied lithography in Paris from 1977 to 1980 and has continued producing lithographs. Together with his wife, Miyagawa Kazuko, his main work was on their Ema-chan series. He has won awards for his illustrations of Kenji’s work and has also illustrated the work of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke and Matsutani Miyoko. Tōyama uses a more conventionally Japanese flatness of plane, providing a less fixed viewing space than Makino. In his case, the rejection of distance perspective, less saturated colour, limited settings and minimal characterisation all discourage dialogic interaction with the twins’ dilemmas. The lower modality of the simple sketches rejects, for instance, the complexities of the internal asura/makoto struggle and underlines the story’s fatalistic tropes. In other words, there is little subjective pictorial exploration of the asura/makoto dualities. Tōyama’s ‘floating’ twins tend have little character subjectivity. The pictures obscure any sense of their agency, thus presenting them as pawns to the ways of the world. They are more subject to the forces of the king rather than being seen as using any initiative. Tōyama introduces them as stylised, semi-anthropomorphic stars within a faint aureole

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Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); p. 3, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

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with the zodiacal references to the constellations at the end of part one (see fig. 75), work towards a more symbolic non-impededness between the two realms. In other words, they push the discourse towards a blurring of the two worlds. Tōyama partially does this by reinscribing the verbal text’s allusions to the constellation figures as mirrored in both worlds. For example, in Part 2 he insinuates a more unified cosmos by introducing the comet (Sky Whale) as a more iconographic whale (Sea Comet), thus elaborating the link between the creatures of the sky and the sea and (see fig. 76). The starfish in Tōyama’s part two are also clearly linked with the world of the stars, only their colour difference reinscribing the fact that they are in disparate realms (see fig. 77). The imagery of Tōyama’s sea serpent-as-dragon and his pagoda-like palace of are also more Eastern (see, for example, fig. 78 and fig. 79), thus alluding more closely (than Makino) to Ashura’s fall from Mount Sumeru. (Both picture books of ‘Futago’ instantiate the dragon imagery but Tōyama’s is more conventionally Eastern than Makino’s.) As

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76 Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); p. 25, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); pp. 22–23, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

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Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); p. 33, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

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Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); p. 39, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

79 Tōyama Shigetoshi (1953–); pp. 44–45, Futago no Hoshi; Kaiseisha, 1987.

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Hall suggests, the dragon is known as a beneficent creature, a symbol of joy, dynamism and fertility, thought to ward off evil spirits. This contrasts with the Western image of dragons as a symbol of mankind’s primeval nature, or of evil which must be vanquished by strength and self-discipline. In Zen Buddhism the dragon was a cosmic spirit symbolising visions of enlightenment. It was also the form taken by the king of the sea, Ryūjin, in Japanese legend.27 Tōyama’s use of red for the dragon is, of course, symbolic of good luck in the East. These references combine to underline Tōyama’s more determinate or fatalistic (karmic) view of the cosmos. Together with the limited settings, the two worlds also become interwoven by the lack of contrast between them. This signals the mutability and fluidity of life that is also expressed in the through the ‘floating’ twins and constellations which signify the karmic view of a more interpenetrative world. While the Tōyama pictures therefore reinscribe a more fatalistic significance (than Makino) they also push the signification towards a merging of all worlds into one. With fewer pictures than Tōyama, Makino on the other hand brings the twins alive as more active and expressive human protagonists, potentially more responsible for their own actions, even though other forces are still at work (through the text). Together with their higher level of agency, her cosmological symbology encourages a dialogic exploration of the asura/makoto ideologies of the tale.

folk and fairy tales like the works of Hans Christian Anderson, but is inspired by the religion and angels of the middle ages and blends that with modern imagery in order to create her fantasy worlds. Makino’s ‘Futago’ is the second of four tales in volume five of the Kumon collection of Kenji’s tales. In contrast to Tōyama’s abstractions though, Makino’s pictures are much more representational (and Western) in style. Her overtly Romantic style complements and elaborates Kenji’s astronomical setting as a journey of spiritual exploration. The mystical atmosphere is enhanced through ancient astrological and cosmological symbolism (see figs. 80 and 81). The main constellations represented on the cover (fig. 80) are Scorpius (the Scorpion), Serpens (the Serpent), Corvus (the Crow), which of course allude to the creatures in the verbal text. There is also a winged land-sea creature in the upper right quadrant of the ‘stage’ in the title spread (fig. 81) which probably represents the mythical figure of Hippocampus, Capricorn (originally a goat with a fish’s tail), whose associations to all the earth’s resources, land and sea, gave it access to great wisdom. (Greek marine deities rode the Hippocampi and drew the chariot of Poseidon/ Neptune, ruler of the sea). Further, the zodiac signs represented in the stage/frame have associations with the four elements; fire, water, air and earth.30 The two title pages thus introduce and draw on Graeco Roman mythology as the basis for more profound psychological exploration of the asura/ makoto struggle evident through the fight between Crow and Scorpion, for example. Such layering of meaning works with the text to suggest the schisms that might be bridged – between the worlds of asura and makoto, in the mind and in this world – after demonic struggles. In the title double spread (fig. 81), a huge pedestal forms the foregrounded ‘stage’ for the more photo-realistic backdrop of the heavens behind the twins on their pillars. The twins, crowned with stars, are framed within their palace thrones, their status raised to divine proportions within the picture. As transparent asexual seraphs, sitting on their crystalline pedestals astride the great circular

makino suzuko Makino Suzuko was born in Kumamoto Prefecture in 1951 and graduated with a fine arts degree from Kumamoto Junior College. After working in a design office, she moved to Tokyo where she lives and works today. She won Japan’s 5th Sanrio Art Prize in 2002, and she is on the judging committee of the Shi to Meruhen (Poetry and Fairy Tales) illustration contest.28 Her most recent exhibition, A Mid-Night’s Dream, was held in Tokyo in August of 2011.29 Makino has illustrated many well-known 138

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80 Makino Suzuko (1951–); jacket cover, Futago no Hoshi; Kumon, 1993.

opening, they can be likened to the transcendental buddhas of meditation who have no past or future terrestrial connections and who often feature in mandalas.31 This circular inset takes centre-stage to provide the portal to the celestial netherworld beyond. All the circle imagery in this title picture further suggests a mandala, which works together with the Romantic imagery to evoke a spiritual meditation. The essential feature of a mandala is a circle and “its characteristic form is a visual metaphor for the structure of the universe as it would be perceived in meditation.”32 Ancient Egyptian and Greek zodiac glyphs and the aforementioned mythological constellation symbols complete the atmosphere of exotic and spiritual allusions by framing the quadrants of this mandala-like centrepiece.

In the centre of the title spread (fig. 81), both night and day are represented by the iconographically stylised, yet anthropomorphised, sun and crescent moon (within another circle) in the centre of the top and bottom portals of the ‘gate’ to the heavens. Together they represent the yin and yang aspects of the ‘perfect truth’ of full knowledge of dharma law, usually represented by the full moon.33 The twins are depicted atop yet outside the heavens and their two moon-shaped ‘swishes’ each form not-quite-complete ‘halos’ which, together with the twins’ separation from each other on each side of the circle, suggests the complementary yet not fully connected asura/makoto entirety. The unenclosed ‘halos’ are also divided with a line in the mid-centre to further suggest semi-circles that, 139

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81

Makino Suzuko (1951–); pp. 16–17, Futago no Hoshi; Kumon, 1993.

Makino’s entire composition is a study of real and unreal, light and dark, inside and outside. It therefore encourages exploration of the infinite dimension of time and space suggested in the verbal text. Such construction invites the viewer to enter the heterotopia of the mind that the tale encourages. Makino’s pedestal framing foregrounds the story as fictitious, as a tale within a tale. Together with the translucent nature of the twins, this makes surface truth more ambiguous, encouraging exploration of deeper truths. The sketched and fantastical pedestal gate lends itself as a frame (of both time and place). Chunse and Pōse will be tempted away from their ‘stage’ into the unknown, intangible yet more ‘realistic’ world beyond which, in beckoning, promises a spiritual adventure. The twins’ placement on the stage, outside the celestial world of the heavens, also symbolises their as yet unenlightened position and the beginning of their spiritual journey. Chunse, the figure on the right, has already put down his flute and is ready to move forward to the left (in the direction of reading), in through the portal, tempted by his inner asura dissatisfaction

when connected, would form a complete circle. The twins and their ‘halos’ face each other on either side of the deep ‘unknown’ to suggest that they must acknowledge the asura shadows beyond before they, together, can complete the whole. Like Jung’s interpretation of the mandala as a symbol of balance and wholeness, this entire picture acts as a symbolic door for the soul’s journey “toward its mystical fulfilment in the path of ‘individuation’ – the process of forging the self.”34 Yet the symbolism goes beyond the mere individual. It should be noted that in Jungian terms this ‘self’ stands in contradistinction to the ego; it is a collective self that comprises the totality of the conscious and unconscious, whereas the ego is “only the point of reference for consciousness.”35 The circular window/door, along with the vector which starts with Chunse’s finger on the right, leads beyond and through the twins’ pedestal ‘stage’ into the depths. This suggests the possibility for the psychological transcendence of asura/makoto dichotomies symbolised through the completion of co-joined opposites. 140

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(and tempting the viewer) to explore the unknown. He is beckoning past the pedestal column into the celestial world behind with an outstretched finger and a sparkling beam of surreal light, working with the verbal narrative to invite Pōse and the viewer to investigate the ‘darkness’ beyond with him. The viewer is thus aligned with the twins and invited from the pedestal’s fantasy storybook world into the depths of some higher order ‘reality.’ Such an invitation plays with the dichotomies of space and time to invite a suspension of disbelief, to distort the sense of real and unreal, thereby encouraging exploration of the transcendental shadows within the symbolic mandala-circle. The total effect of such framing is an interplay between two ‘real’ figures and a storybook world. The twins’ position upon and outside the sketched circular ‘throne/gate’ also draws an analogy with the physical world of the viewer. This contrasts with the inner, more mystical world of the tale, the celestial sense of depth and spatiality beyond, implying a journey from this material world into the psychological depths. Yet the twins are also connected with this otherworld through their diaphanous drapery, suggesting their ethereality and lending a quality of impermanence that complements their later transcendence. While the realms are distinguished by framings that reinscribe mystical qualities and lead to deeper explorations of the mind, Makino’s twins act as a contrasting link between them. The twins maintain their status as story-book guides within the later frames. For instance, surrounding Makino’s scene of the non-anthropomorphised Scorpion, each of the twins is situated within the top quadrants of the frame. Indeed, they break through the frame to heighten their salience here as they look down upon Scorpion in regret (see fig. 82). The twins’ disappointment and pity for him is, therefore, not only depicted within the story-framing device, but also outside the story from ‘on high,’ providing a doubly powerful narrative viewpoint. The more diagrammatic sun is similarly positioned within the bottom frame as a visual narrator who engages the viewer with sad eyes, ‘demanding’ audience complicity. Together the

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Makino Suzuko (1951–); p. 24, Futago no Hoshi; Kumon, 1993.

framing of the twins and the sun presents a viewpoint of pity and gentle compassion for the wayward Scorpion while simultaneously heightening awareness of Scorpion’s asura-like fall from grace. The twins’ difficulties and pain in the burden of carrying him have thus been restrained under such heightening of Scorpion’s shame. Despite the tale’s overt didacticism Makino’s pictorial representation suggests a sense of agency that accords with jiriki (enlightenment through self-power) through responsibility.36 One of the main differences between Makino’s and Tōyama’s pictorial discourses is the meaning produced through their different executions of the twins. In contrast to Tōyama’s anthropomorphised stars, Makino’s more realistic twins push beyond the text’s fatalism. This foregrounding of the twins’ humanity provides them with more agency and presents them as more self-determinant than does the Tōyama version which underscores the notion of ‘cosmic will.’ Together with the astrological allusions through Makino’s story framing, the dialogic 141

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sense of ‘demand’ complicates the text’s idea of the world as completely beneficent. In contrast to ‘Futago,’ ‘Yamanashi’ provides a much more active approach to acknowledging the asura/makoto aspects within a microcosmic natural world. Whereas the macrocosm found in ‘Futago’ represents a more makoto idealism, ‘Yamanashi’ provides an interior, yet dynamic, perspective on the natural place, balance and progression of things in the world through the theme of consumption.

creation by showing the natural progression of things which maintain their place and balance in their respective environments.37

picture books of ‘yamanashi’ Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–) and Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–) deal with this fragile balance and the themes of fear and consumption in ‘Yamanashi’ in dramatically contrasting styles. Whereas Kobayashi is more conventionally faithful to the events as they unfold, Kim rejects any kind of replicatory representation of the story. Whereas the former subjects the viewer into the interpenetrative process of existence with the crabs, the latter’s abstract rendering refuses conventional viewer positioning. Kim instead constructs an external inquisitor who, like the crabs, has to ask several questions (about, for instance, the relationship between the pictures and words). Both books provide provocative perspectives from which to view and examine an asura fear of death and notions of ‘being’ and place in the world. An initial discussion of Kobayashi’s more representational mode focuses on Part 1 of the story, and provides the basis for the contrast with Kim’s much more abstract expression that shows how these two books shift the emotional, aesthetic and spiritual nuances of the ideal of balance in nature.

‘yamanashi’ The ambiguous, poetic story of two young crabs who experience fear of death at the bottom of a mountain stream offers a deeply thought-provoking exposé of life and death within one natural realm. It is in two halves: in the first, the infant crabs witness a kingfisher devour a fish; and in the second part, after a wild pear drops into the stream in front of them, they chase after it to themselves become potential devourers of nature for food. The reader is first introduced into the life of the two crabs through an unknown narrator who opens and closes the story through an old-fashioned slide show. The story then begins with the young crabs’ underwater dialogue about a mysterious (non-Japanese) figure called Clambon (kurambon), who jumps about laughing then dies. The narrative’s refusal to explain the slide show, or who Clambon is, for example, interpellates the reader into an inquisitorial perspective. This creates a naïve and innocent space from which to explore the existential questions raised in the story. The abrupt movement from the external to the internal thrusts the reader into a less familiar microcosm that allows recognition of the interdependent cycle of existence when, for instance, the kingfisher frightens the young crabs by consuming their fish counterpart (in Part 1), or when they in turn pursue the pear (in Part 2). The reader witnesses the brutal reality of an autophagous cycle of existence where all beings, as part of the natural food chain, find it necessary to kill and consume in order to survive. Yet the story also celebrates the fantastical beauty of the whole design of

kobayashi toshiya Kobayashi’s style and his lifelong devotion to illustrating Kenji’s work have been discussed in Chapter 3. Kobayashi’s ‘Yamanashi’ was originally published in 1985, having its fifth impression in 1996 (the anniversary of Kenji’s birth). It had its ninth print run in 2008, with about 22,000 copies having been printed to date.38 Kobayashi’s clever manipulation of pictorial point of view eventually inserts the viewer directly into the underwater realm. His limited use of colour, delicate lines, and flattening of picture space are reminiscent of more conventional Japanese art forms with less fixed subjectivity. Despite this, his 142

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numerous pictures and tight control of viewer space more closely follow of the verbal text than does Kim, for example. As the perspective varies, so does the viewer’s involvement with the story. A type of filmic tracking of the events situates the viewer first outside the story, then as an observer of the crabs, and finally into a position where the scenes are filtered through the crabs’ eyes to experience their awe and fear with them. This control of viewpoint has a dramatic effect on story. It builds tension, then inserts the observer into the underwater world, into the whole process of fear and consumption. Such positioning thus creates a direct experience of an autophagous existence. By involving the viewer in a search through the darkness for the barely visible magic lantern projector in his first scene, Kobayashi foregrounds yet obscures the slide show, simultaneously creating an exterior yet interactive viewer position (fig. 83). By initially reinscribing the slide show as a ‘show,’ he situates the reader outside the tale, creating a dichotomy between narrator and spectator, a boundary between this world and the ‘other’ murkier realm (under the water). This external positioning continues throughout with the framing of the pictures as slides. Yet the interactive search through the darkness partially subverts the exteriority of a viewer watching the drama unfold, and the indistinctness of the projector reiterates the sense of refracted light of an old-fashioned projector. The sublimation and distortion of form heighten the uncomfortable entry into the unfamiliar (and frightening) microcosm of the crabs, and simultaneously help destabilise the boundaries. The darkness of Kobayashi’s introductory pictures establishes an illusory quality that also draws the reader into the mystery of the underwater realm where everything merges in a mutual coexistence. This obscurity continues the dialogical viewing position of searching and questioning when Kobayashi introduces the crabs in the second picture (fig. 84). As the crabs question the nature of life and death through their discussion of Clambon, the viewer also questions the ontological status of the

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 3, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

crabs within the picture and ‘slide show’ itself. Although viewers know they are about to witness a story (through the projector and narration), they are also involved in the questioning process through the obscurity in the pictures. Instead of immediately focusing on or through the crabs, the viewer must search, slowly seeking through the darkness, to discover the crabs camouflaged amid rocks, shells and underwater ‘debris.’ The artwork thus encourages an intense hunt that only rather reluctantly reveals the crabs. Although they blend with the dark background, the viewer can eventually find them at the centre of the double spread. The viewer is thus manipulated to experience the picture from a similarly naïve and questioning perspective that aligns with the young crabs’ existentialist explorations, with their ‘quest,’ as naïve babes, for answers about the ambiguous Clambon. This sense of searching works with their existential questions 143

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84 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 4–5, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

and the lack of verbal or visual explanation of Clambon. The viewing perspective gradually changes in the next two pictures, shifting further away from the exterior viewing position of a narrated slide show as the crabs on the riverbed are now seen more clearly against the clear blue jade of the river water (see, for example, fig. 85). From here, focalisation through the crabs is reiterated by the angle of view. The spectator is now firmly situated below and behind them to perceive with them from the bottom of the stream. Thus begins the viewer’s insertion into the darker processes of underwater life with the crabs. As the crabs continue to inquire about the ‘unknown’ (Clambon), so does the viewer who is subjected to a position to question whether the fish, whose silver belly has suddenly flashed by, is the laughing and dying Clambon. At the same time, there is a sense of stillness and transparency that projects both a sense of calm and anticipation.

As the angle of view leads away from focalisation through the crabs, so does the viewer’s involvement with the story. In the next picture, where the verbal text begins with the crabs’ last refrain about Clambon’s laugh, both the crabs and the river bottom suddenly disappear (fig. 86). This sudden change of perspective ruptures the previous, more conventional third person viewpoint where the viewer has perceived them seeing. The viewer is thus drawn further below, into the depths of the water, to now savour their inquisitive viewpoint, experiencing the light and shadow above with them. Together with their disappearance from the picture space, this sudden change creates a close attitudinal alliance with the crabs’ sense of awe about the world. Whilst creating an apprehensive angst for or with the crabs, it also signals the calm before the storm, foreshadowing the ensuing action. Of course, although the viewer is now thrust into the crabs’ space, the reader always knows more 144

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Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 6–7, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

than they do. While the continued first person perspective builds tension by subjecting the viewer to the fear and awe of the crabs, the shifting viewpoint simultaneously creates a knowing sense of foreboding. This sense of knowing is juxtaposed against the build up of awe and tension, especially in the following picture where the viewer is positioned below (with the crabs) to see the fish enmeshed within a “net of light” (fig. 87). This metafictive pictorial pun suggests the visual encapsulation of the fish which has itself been ‘catching things’ before it actually gets snatched itself. Such allusion anticipates and intensifies the underlying concern with the natural food chain. When the fish is actually targeted by the kingfisher (in fig. 88), Kobayashi identifies the “blue thing” with the “black and pointy” tip as an arrowlike diving bird piercing straight down towards the fish. This side-angled view reiterates both the

viewer’s wider sense of knowing and the sense of fear that the crabs feel. This wider sense of perception, however, is destabilised by another disruption to viewpoint in the next picture where the whole scene appears as an inversion, where up and down are indiscernible (fig. 89). Both the fish and kingfisher have completely vanished from sight. Here, Kobayashi creates an intense pictorial climax with a scene of turbulent water that again aligns the viewer with the crabs’ fear and confusion. The inversion evokes a similar uncertainty to that which the huddling crabs are now experiencing. By aligning the viewer with the crabs’ confusion, Kobayashi heightens the intensity of their fear. His shifting viewpoint thus inscribes both awareness and fear, cleverly providing an intense experience of the text’s autophagous concerns. Ultimately, while Kobayashi’s filmic tracking initially creates a distanced perspective of the crabs as ‘other’, after moving to a wider perspective in 145

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86 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 10–11, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

87

Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 12–13, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

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88 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 16–17, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

89 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); pp. 18–19, Yamanashi; Paroru-sha, 1985.

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which the crabs are the subjects of the viewers’ gaze (when they are included in the pictures), he then aligns the viewer with their perspective (when they are absent) to see what they see. This heightens the sense of tension and foreboding and provides a more direct experience of their fear of death at the kingfisher attack (and after it). The viewer is thus doubly subjected to the tale’s ideology of consumption by being aligned with the naïve crabs, but also by being positioned as a more distant, knowing observer who witnesses the progression of events from afar. Kobyashi’s clever control and calculated shifts in viewpoint not only enhance tension, but also intensify the poignancy of and fear about the interdependence and transience of all life. The viewer is slowly and consciously brought to an acceptance of this more shadowy side of life as part of the whole process of consumption, an acknowledgement of death as part of the natural progression of life, well before the crabs’ insertion into the chain of life as fellow consumers in Part 2, when the pear drops into the stream, ready to be devoured by the crabs.

and different types of paper; for example, on newspapers daubed with paint, maps of Europe, and leaves. Such artistic expression requires imaginative leaps to draw links with the story and raises the issue of uncertainty by positioning the reader as an objective inquisitor. The viewer may question, for example: Whether the drops are painted or photographed? What the different papers signify? How the pictures relate to the story? Rather than providing any clear answers, Kim constructs a less fixed spatiality from which to explore the tale, foregrounding the notion of ambiguity that gives rise to the vague questions of ‘being’ such as those surrounding the enigma of Clambon. Although some possible answers and connections will be explored below, this kind of subjectivity fosters an emotional experience of otherness and strangeness similar to that raised in the tale and aligns with the naïve subjectivity of the crabs as they explore their own ontological questions. Somewhat paradoxically, Kim’s hyperrealistic pictures increase awareness of the artifice involved in story telling (and art making). The whole design of the first picture, for example, suggests an interplay between reality and fantasy, and/or culture and nature, the solid ‘reality’ of an old, yellowing foreign (French) newspaper contrasting with the sharply defined, trompe-l’oeil water droplets (fig. 90). These droplets provide the only apparent connection with the words, the underwater setting. Besides the contrast between reality and fantasy, this picture also suggests another level of representational reality in between, thus referencing at least three levels of meaning: the more immediate world of here-and-now (or culture) that arises from the realistic newspapers; the surreal world evoked through the drops; while the guileless daubs of paint around the edges invoke the naïve or unconsciously ‘innocent.’ Significance here seems to oscillate at an invisible periphery, between the ‘real’ and the transcendent, emphasising the fragility and spiritual transience of the story. The concept of water, usually a weightless, buoyant mass, enhances this sense of interplay: the shaded drops are subject to gravity, yet still and motionless

kim tschang yeul Kim is an internationally-renowned artist who was born in Korea (in 1929) and works in France and Korea. His ‘Yamanashi’ is part of the abstract series of Kenji’s work that was commissioned by the activist Tanigawa Gan, also mentioned in Chapter 3 (and in Chapter 2). Kim is famous for his trompel’oeil water droplets, examples of which can be found in galleries all over the world.39 Kim’s ‘Yamanashi’ was first published in 1984 and is still in print.40 Like Kobayashi, Kim constructs a viewing position that juxtaposes a naïve, yet simultaneously   aware reader subjectivity. In contrast to Kobayashi, however, Kim’s ‘Yamanashi’ has little direct correlation with the story in any representational sense and this constructs an even more powerful intersubjectivity. His artistic replicas of a profusion of water drops continue on every page, juxtaposed against a variety of backgrounds 148

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90 Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); pp. 4–5, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

against the fluid movement of the artwork itself, while there is also a sense of ethereality situated in the translucency of the water. Such interplay between life and art, or notions of reality and artifice, also comments self-reflexively on the relationship between words and images and notions of representation itself. This inference is similarly found in the subject matter in the French newspaper, the (hard informative) ‘facts’ representing culture on the left and the ‘art’ (or high-culture) on the right. The latter, according to Kress and Van Leeuwen’s theories on the direction of reading, represents new information.41 The representations of the news pages and their subject matter are physically divided by the gutter of the book and do not match. This disjointedness further enhances the sense of ambiguity and lack of wholeness to life suggested in the young crabs’ incomplete worldview in Part 1 of the tale. By contrast, Kim reverses the subject matter in his Part 2, the ‘facts’ (a list of names) on the right and the artistic subject matter on the left. In other words, the ‘new’ information in the second half has shifted to the factual or ‘known,’

suggesting the crabs’ subtle emotional shift from unease and naïveté to an atmosphere of increasing security, their calm acceptance or recognition of life and death after pursuing the pear. Staying with Part 1 for the moment, the inherent beauty of the artwork yet indefinable quality of its meaning evoke a sense of awe that connects with the sense of egoistic fear about the world inscribed in the words of the story. The water links with the realm of the stream yet repels or is repelled on the paper, suggesting notions of repulsion and attraction, fluidity and solidity. Foreign European maps (fig. 91) and splotched brown paper (fig. 92), apparently impervious to the droplets of water, render a feeling of both strangeness and exclusion. This works with the verbal text that revolves around the awe and fright of the infant crabs at the kingfisher’s invasion into their space. The non-penetrative nature of the paraphernalia signals the inability of the infant crabs to surmount their fear. Pictures of blurry and incomprehensible  (to those who do not read French) foreign newspapers (fig. 93) and repellent materials continue to render an atmosphere of 149

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91

an uneasy, non-penetrative exclusion and incomprehensibility through to the end of Part 1 with, for instance torn bits of upside-down newspaper at the final opening (see fig. 94). The second part of the tale reaches the climax which juxtaposes the edible and the devourer. When the crabs begin to chase the pear they themselves become like the kingfisher (that is, the devouring species) at which they were previously horrified and afraid. Kim’s tone changes with this progression that inserts the crabs into the world of autophagy as potential consumers. The change in atmosphere indicates a closure of quiet acceptance of their insertion into the process as a fact of life. Kim’s contrast of manufactured (cultural) items with the natural enhances the shift. In contrast to Part 1, for instance, Kim’s tone moves to a clearer, less splotched and shadowed, yet still foreign, newspaper with fewer but fuller, more static drops (fig. 95). Significantly, this is the last picture of a newspaper and the next picture, an autumn leaf with a single water droplet is set against a stark, clean white page at the point when the pear drops into the water (see frontispiece to Chapter 2, p. 26). Apart from the water, this is Kim’s first pictorial

Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); p. 8, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

92 Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); pp. 10–11, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

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93

Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); pp. 14–15, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

94 Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); pp. 16–17, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

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95 Kim Tschang Yeul (1929–); pp. 20–21, Yamanashi; Monogatari Tēpu Shuppan, 1984.

rendering of an element of nature. Together with the following spread’s background of hand-made Japanese washi paper, more absorbent than the previous repellent oil-splotched paper, the introduction of this natural leaf further signifies the calmer acceptance of all the brutality of nature, an emotional change in attitude towards interpenetrative inclusion. The contrast between the cultural and the natural elements, the ‘foreign’ otherness of the manufactured maps and disjointed print items in Part 1 with the leaf, droplets and washi paper in Part 2, represents the transformation from dread of the unknown to an acknowledgement of the harsher realities of existence, from fear to calm. Such calm, despite the inherent brutality of life, indicates the crabs’ emotional acceptance of interpenetration into the natural world. Kim’s minimalist style and his use of mixed media suggest more than mere decoration. His artistic mode works on at least two levels: (a) to provoke a questioning atmosphere which in turn (b) promotes emotion and a perspective of naïveté. Apart from the words on the page, the only link

with the contents of the tale is through the painted drops of water on realistic cultural objects (the newspapers, maps and paper). These droplets seem more identifiably painted in the first half than the second, yet they all draw attention to their illusory status by being obvious depictions. This play with the notion of representation itself thereby exploits the uncertainties in the tale while suggesting the artifice and transient immateriality of all ‘reality.’ By divorcing itself from a more monologic representation of the verbal text, Kim’s abstractions infer interpretive links between word and picture, dialogically creating a more psychological or spiritual exploration of the interdependent nature of life and death. His pictures thus work with the verbal text to initially provoke an uneasy interrogation of meaning, then subject the reader, on an emotional level, into a calmer acceptance of this interpenetrative nature of being in the world in the second half. This comparison of these two picture books shows how the artistic depictions of Yamanashi have, in their disparate pictorial interrogations, executed different signification to the same words. 152

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Kobayashi exploits a filmic point of view to juxtapose a knowing viewpoint against a more direct experience of the fear of the crabs, allowing the reader to explore the nature of all existence from afar yet also within. While his shifting viewpoints and dramatic imagery allow the viewer to anticipate the action, they also insert the viewer into the underwater world to understand the fear and awe of the crabs, simultaneously evoking the subliminal beauty of such an interpenetrative world. In contrast, Kim has completely defamiliarised and distorted the world of the tale to open up ways of seeing that allow the interrogation of the action of the underwater realm from a completely unfamiliar subject position. This positions the spectator as a naïve other who asks questions about the world in a similar way to the young crabs, experiencing uncomfortable uncertainties. Both renderings thereby express a questioning yet life-affirming message about the nature of life and ‘being’ in the world.

light and dark in different ways. Tōyama’s more naïve abstractions for ‘Futago’ tend to overlook the asura aspects of the tale, thus reinscribing the fundamental beneficence inherent in the verbal text. In contrast, by pictorially exploiting the text’s symbolism and Graeco Roman mythology Makino partially subverts this kind of beneficence, creating a more multilayered vision of the asura/makoto dichotomy. The two respective depictions of ‘Yamanashi’ have constructed vastly disparate perspectives towards the tale’s autophagous ideology. Kim’s minimalist, non-replicatory rendering displaces the reader to provoke a more distant yet naïve inquisitor, whereas Kobayashi’s representation doubly subjects the viewer into the process of autophagy (and fear) through his shifting pictorial  focalisation. His movement from an exterior  viewer positioning to a specific focalisation through the crabs’ eyes, for example, juxtaposes the construction of a more knowing yet simultaneously innocent viewer, one who is aligned with the crabs to more subjectively experience of the kind of asura fear that acknowledges autophagy as a fact of life. In contrast, Kim’s abstract art and complete  lack of visual focalisation through the crabs reiterate the ambiguity of the text. The nonreplicatory artwork positions the spectator as a naïve other who must ask questions about the world in a similar way to the young crabs. Taken together, these four picture books, with their dramatically contrasting artistic approaches to the same tales, demonstrate the different ways in which artists can dialogically shift the significance of story. As this and other chapters have indicated, part of a more interpenetrative cosmology involves  the sublimation the self to the whole of nature. This cosmology also involves a rejection of materialism and, in turn, the eclipse of all distinctions between materiality and immateriality. The next chapter will take up the trope of material embeddedness in the tale of ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders,’ paying attention to how various artists signify the potential erasure of the narrative’s two self-centred and materialistic protagonists.

conclusion The tales of ‘Yamanashi’ and ‘Futago’ both represent, in different ways, the asura/makoto struggle. Whereas the ‘Futago’ twins achieve virtuosity relatively easily after their minor transgressions, the crabs in ‘Yamanashi’ struggle with their egoistic fear to accept death as a necessary part of life. Whereas ‘Futago’ juxtaposes dualistic realms and malevolent characters to emphasise the twins’ goodness and ultimate innocence, ‘Yamanashi’ starts with the crabs’ innocence and naïveté to actively explore their fears. ‘Futago’ takes an external approach to a holistic cosmos, but in relation to asura it presents a rather fatalistic macrocosm as represented by the ultimate power of the king. The microcosm of ‘Yamanashi,’ on the other hand, brings a more interior perspective to asura fear than ‘Futago’s’ beneficent world. It offers a sophisticated, thought-provoking exposé of life and death within the underwater realm, highlighting death as a natural part of life part of the holistic cycle of nature. The four picture books of these two tales have all sought to transcend the asura/makoto aspects of 153

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7 The Threat of Erasure through Material Embeddedness in ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten)

‘T

he restaurant of Many Orders’ (henceforth ‘Chūmon’) is a satire on material desire that ultimately signifies the Buddhist ideal of immateriality. Kenji wrote the tale of ‘Chūmon’ in Tokyo 1921 while he was away from his beloved Iwate and in search of higher spiritual fulfillment. In the 1920s, Japan’s decade of modernism, the effects of modernisation had “penetrated deep into the grain of everyday life.”1 Mechanised technologies and commodification had accelerated the representations of mass culture and pervaded even the most privileged domains of academe and the arts. A new Western ‘modern life’ had arisen amidst a cityscape (Tokyo) that had been transfigured with streetcars and tall buildings, cafés and dancehalls.2 Such modernity, with its “motion pictures, phonograph records, one-yen books, and the rhythms of Jazz,”3 must have been a complete  anathema to Kenji’s spiritual journey, and ‘Chūmon’ registers his objections to the unquestioning embrace of rampant consumerism. While the story is anti-materialist in its protest against

commodification and consumerism, it is also a protest against classism. ‘Chūmon’ was first published in 1924, as the third in a collection of nine tales under the same title, and in the advertisement for this collection Kenji wrote that the tale reflects “the antagonism felt by children of villages with little food towards urban civilisation and the self-indulgent classes.”4 The story was adopted into the primary school curriculum (at fourth grade) after World War II.5 It has since been on both the primary school and senior high curricula (at grade 5 and in the final year respectively).6 ‘Chūmon’ is still being widely read and taught in schools and universities today, and is one of the most commonly published and illustrated of all Kenji’s tales.7 Although Kenji was writing within and against a Japan in the throes of a cultural revolution where many perceived the ‘authentic culture’ to be under threat, he had readily absorbed and utilised many scientific advances from the West. Rather than being motivated by any elusive Japanese authenticity, or nativist or political ideologies, Kenji’s concerns were of a more spiritual nature, based on deeply held Buddhist convictions in which all substantial matter is a construction, all ‘reality,’ is but a mere illusion. ‘Chūmon’ offers a thought-provoking

Shimada Mutsuko (1937–); p. 11, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

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exposé of the deeper relationship between materialism and materiality when the tale’s climax signifies the entrapment of the two protagonists in their own material embeddedness. This is the inverse of spiritual release from worldly concerns, exemplifying the futility of grasping at any material desire. The men’s thoughtless pursuit of modernity, as registered through their desire for status for instance, leads to the downfall that threatens their extinguishment. The story reveals their pursuits as underpinned by a false sense of ‘reality’ that contradicts the natural order of the cosmos.

disappears and they find themselves cold and naked, standing safely outside in the grass, their clothes strewn about. Their dogs are at their side and their ‘lost’ guide is in the distance. After purchasing some game on their way home (so that they don’t come back from their hunt empty handed), the men return to Tokyo. The story concludes with the explanation that no matter how much they soak in hot baths, their skin, still crumpled with fear, will not return to normal. The narrative demonstrates the men’s breach of at least two Buddhist precepts. One is related to the equality of all sentient beings. Buddhist law teaches that no one should kill or hunt for a living, and even fraternisation with hunters, for example, is frowned upon.9 As discussed in Chapter 6, the issue of autophagy (life feeding on life itself) as a fundamental cause of suffering was a major source of concern to Kenji. No animal should be hunted or killed unnecessarily, let alone for sport, and there is no salvation for any individual if there is even one suffering being in the world.10 In ‘Chūmon’ then, the men’s excitement at the prospect of killing a mountain deer contrasts markedly with the precept of equality amongst all sentient beings and, together with the men’s pursuit of material status, foregrounds their estrangement from nature. The second precept is that any sense of an essential reality is an illusion. This underlies the first in that it constitutes alienation from nature, and ego is a major part of the illusion. To achieve nirvana it is essential to free oneself from the illusion of one’s special place in the world, so the men’s pursuit of gentrified status is ultimately the pursuit of ego. All aspects of existence are interconnected in that there are no enduring substances; there is only illusion and representation. As there is no individual existence, nothing should have an ego. It is ego that influences all dispute, opposition and struggle, so it is also a fundamental cause of unnecessary suffering. It is ego that leads the two men to seek the unattainable; materiality, of image, of substance, of desire. These material pleasures are foregrounded in their concerns with attire, with finances and with status. Consumerism and pursuit of status, by their

synopsis of ‘chūmon’ The tale begins with two snobbish city ‘gentlemen’ out hunting in the mountains. Dressed in English military uniforms with gleaming new rifles, they relish the idea of killing a deer. They are obviously out of their depth and soon find themselves in difficulty when their guide disappears and their dogs suddenly keel over and die. Instead of showing any concern for the well being of these dogs, the men complain about how much they paid for them. Losing their way, they become tired and hungry, but stumble upon ‘Wildcat House’ (Yamaneko ken). A sign describes it as a Western-style restaurant. After (mis-) reading another sign they think they will receive a free meal so they proceed inside, only to find themselves obeying a series of signs or ‘orders’ on a seemingly never-ending hallway of doors.8 They gradually disrobe in response to the written orders on each door, rationalising the strange orders as indicative of a high class restaurant. After daubing themselves with vinegar and cream (they think they are near the main dining room), they come to another order that requests they rub themselves in salt. Here they overhear two apparently inept waiters behind another door and they finally come to the realisation that all the commands have been to prepare them as the meal (for Wildcat). Confusion reigns as they try to flee in terror. At this point, their ‘dead’ dogs suddenly reappear, flying in through one door and out through another as if chasing the cat away. The whole inn then 156

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very nature, are at odds with any notions of a mutable, interdependent life. Ego is also displayed, for instance, in the men’s conspicuous competitiveness about their respective financial losses when the dogs die.11 Even the men’s fear of death at the climax is of an egoistic, material nature.12 As Yoshio Tanaka points out, neither life nor death should be questioned, and when confronted with death we should die readily (although, while alive, every minute should be lived to the full).13 The tale of ‘Chūmon’ represents a play of paradoxes that has been suggested as “the key to unlocking [the] illusion [of understanding].”14 The pursuit of unattainable answers is linked with notions of grasping, desire and worldly display. The story sets up contrasts and incongruities to defer closure rather than offer any clear-cut solutions for the men (or the reader). Neither of the main protagonists finds the key to unlock the illusion, and the closure, after the men have passed through all the doors, reveals that they have mistakenly pursued some illusory reality or essence. From a Buddhist perspective any such ‘knowing’ or ‘understanding’ is inherently limited and is, of itself, material. In the same way that the men are relentlessly pursuing elusive desires (and misreading the signs), all pursuit of answers is an illusory ‘reality.’ Against a Buddhist ethic where worldly display counts for nothing, the West, as displayed in the men’s English uniforms and the Western restaurant, serves as a symbol of the decadence and perversity of materialism. The men’s new, shiny English uniforms not only cohere with their unquestioning obedience to the ‘orders’, but it is also representative of both the nouveau riche and the importation of foreign consumer culture into the rapidly modernising Japan of the day. As Tsukuda Hidetaka points out, none of these goods is functional to a simple lifestyle: “City life of the times had already moved from the consumption of ‘needs’ to a consumption of signs of desire. So the gentlemen are trying to buy image, acquire image and eat image.”15 Tsukuda adds in a footnote that it was also widely reported in many newspapers in 1917 that a nouveau rich captain hunted deer and bears on the

Korean Peninsula. When he returned to Japan he invited about 200 prominent persons to the Empire Hotel and put on a spread of deer meat. The Iwate Times also reported on this, so it is certainly possible that the ‘gentlemen’ in ‘Chūmon’ are caricatures of these famous, newly moneyed hunters. Tsukuda further suggests that because hunting is a pursuit of the European leisured classes, this is an outward display of wealth and power that demonstrates aspirations towards nobility.16 Several incongruities signify the men as outsiders, as not belonging in the natural environment. Their English uniforms, their lust for blood as indicated through their inane chatter about the pleasures of killing, and their lack of concern (apart from pecuniary concerns) for the loss of their dogs all contrast with the lushness and quietude of the mountain surrounds. They are as out-of-place as the restaurant that overtly clashes with the wilderness scene. Moreover, the whole experience is quite at variance with the expected procedure for dining at a restaurant, thus completely ironic. The climax, where the men, as devourers, become the objects to be devoured, satirises their conspicuously base activities – hunting, desire for status, consumerism, capitalism and materialism – that upset the natural balance of the world. The denouement is played out in the reversal that revolves around eating, through the image of food. As Tomoko Aoyama puts it: “Eating lures these gullible philistines out of the safety and order of everyday life” and, “unaware of what lurks beneath the modernity and sophistication, the visitors … fall straight into the waiting lethal trap.”17 In a fatal compulsion, their hedonistic pursuits lead them to become the reverse target of their own consumption. The would-be hunters become the hunted. In contrast with the Buddhist prohibitions on unnecessary killing and conspicuous worldly display, the men have stepped out in their foreign finery into an unfamiliar wilderness environment to savour, in an unsavoury manner, the material pleasures of hunting, slaughter and food. Their pursuit of food paradoxically pushes them forward to heedlessly peel away their layers of 157

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clothing, the overt signifiers of their very materialism, in inverse proportion to the more spiritual path of discarding their possessions voluntarily. Their potential extinguishment as ‘fodder’ only becomes possible through their rash ‘obedience’ to more material dictates. Their persistent misinterpretations and obedience to the increasingly ludicrous orders that hint they are on the menu heighten their ignorance. It is the men’s ignorance, materialism and pride, part of the delusion of ego, that prevent any cognisance of the ‘reality’ of their predicament. Their blind pursuit of food threatens their own erasure and the reversal exposes the dangers of their material pursuits. Materialism in this story is connected, both semantically and symbolically, with the materiality of things in the world which also links with the Buddhist concepts of impermanence and interpenetration among all existence. The tale parodies the Buddhist ideal of the shedding of ego and the notion of all material existence as illusion when the men’s resistance to willingly cast off their possessions in a positive spiritual aspiration results in a kind of negative erasure. In other words, the consequence of their material embeddedness threatens the negative erasure of their material bodies instead of the positive erasure of their materialism. Their permanent wrinkles signify their continued ignorance. Instead of being immersed into an interpenetrative continuum of existence, they remain attached to their own materialism in this material world due to their failure to understand the implications of their ‘nightmare.’

is the fortieth. It had its fifty-third run in April 2011, reaching an astounding total of over 160,000 copies printed.19 Kobayashi Toshiya’s ‘Chūmon’ first came out in 1985. It had its fourteenth print run in 2008, with over 39,000 copies having printed to date. Suzuki Kōji’s ‘Chūmon’ was originally published in 1987. It had its eleventh printing in 2011, reaching a cumulative total of about 49,000 copies. Even though these four artists all utilise a relatively low representational modality, three of them tend towards a more monologic rendering of the story characters and events. For example, in contrast with Kobayashi’s absence of protagonists, the other three artists have represented the two gentlemen as focalisers in almost every scene – as hunters, toy soldiers or military men. As discussed in Chapter 2, artwork that is oriented towards replicating events and characters is more monologic and this partially subverts the notion of immateriality by moving towards an ideal of logical necessity and permanence with a focus on ‘substance,’ ‘essence,’ and ‘objects.’20 The discussion of these three slightly less dialogic representations of ‘Chūmon’ forms the basis for the contrast with Kobayashi’s work which avoids any third-person pictorial focalisation through the characters. In conjunction with the tale’s concerns with the modernising Japan of the 1920s, the picture books all focus on the materialistic nature of the men’s pursuits. Some for instance focus more directly on the men’s fear, while others concentrate more on their path towards extinguishment. Iino’s, Shimada’s and Suzuki’s more replicatory depictions all reiterate the men as caricatures alien to their environment. This not only signifies their discord in nature, but also the impact of civilisation on the natural world. These replications offer viewers subject positions which heighten the men’s discord as an obsessive lack of awareness that also underlines their lack of agency. As pointed out in Chapter 1 (and elsewhere), jiriki (the self empowered path to enlightenment) is an important part of achieving a higher awakening, and Iino, Shimada and Suzuki all satirise this. They elaborate the men’s complete

picture books The following discussion examines four of the most popular contemporary artistic interpretations of the tale. Iino Kazuyoshi’s ‘Chūmon’ forms volume three of the Kumon series of Kenji’s tales. It is the third story in the book of the same name (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten) and was originally published in 1992. It had its fourteenth print run in 2009.18 Shimada Mutsuko’s ‘Chūmon’ was first printed in 1984 and the 1999 edition used here 158

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lack of spiritual awareness as being based in a fatal compulsion that is the opposite of jiriki.

Iino’s fewer pictures of ‘Chūmon’ offer a contrast with the more numerous pictures of the other artists. Iino immediately references the story’s humour in his title picture, caricaturing the two gentlemen as overdressed hunters rather than soldiers (fig. 96). They are extravagant, ridiculous figures contrasted against the more perspectival, naturalistic backdrop. The distancing perspective positions the viewer to perceive the buffoonlike hunters in deer-stalker hats with pom-poms as salient objects of fun who forge through the unfamiliar mountains (in the direction of reading – right to left), completely ignorant of the natural beauty that surrounds them. Viewers are thus alerted to some underlying paradoxes in notions of  material reality, with the conceptual cartoon characters representing the vagaries of more ‘illusory’ materialistic pursuits. In other words, the viewer is positioned to perceive the men and their pursuits as an insubstantial ‘illusion’ against the ‘security’ of a natural setting which is itself more ‘real’.

iino kazuyoshi Iino Kazuyoshi (1947 – ) is a renowned illustrator who has published many award-winning picture books.21 Although he came from a farming family in Gunma Prefecture, after creating illustrations for advertising posters in a department store in the city of Takazaki, he eventually made his way to design school in Tokyo. Though he entered the graphics department, he graduated from the costume department. He designed women’s clothes for a small firm for a while, but left after a year and entered the Nakasawa Art School in Tokyo in 1967. He made his artistic debut in a 1969 journal called Anan. Since then he has won several prestigious art prizes such as the Akai Tori (Red Bird) Prize for his Little Turnip Princess series. Apart from creating picture books, he enjoys giving reading recitals and playing blues music on the harmonica.

96 Iino Kazuyoshi (1947–); pp. 34–5, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kumon, 1992.

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continues to create beautiful artwork. Her woodblocks for ‘Chūmon’ reflect a rare dedication to the task, taking ten years in the making with repeated preparation and cutting.23 Shimada replicates the men as wide-eyed, rosycheeked English soldiers in bright red uniforms (fig. 97 – reading direction is right to left). They are somewhat like the old-fashioned wind-up tin or wooden dolls of the early twentieth century (with helmets reminiscent of, for instance, those worn by British royal guards or constabulary). While reinforcing the idea of mechanical obedience to authority, this also conveys a sense of the jarring modernisation of Japan at the time the narrative was written. Shimada’s red doll-soldiers stand out against the monochromes of the surrounding foliage and their white dogs who blend in more, the rigidity of line representing their stiffness against the fluidity of the curved lines of the dense forest (in fig. 97). This contrast emphasises their invasion into unfamiliar territory in a similar way to Iino’s title tableau, and again juxtaposes culture against nature. Suzuki, on the other hand, portrays the men in military great coats in a somewhat hybrid uniform (German, Russian and/or Japanese – see figs. 101– 103). Suzuki’s depiction will be discussed in more detail later, but these two representations both suggest stiff, inflexible soldiers who lack intersubjective agency. Such rigidity conveys their complete lack of awareness that is the antithesis of the jiriki ideal of the Lotus Sutra. Furthermore, Shimada accentuates the men’s sense of confusion or fear at critical moments. For example, when the dogs die and the two men realise they have lost their way, the colour suddenly disappears and they appear within the centre of a whirlwind-like vortex where trees are swirling around them in an ‘unnatural’ anti-clockwise direction (fig. 98). Here, the men appear to be swept up by the swirling depictions of trees and grasses around them as they enter the fantasy. They now huddle together, looking ‘up’ in terror towards the viewing space from either side of the whirling mass. Together with their expression of fear, the removal of shading (on their cheeks, for example) indicates

The men are presented as the antithesis of the guide who is more realistically depicted and thus harmoniously integrating into the neutralcoloured, naturalistic background by blending with the colour and shape of the leaves on the tree in the foreground. The guide’s more sombre, traditional Japanese garb contrasts with that of the men who are saliently out of place in bright non-camouflage colours. The contrast not only metafictively reflects the idea of the story within a story, but also instantly establishes the city men’s discord in nature and highlights the materialistic nature of their pretensions. Perspective, artistic style, subject matter and focalisation techniques all work together to highlight the incongruity of the urban dwellers in the mountain environment in contrast to the guide’s comfort with his natural surrounds. The opening thus establishes the men and their ‘civilised’ pretensions as the butt of the joke, setting the scene for the satire that exposes their materialistic pursuits as the reason for their potential demise. Together with Iino’s later pictures and closure which castigate the men as both stupid and cowardly (see figs. 111 and 117, discussed later), the contrast here between nature and culture suggests the short-lived pleasure of such materialistic pursuits and desires. In contrast with Iino’s hunters, Shimada Mutsuko and Suzuki Kōji both reproduce the men as soldiers. This reiteration of the men in their incongruous uniforms accesses another irony in the narrative; the risk of unquestioning (militaristic) obedience to authority, represented by the men’s careless compliance with the orders on the signs, another form of materiality that threatens their demise. The two artists use quite disparate techniques to nuance the story’s main significance.

shimada mutsuko Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ) is an award-winning artist who after studying English literature at Nara Women’s University, graduated from the sculpture department at the Tokyo University of Arts in 1965, with the intention of creating picture books in woodblock print.22 She lives in Chiba City and 160

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97 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 3, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

the 1920s, the mingei (folk craft) and the sōsaku hanga (creative print) movements.24 Not only her replicas of foreign soldier-dolls, but also her depictions of hairstyles, fashion, and waiters (with waxed moustaches and bow-tie), all hark back to Japan’s era of the mobo moga (modern boy, modern girl) in the 1920s (see, for example, fig. 99). The art movements, however, arose as a type of protest against the artifice and exploitation of nature and labour by industry as a symbol of Western materialism. The folk-craft aesthetic sought an antidote to modernity by avoiding artifice, partly through its ideal of subsuming the artistic self to the artwork. The natural qualities of Shimada’s medium and naïve style, her simple lines carved in wood, align with this aesthetic. Shimada’s foreign modern subject matter and manufactured paraphernalia, as constructed

their loss of agency as they are whisked into the unknown. They spin in despair, barely able to hold things together amidst the forces of nature. Their pictorial depiction as mechanised soldiers and fearfilled subjects of the natural order thus accentuates the irony about the jiriki moral (of self empowered enlightenment). Shimada’s referencing of place and period also works with her more traditional woodblock technique to evoke the challenges of modernity. On the one hand, her style and subjects are replete with all the nuances of an early twentieth century Japan in full embrace of democracy and modernity, highlighting the type of social milieu and morés that are being criticised. On the other, the prints reflect a choice and effort that is reminiscent of the values of two particular art movements prominent during 161

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98 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); pp. 6–7, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

made his debut as an illustrator in a woman’s magazine called Heibon Punchi (Ordinary Punch) and having had his first exhibition in 1971.25 His picture book illustrations have since consistently won awards, the latest being the Grand Picture Book Prize in 2009. He travelled the world in his youth and has since toured with exhibitions. In 2006, for example, he travelled with the Japan Foundation’s international exhibition entitled The Picture Books of Koji Suzuki and Ryoji Arai. Besides picture books, he paints murals, posters and theatre sets and has produced a book of illustrations and essays. He has also appeared on the stage and in film. His dynamic lifestyle and artwork are evident in all of his picture books. In comparison with Shimada’s focus on the clash of modernisation, Suzuki brings a lighthearted

artifice, contrast with her more natural medium to highlight the hollowness of the men’s consumerism and of their obedience to materialist dictates. The juxtaposition thus underlines the inherent thematic contradictions within the tale: nature versus (city) civilisation, consumer versus (invisible) producer, the immaterial and the material. Combined with an immersive world view that evinces the loss of an essential self, such reflexivity reflects upon a metaphysical world beyond the story, helping create a space in which the reader can explore the contradictions.

suzuki kōji Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ) is now one of Japan’s most internationally renowned picture book artists, having 162

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99 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 11, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

touch to the story’s theme of fear. From the outset, he creates a mysterious atmosphere through a contrast of light against dark. His vivid hatchings of the familiar aspects of ‘this world’ are transposed over a pervasive black background, the darkness suggesting the depths of the more fearful, unknown world of the men’s fantasy. Such depths are mediated somewhat by his frontispiece of a winking owl which engages the reader (as perceiver/judge) in a reciprocal gaze before the story even begins (see fig. 100). This prelude of the winking owl ‘demands’ audience anticipation of the humour to come by encouraging complicity in the joke. At the same time, as mentioned in Chapter 5, the owl symbolises death and rebirth, suggesting the theme of renewal. This

theme also works with Suzuki’s later door and path imagery which symbolises transition. Suzuki’s opening plate introduces the men in profile, thus now repositioning the reader as a more distant observer of the action rather than a participant (fig. 101). Together with the winking owl, this transition and distancing moderate the cynicism inherent in Suzuki’s stiff militia figures. Suzuki’s men are, for instance, also introduced marching (in the direction of reading – left to right) in a type of goose-step that conjures up images of military blind obedience. Even the dogs, with their whirling, non-seeing eyes, appear to march in step as they progress through the softer, curved lines of the foliage in the background. Suzuki’s focus on the characters as (bumbling) 163

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100 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); frontispiece, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

soldiers in full military regalia is evident in no less than eight plates before they begin to disrobe, suggesting all the negativities that such militarism (and nationalism) brings with it. As suggested above, in comparison with Shimada’s rigid doll-soldiers as manipulable non-agentive figures, Suzuki’s overt portrayal of uniformed men underlines their unthinking obedience to authority (together with their lack of agency). His soldiers are also portrayed with bemused expressions, thus underlining their lack of intelligence as they proceed on their journey. They cannot be taken too seriously as they dance, parade and preen themselves throughout his pictures (see, for instance, fig. 102). Whereas Shimada’s rigidity is imposed upon her ‘manufactured’ doll-soldiers,

Suzuki’s suggests their thoughtless obedience as propelled by a self-deceit that simultaneously prevents any metaphysical awareness. The viewer, through the pictorial point of view and through complicity in the joke with the owl, is positioned as both perceiver and judge to acknowledge this self-deceit. Suzuki thereby juxtaposes the men’s lack of awareness against audience knowledge and heightens consciousness of the tale’s central point about blind pursuit of material goals. Suzuki’s focus on corridors further implies a dramatic emphasis on the process of the men’s misbegotten journey through the restaurant. When this internal fantasy begins, for instance, the men are positioned on a series of straight pathways that are seemingly suspended in space, against the 164

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101 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); pp. 2–3, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

102 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); pp. 10–11, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

ethereality of a dark night sky (fig. 103). Against the dimension of darkness beyond, these pathways can be seen as potential bridges between the dichotomies found in the verbal text: fantasy and reality, city and nature, fear and safety, the spiritual and material. The men of course miss the point, but the viewer perceives the mysterious background that connects with the sense of the unknown on the other side of each door. This darkness enhances recognition of the futility of the men’s progress through the restaurant as they obey the orders and proceed through the doors. Sudden bursts of colour and light through the black also connect with the increasing lack of credibility in the ‘answers’ the men come up with as they pass through each successive door. Their rationale, of course, is completely erroneous so viewers observe the men’s failure to leave the set path as part of their lack of spiritual progress towards any deeper sense of awareness which is out of their reach, beyond their single-minded path. As Fontana notes, while doors are a symbol of opportunity or transition, they are also barriers

“through which only initiates (those who have the key) can pass.”26 As symbols of openings or closures, or beginnings or endings, they also maintain the focus on process. Any depiction of the doors, then, reiterates the process of anticipation of renewal, discovery and action. Suzuki depicts nearly all the doors at opposite sides of the page, the pathway between them signifying the passage or journey to emphasise the choices and possibilities, beginnings and endings both before and after embarking on the path between them. The paths are interspersed with alternate pictures of the men in various stages of undress as they obey the various orders (gradually disrobing until reaching the salt pot) and thus cohere with the metaphysical aspects of Suzuki’s artwork to underline the men’s failure in the process of questions, decisions and action. Suzuki’s doors and pathways thus contrast the potential of jiriki (self-power) with the soldiers’ lack of agency as they obey the instructions. Suzuki slows the pace of reading to make this lengthy process the focal point before the men’s climactic 165

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103 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); pp. 12–13, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

realisation that they are on the menu. This pacing encourages consideration of the men’s failure to find the right ‘key’ as they strip away their layers of clothing (the symbols of their materialism). It thus builds tension and frustration with their ignorance before the moment of revelation, encouraging very little empathy for them at their open display of tears (discussed later).

white etchings of the dogs’ outlines seep through the mustard background (fig. 104). In contrast with the bolder blocks of darker brown on the dogs’ collars for instance, the fine lines that depict their fur blend with the etchings of the natural world around them. This contrast signifies their synthesis with nature as opposed to the human world to which they are bound, both by their leads and their human masters. The dogs’ leashes angle back (against the direction of reading – right to left) to absent masters outside the frame. The picture thus not only foregrounds the divisions between nature and culture but also introduces notions of presence and absence. Kobayashi’s neutral colours and minimalist yet multilayered line detail thereby anticipate an atmosphere of exploration of the broader, immaterial world beyond. The absence of the protagonists also stands out against the other artistic representations that portray events from a third person viewpoint. Despite his more numerous pictures (25 plates in total), rather than focalising the story through the characters he interpellates the reader into a first person perspective, providing a more dialogic exploration of the tale than do Iino, Shimada or Suzuki. In other words, instead of perceiving the protagonists

kobayashi toshiya Kobayashi Toshiya is introduced in Chapter 3, so  suffice to say here that his “Chūmon’ is part of  his award-winning series of picture books (gahon) of Kenji’s work to which he has devoted a lifetime. His muted hues contrast with the brighter  colours in the other picture books, and the sombreness of tone subtly enhances the irony of the narrative. His style offers a counterpoint to the tale’s humour while encouraging readers to discern  the nuances between word and picture for themselves. Kobayashi’s delicate hatchings eke through the fully saturated colouring to suggest a more metaphysical layering, an underlying depth and ethereality. In Kobayashi’s first scene, for instance, the 166

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104 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 2–3, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

contemplation of each pictorial situation with the men. By refusing to place the characters within the frames, he avoids any observational ridicule of them, instead encouraging viewer participation in the choices and the conundrums they face. This intersubjective positioning blurs subject/object distinctions between participants and viewers and encourages a more psychological interaction with the process of desire and consumption. Kobayashi not only encourages an intersubjective reading approach, but also slows the process of reading even more than Suzuki, for instance, by punctuating the fantastic journey through the restaurant with a continuous array of doors. Kobayashi’s heavy focus on both the front and the back of the doors (with eleven plates for seven doors mentioned in the text) emphasises their aforementioned

seeing or doing, the viewer is inserted directly into the process of events with the (absent) men. They are only once introduced from a third person perspective in the second plate. Even then, rather than providing the focus for an entire picture, they are presented as minor figures in British style busbies at the bottom of the text (fig. 105). This lack of focus on, and almost complete absence of, the two men not only co-opts the reading subject’s involvement in the action (in a more direct and sustained manner than, for instance, Suzuki’s winking owl), but also rejects their overt characterisation, letting the words work in counterpoint with his pictures. In contrast with the other artists’ third person perspective of simply observing the mindlessly obedient men’s cowardice or humiliation, Kobayashi highlights their subjectivity, allowing interactive 167

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105 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 4–5, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

symbolic value and encourages consideration of the intrigue behind the men’s strange experience. His doors not only highlight the notion of opportunities, but also emphasise potential obstacles they may present and the enigmas that lay beyond. Kobayashi’s first maze door, for instance, is evocative of a jigsaw puzzle, evincing the web of intrigue to come (fig. 106). The web-like paving of the brick path that echoes that on the door suggests the labyrinth inside the restaurant. The idea of a puzzle or maze foreshadows the emotional roller coaster ride that comes when the men read, obey orders, then manoeuvre their way through Kobayashi’s internal labyrinth of differently shaped doors, some with hard geometrical shapes and others with smooth contours and curved handles that provide a contrasting softness. The smoother fluidity of

shape and line also evokes the possibility of movement and change as the men progress through the restaurant, yet the doors keep symbolically closing on them (and the viewer) as the men shed the paraphernalia of their materiality. Such a pictorial focus on the doors underlines the possibilities that do not eventuate and thus the possibility of continual blindness to what is in front of one. Kobayashi also picks up notions of presence and absence through the doors. This in turn suggests the Buddhist concept of non-essence, or even the Derridean concept of erasure (creating a figure only to erase it and therefore leave its mere trace). Although the men are basically absent throughout, they are sometimes visible as shadowy traces. At the first door, for instance, the viewer is situated to perceive the men’s silhouettes behind the 168

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107 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 10 – 11, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

106 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 8 – 9, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

decorative maze pattern of the glass door (fig. 106). As the two men enter the restaurant, these silhouettes disappear from the next picture (of the reverse side of the same door) where only scattered leaves remain, suggesting both their viewpoint from within the restaurant and that of the absent proprietor (fig. 107). This double viewpoint that shows one side of the door then the other simultaneously presents openings and closings, and underlines the closing off of their escape. Kobayashi’s doors work with the men’s failure to find the ‘key’ or open the door to a new state of being to further suggest their entrapment in their own egoistic materialism. Kobayashi slows the pace of reading even more with various pictorial conundrums at the doors. For example, at the instruction that asks the men to “comb their hair” and brush the dirt off their shoes, a purple door is presented as if reflected in a mirror (fig. 108).27 The written order on this door is in

reverse and not easily read (even by proficient readers of Japanese). This suggests that the men and viewer are somehow looking at the door through a mirror, but this pictorial puzzle further slows the process by encouraging its contemplation along with the mystery of all the other orders. Furthermore, the ‘mirror’ fails to reflect any deeper knowledge back at the men. Instead of symbolically allowing them to glimpse all knowledge and look into their innermost souls,28 the door simply reflects the unintelligible order, reiterating the men’s lack of progress as the inverse of moving forward. These pictorial pauses at each of the doors also provide more time in which to contemplate the items the men are being asked to shed. When the sign on the back of the same door requests that they shed their guns and ammunition (fig. 109), it becomes clear that the previous picture has indeed been a reflection, further casting uncertainty or doubt upon the 169

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108 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); p. 16, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Parorusha, 1985.

‘essence’ of the whole scene. The slowed process emphasises that the men are casting aside not only their material possessions, but also their very chances of any kind of spiritual redemption. Kobayashi’s first person positioning simultaneously encourages introspective consideration of options, acceptance or rejection of the written instructions on each static door. (The doors are positioned centrally, for example, rather than at either side of the page with a path leading to or away from them.) With the turning of the pages, the viewer is

inserted into the decision making process in front of or behind each discrete door. After passing through each opening, the reading process is arrested by yet another door with more instructions, another challenge. Instead of finding the pictorial ‘answer’ on the other side of each door, the usually closed door intensifies the experience of elusive, hidden meanings. The reader is thus encouraged to insert an imaginative self into the process of arriving at, then passing through the doors to yet another set of orders and their subsequent 170

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irony of the men’s lack of progress. In comparison with Suzuki’s pathways, for example, Kobayashi’s closed doors encourage deeper consideration of the inverted course the men take towards their material desires as they strip away their clothing. Kobayashi’s doors, therefore, rather than limiting the reading experience, provoke thought about the illusionary desires of the men first hand. Kobayashi’s many depictions of the different doors come to an abrupt end with the climactic twist when the men realise that it is they who are actually on order (after the last order asks them to rub salt on their already cream- and vinegar-smothered bodies). Here, he dramatically projects silhouettes of the men’s heads behind the verbal text on either side of the page (see fig. 110). While the pot is in ‘real’ space at the centre of the double spread, two disembodied right hands protrude from the bottom of the picture plane in the foreground, forming vectors towards the two silhouettes of the men’s ‘talking heads’. The open-mouthed shadows that face each other with bewilderment and fear are questioning their situation for the first time. The positioning of these more corporeal hands, which must be crossing each other in viewing space, suggests that they belong to each of the silhouetted heads. Moreover, the viewer is aligned here with the men’s shadowy forms as they break through into pictorial space, pointing towards each other’s cream covered faces and finally coming to an awareness of their invidious situation. Their pictorial manifestation at this point heightens the satirical impact of the twist, emphasising their shattered illusions as a different level of reality. At the same time, with the movement towards the antithetical climax, there is a move away from the shadowy illusions and uncertainties to an alignment with the essentialism of their desiring minds. Kobayashi thus evokes the sense of division between body and mind, substance and illusion and foregrounds the elusiveness of their true understanding. His artwork not only presents the men as shadows detached from the illusion of reality, but also inserts the reader into the process to recognise this with them. The other books also pictorially punctuate this climactic twist with shifts in perspective and point

109 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); p. 18, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

problematic. This urges questions about whether the men should obey the strange orders, or turn back, or continue. The men’s continual misreading of the signs intensifies reader frustration which in turn encourages further probing of their errors. The safety of discovery, of destiny, arrival or closure continues to be deferred as the men (and viewer) fail to find the right key, the correct answers. The process heightens the incongruities of the men’s situation, encouraging reader involvement in their (wrong) decision-making process. As the men close one door then come to another, the viewer is positioned to acknowledge that they have choices but fail to act to change possible outcomes. By focusing firmly on the process of anticipation, uncertainty, then failure, Kobayashi duplicates and intensifies not only the effect of the repetitive process, but also the 171

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110 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 30 – 31, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

of view in ways that distinctively nuance the men’s fear and reflect the tale’s preoccupation with the potential erasure of the men through their preoccupation with material desires. Iino, for instance, uses his only double spread (apart from the title page) to portray the men’s realisation. Their creamcovered faces are looking upward, towards the viewer in a prayer-like posture of frightened, immobile appeal (fig. 111). This inscribes a powerful, but less dialogic sense of fear and loathing than Suzuki’s three pictures of the same scene. Suzuki’s focus on the cessation of the men’s progress not only registers their petrified lack of mobility after their path through long corridors but also interpellates the viewer into their experience of shock and fear. In the second of these, two huge eyes peer out of the darkness from either side of a large crossed knife and fork (fig. 112). These eyes accost the

viewer and the men from close proximity within a foreshortened corridor that is like a box which signifies their enclosure, the dead end that they have hit. The viewer thus confronts Wildcat at this fatal moment with the men and this heightens the sense of tension. The doorway is entirely filled by the suggestion of the cat’s face, etched through the blackness. While this picture signifies their blocked (spiritual) progression, it also presents them as they are confronted by their own demons (their material pursuit). The men have not unlocked any doors and now have nowhere to run. As seen in Suzuki’s next picture, the men, in profile again, have been reduced to torrents of tears (fig. 113). The cat’s eyes and the viewer now look on from front and behind in even closer proximity, closing in on them and their naked cowardice. The eyes ‘demand’ that the viewer ‘see’ what the men haven’t. 172

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111 Iino Kazuyoshi (1947 – ); pp. 46 – 47, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kumon, 1992.

Rather than aligning the viewer directly with the men’s terror here, Suzuki shows them in profile, their quivering bodies bent over in foolhardy despair, their dripping tears forming a pool beneath. Their complete submission to tears emphasises the foolishness of their capitulation to desire. Together with the eyes that demand the viewer bear witness to their humiliation, Suzuki’s pictures also underline their complete lack of jiriki agency and awareness. Shimada also draws out this scene, portraying the men’s overt fear over several pictures. In the first, their white, shocked faces are set against a startling bright pink background that emphasises their shock (fig. 114). They are open-mouthed, with hair standing on end and arms outstretched in different directions, petrified with nowhere to run. Their terrified constraint is obvious as they must face the next door. The dropped salt pot is salient at right and its internal outline in bright blue echoes the shape of an upside down lock, thus underlining the men’s failure to unlock the doors. In the next picture Shimada, like Suzuki, confronts the viewer with an image of the cat staring out with green piercing eyes, knife and fork in hand ready to eat (fig. 115). Again, the eyes remind the reader of the

men’s lack of ability to see what is in front of them. An idea balloon at the cat’s forehead shows the men kneeling in fear, confronting them (and viewer) with the revelation that they are going to be eaten. Like Suzuki, by confronting the viewer with the cat, Shimada presents a view of the men here as feeble and impotent, humiliated figures who have learned nothing. The distinctly different closing scenes with which the four artists have chosen to conclude also reveal differently nuanced significances. Shimada’s final scene focuses on the men’s life in Tokyo, Iino represents the moment of rescue by the dogs, Suzuki renders the men with wrinkled skin in baths, and Kobayashi creates a completely extratextual conclusion. Taking Shimada’s closure first, her black and white mosaic accentuates the rigidity and confines of modern city life (fig. 116). In contrast with others around them, the men are recognisable through the deep cuts of their now eternally crumpled faces. This pictorial ‘branding’ highlights the discomfort with the kind of ‘unnatural’ and alienated city life they are leading. While the borders of Shimada’s mosaic here compartmentalise them, demonstrating 173

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112 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); p. 29, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

their lack of integration, they are also both static, staring out and ‘demanding’ that the viewer acknowledge their restricted and unproductive lives in the metropolis. One, in a sharp business suit, is on the telephone and confined to a desk that is situated in front of a high rise building. While the frowning figure of a manager overlooks him, he is also apparently the subject of the scorn of three people below. The other man, in a rigid posture in his trench coat takes up almost half the composition. He is set against a mass of people in the background showing the monotony and alienation of city life. His overt facial lines are shaped to express his

discomfort as he stands, holding his umbrella as if waiting for traffic lights. He is thus still subject  to outside forces, the ‘order’ and conformity demanded by city life. Moreover, the shape of his umbrella is formed from curved lines in the background, suggestive of hills in the distance, reminiscent of the mountain terrain which offered the unfulfilled possibility of a different kind of life. Shimada’s closure thus accentuates the culture/nature dichotomy and the men’s discomfort with their own choices. They now have to conform to the dictates of their own superficial modishness and endure the emptiness of city life and their material desires. 174

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113 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); pp. 30 – 31, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

In contrast with Shimada’s modernised automatons, the last two of Iino’s pictures clearly show the men’s cowardice. Their weakness is juxtaposed against the dogs’ bravery and loyalty that in turn contrast with the men’s earlier disregard for their animals’ well being. His final picture reduces the men in size against the two fiercely snarling dogs. Yet the men are also salient against a natural backdrop at the bottom right as they huddle together in stupefied terror (fig. 117). The loyal dogs are visibly saving the men from Wildcat’s attack, the cat’s reverberating figure indicating their victory. Together

with his previous picture (see fig. 111), Iino’s closure thus highlights the men’s ignorance and fear and further attests to the men’s lack of agency, their inability to extricate themselves from their predicament. In contrast, Suzuki’s closure on the book’s final page adds an unusual picture that, like Shimada’s closure, focuses on the crumpling of their skin. This again signifies their continued failure to learn anything. Suzuki’s final picture is smaller than his other plates, yet prominent against a blank white background (with no text), showing the two men 175

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114 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 25, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

bathing in a hot tub (fig. 118). The bath reiterates the text’s mention that no matter how often they try to wash their ‘sins’ away, they cannot erase the crinkles in their skin and this further highlights the men as branded by their failed efforts. Like their inability to find the right path, their failure and rigidity remains imprinted on them despite the pains they take with ‘cleansing’. Similar to Shimada’s closure, it underlines their inability to erase from their memories the experience of nearly being devoured by their own excesses. They are sullied by their failure to transform, their lack of spiritual enlightenment. As mentioned above, Suzuki and Shimada confront the viewer with the eyes of the cat at the moment of the men’s final entrapment. Kobayashi, too, in his only visual reference to Wildcat, alludes to the cat’s presence twice on one page, as a rather tame-looking, realistic feline from behind, and as a partial figure whose eye is reflected back at the viewer through the outline of a large knife (fig. 119).

115 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 27, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

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117 Iino Kazuyoshi (1947 – ); p. 49, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kumon, 1992

116 Shimada Mutsuko (1937 – ); p. 35, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Kaiseisha, 1984.

118 Suzuki Kōji (1948 – ); Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Miki House, 1987.

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119 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947 – ); pp. 34 – 35, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

The cat’s gaze thus reflects back to the viewer-ascat who appears to be holding the knife and fork that project from viewer space. The cat is therefore a more salient yet ambiguous ‘presence’ with which the viewer is aligned. The disinterest of the nonthreatening domestic cat whose back is turned away in a harmless posture is juxtaposed against the ‘demanding’ (self-) gaze of Wildcat’s eye here as if to challenge the viewer to the deeper psychological layers hidden under superficial exteriors. The self-reflective peering eye suggests the more sinister undertone of viewer-as-devourer. The verbal text also appears through the rear view of the domestic cat and the negative white space of the large knife (and fork) that shows the demanding gaze of the cat’s eye. This all inscribes several intertwined layers of perception, rendering the men’s (and viewer’s) material being as immaterial.

Kobayashi continues these notions of doubleness and inversion, presence and absence, illusion and reality in a unique, open ended closure that contrasts dramatically with the other books and enhances the sense of wry humour inherent throughout. In a rejection of any monologic replication of the text, he creates three extra-textual pictures that  accompany his own iconoclastic written text that is a metafictive parody of Kenji’s ‘orders.’ Kobayashi’s parodic instructions involve the reader in a post-reading activity – the active process of cutting out, then crumpling and re-attaching the men’s faces – that intensifies the point about the men’s lack of sight. Kobayashi’s first extra-textual picture accompanies the final section of narrative, and is a symbolic indictment of hunting and its associated excesses (fig. 120). Here, two faceless figures are standing by 178

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120 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 45, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Parorusha, 1985.

a fireplace under a wall-mounted taxidermic bear head. Their blank faces allude to their lack of awareness and notions of individuation, but are also encircled with verbal instructions to cut around them. In juxtaposing the featureless, non-seeing faces against the ‘demanding’ gaze of the bear trophy, there is also a play on notions of perception that emphasises the blindness of the two men. This wry joke about seeing is continued in the next two pictures along with the parodic verbal instructions to readers. Kobayashi’s letter to readers is as follows:

To readers, Thank you for your time but this is a picture book of many orders, so I hope you will be patient. First, please cut out the two round faces on the back of this page according to the instructions. Next, cut the pictures of glasses on the following page along the broken lines, separate them into two, crumple them up, then spread them out and round out the front of the glasses. Have fun setting them onto the cut-out faces. Can you see the wrinkles on the nose and mouth? When you tidy up, spread the paper out and insert it between the pages, then shut the book. You can amuse yourself any number of times, and when you tire of this, straighten

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121 Kobayashi Toshiya (1947–); p. 46, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten; Paroru-sha, 1985.

at the reverse side of the blank faces on the reverse  side of the same page. In the second, two appropriately sized sets of spectacles are ready to be cut and applied to the crumpled, blank faces, thus intensifying the joke about blindness and the point about not being able to erase the results of their materialist pursuits. This metafictive strategy defies the usual conventions of closure (particularly for a ‘sacrosanct’ narrative like Kenji’s), opening out and playfully exploiting the underlying questions about the men’s

the glasses out, leaving them just a little crumpled and, after cutting the excess sections around them, set them onto the cut-out faces with glue or sticky tape. You must be tired of all these orders. They are over now, though. You’ve done very well. Proprietor, Wildcat Studio29

In the first picture that follows this letter, two blank, mustard coloured oval shapes are ready to be cutout and replaced (see fig. 121). They are positioned 180

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non-jiriki lack of progress to higher awareness. This strategy not only draws the reader’s attention to the artifice of the text, but also intensifies the black humour by involving the reader in a parody of the men’s experience in the restaurant. By suggesting the reader follow the instructions of the author as picture book ‘proprietor,’ Kobayashi simultaneously asserts authority and encourages an intersubjective questioning of the men’s illusions. Such an open-ended closure, together with his heightened pauses at each discrete door, underlines the men’s ignorance in not discovering the right key. Kobayashi thus cleverly creates an activity which interpellates the reader into the process of the moral about consumption, materialism and materiality. In the act of entering into the process (through obeying the artist’s instructions), the viewer is metafictively made aware of the men’s pursuits as transient, futile and illusory, but as also leaving their karmic mark. This dialogically pushes the contextual boundaries of the story-world into everyday-life, heightening the illusory experience of all matter, mind and body. This strategy provides a contrast between the men’s lack of agency and the reader’s ability to see, thus bringing into play the Lotus Buddhist ideal of jiriki (self-empowered enlightenment). It decentres the monologic reading process ad provides a self-empowering intersubjective approach to the story’s moral.

These dynamic picture book explorations demonstrate how imaginative artists can open up ways of seeing that allow the interrogation and exploration of the world from less familiar subject positions. Choices of media, subject matter and skilfully punctuated moments are just some of the factors that help shift the nuance and pace of the story. While Iino superimposes farcical cartoon figures onto a more realistic natural setting, Suzuki suggests a cosmological depth with sparks of light hatching through his predominantly black background. Both contrasts suggest the men’s discord with the larger cosmos. Suzuki’s depiction of the would-be hunters’ as militaristic automatons against the more ethereal darkness also emphasises their lack of spiritual progress. While his more overt military connotations imply those who thoughtlessly follow orders, Shimada’s ‘robotic toys’ intimate those who can be easily manipulated to obey commands. Together with these subject depictions, Shimada’s choice of medium and style cleverly evokes the modern, highlighting Kenji’s own “antipathy to citified class society.”30 She utilises the social milieu of the time to critique the society and morés that brought about the lack of spirituality that goes with them. Her technique further suggests creativity versus commercialism to reflect the shallowness of city life and intensify the clash between modernity, consumerism and lifestyles. Suzuki and Kobayashi in particular, slow the men’s progress through the restaurant quite significantly before the moment of revelation at the salt pot. Both artists foreground the men’s inability to recognise their own foolishness, thus their complete lack of awareness. Kobayashi’s first person positioning also helps blur subject/object distinctions and his absent presences evoke Buddhist notions of the non-essential self. His shadows, doors and extra-textual parodic orders all underline the fact that it is the men’s blindness to their material embeddedness that threatens their erasure. Together with his inventive extra-textual closure, Kobayashi’s artwork constructs a more sustained dialogic interaction between reader and text that goes further than the other books.

conclusion At story level, this tale’s Buddhist ideals reject the acquisitive, grasping materialism (and exploitative capitalism) that coincides with the modernisation process. At a deeper level, this kind of modernisation is caught up in a phenomenology or materiality that nullifies the spiritual. In Buddhist thought, the concept of immateriality, an interpenetrative harmony or oneness with the universe that subjugates any falsely egoistic notions of self, involves a less material existence that recognises the transience, emptiness or non-essence of the body and mind in this world. It is this inexpressible significance that the artistic expression explores. 181

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iyazawa kenji’s rejection of indiscriminate modernisation, capitalism and elitism permeates his work, and the ever-increasing receptivity to his children’s tales (dōwa) reflects a desire for the social and ecological ideals upheld in these stories. As evidenced by the continuing publication of the picture books discussed here, many of these ideals endure through artistic representation.1 While the popularity of picture books of Kenji’s dōwa might indicate some kind of nostalgia for an idealised past, their artistic depiction also reflects a canonical demand to convey the deeper cosmological significances in the texts, especially with the rise of a more materialistic and fractured postmodern age. Scholars, educators, editors and publishers who promote Kenji’s illustrated work often insist, for example, that artists should convey the essence of Kenji’s world. For artists who depict his texts, therefore, these forces complicate the process of how to express the underlying, often inexpressible messages. Although the variety of artistic styles used to interact with these tales display leanings ranging from the more monologically replicatory in effect to the more radically dialogic, most, at some point, work at uncovering the underlying significance of humanity’s interdependence with the natural cosmos. This project synthesises research on Kenji’s literature and Japanese culture with fields such as Japanese art and picture book coding to point to ways in which these illustrations seek to express the tales’ metaphysical ideologies. The interrelationship between artistic codes and cultural conventions such as those highlighted in Chapters 1 and 2 helps shape reading attitudes or cultural ideologies through, for instance, the construction of point of view and the interaction between word and picture.

As indicated in Chapter 2, a Japanese aesthetic that denies fixed perspective also works with cultural ways of reading art. Pictures often require complex interpretative skills especially when they are interacting in conjunction with multivocal narratives such as Kenji’s and when the conventional aesthetic prefers suggestion and imaginative powers over the confines of the realistic. Unlike more conventional picture books in which words and illustrations often work towards higher significance by complementing the respective gaps, the bond between word and picture is much closer for these particular re-visionings because Kenji’s texts are pre-existing and unchanged. Despite the limitations of working within the framework of Kenji’s unaltered texts, however, the artists use various levels of lower modality imagery that still works dialogically. Thus, instead of fixing specific meaning to the words in a monologic manner, many of the pictures enhance the explorative function. Picture books are inherently dialogic and none of these picture books can be neatly classified into any one particular modality, replicatory or abstract. The more dialogic, interrogative elements, however, make readers work hard and encourage a questioning approach to the many ambiguities in the narratives that in turn orient towards an interpenetrative cosmological significance. The ambiguity found in Kenji’s narratives follows a pattern of Japanese reading traditions that has, through the ages, favoured more abstruse representation which in turn allows the reader the freedom to explore the imagination and the psyche.2 Japanese artistic and literary codes and conventions   implicitly challenge the notion of a single authoritarian authorial voice and operate more dialogically by permitting free play to the voices and perspectives of both characters and readers. Even though the tales are operating within larger cultural metanarratives, Kenji’s dōwa provide a multiplicity of subject positions from which to

Katao Ryō; p. 41, Yukiwatari; Miki House, 1991.

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view and experience ‘otherness’ and immersion within the world at large. Much of the artwork presented here works in synthesis with this multiplicity of subject positions within the tales that are not generally teleological in their closures. Many artists enhance this polyphony and openly encourage critical thinking with stylised techniques that may, for instance, reject perspective through a flatness of plane or minimal colour range and shading. These techniques also hark back to a more traditional Japanese aesthetic that, as Hill has pointed out, was “more interested in depicting the spirit of the object than the reality.”3 Whereas more replicatory pictorial reversions may be regarded as more monologic in their orientation and hence tend to “deny both characters and readers agency,” the more abstract the pictorial reversions, the more dialogic intersubjectivity they provide for the reader.4 The stylistically abstract, and therefore more dialogic, picture books are thus more ‘authentic’ to both the multivocal significances and to more ‘traditional’ Japanese reading codes and conventions. Instead of existing in a subversive relationship with Kenji’s words in a way that might disturb their ideologies or any broader cultural metanarratives, many of these pictures support the texts’ underlying (Buddhist) ideologies. In being artistically authentic to the original narratives, they paradoxically provide a form of cultural authenticity in itself – that which is being true to the non-humanist multivocality found in Kenji’s original texts. Because both the artwork and the texts are operating within cultural conventions that are more accepting of a more illusory sense of reality, they are helping to decentre humanist ‘truths’ about an individualistic, material world. The less replicatory artwork, regardless of whether it is considered postmodern or ‘traditional’, coheres with the texts’ decentring of the human by reiterating their inherent multivocality and providing the potential for resistance to logocentric forces. In other words, the combination of multivocal text and non-representational images works to subvert the culturally dominant humanistic ethos of modern Japan.

This orientation towards less determinate meanings and the blurring of subject/object distinctions allows the dialogic interrogation of Kenij’s more polyphonic Buddhist ideals and uncovers underlying notions of an interdependent cosmos where there is no fixed essence. The lowest referentiality and lower modality artwork moves the reader “beyond the dualisms of subject and object, existence and non-existence … beyond the individual unconscious, … [to] a universal reality which lies ‘within’ all beings.”5 This signals the Buddhist interpenetrative significance of non-impededness between ‘this world’ (kono yo) and the ‘otherworld’ (ano yo); an immersion which involves the entire natural universe. The abstract pictorial mode thus works to heighten the spiritual atmosphere, encouraging readers’ awareness of the transcendence of all dualistic substantialism as a major ideological significance. Each artist uses various levels of nonrepresentation to enhance the reader’s relationship with the spiritual essence of the text, to heighten the transcendence of the ‘illusory’ dichotomies between subject and object. Through consciously evoking the unconscious, the lower modality art evokes a sense of the human subject as an interpenetrative part of nature. In other words, the stylised artistic techniques are more explicitly polyphonic and work, through their rejection of replicatory referentiality, to defamiliarise the reality of the world and create reading positions that reiterate the spiritual ‘essence’ of Kenji’s original words. Kobayashi, for instance, has achieved a sense of this cosmological synthesis in a variety of ways. Although his numerous pictures for each story tend to be quite replicatory of narrative events, his simple scratch technique evokes an atmosphere of transparency and spatio-temporal layering that signifies the transience and depth of Kenji’s integrated universe. His carefully rendered lines complement, for example, the ‘Wildcat’ narrative by signifying the sheer transience and illusion of all pride, ego and materialism. His etchings seep through sparse backgrounds to evoke the mystery and beauty behind the greater cosmological force. Kobayashi’s limited palette and sombre hues often deepen the 184

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sense of irony found in the tales and simultaneously create an atmosphere of calm and contentment. Furthermore, Kobayashi subjects viewers into a first-person pictorial subject positioning at climactic junctures to interpellate the reader into a direct interaction with the story phenomena. This can be seen, for instance, in the positioning of the children (and reader) in dialogue with Konzaburō, the fox, in the tale of ‘Snow Crossing’, or in the autodiegetic pictorial experience of the crabs’ fear in ‘Wild Pear.’ Another clever extra-textual interaction is found in Kobayashi’s parodic closing pictures to ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ whereby he provokes deeper consideration of the tale’s theme of the threat of erasure through materialism. In comparison, in Suzuki Kōji’s humorous depiction of the same narrative, ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders,’ bright flashes of colour are etched through empty blackness to evoke a similar sense of erasure as the men shed their clothes on their path through the restaurant. Further, the ‘demand’ of Suzuki’s winking owl in the frontispiece creates an immediately dialogic contract and a satirical levity that counteracts the tale’s sense of fear. It invites complicity in the joke of the would-be hunters’ complete lack of awareness of the danger that their material embeddedness brings. Satō Kunio, the illustrator of ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’, ‘Snow Crossing,’ and ‘Gōshu the Cellist,’ is also quite replicatory in his ‘narrative’ depictions. Instead of limiting the narrative, however, his cleverly ‘naïve’ woodcuts, with their highly visible woodgrain, are executed with a spontaneity that accords with the mingei tradition which encourages a transcendent loss of self through the artistic process.6 The form itself conjures an integrative natural cosmos but his framing and symbolism also poke fun at the clash between culture and nature. By gently framing the fantasies in flora and by using fauna or light as symbols, Satō encourages a viewpoint of ‘reality’ within nature. His woodgraining is also used to great effect in his introductory and closing tableaus for ‘Snow Crossing,’ where the empty landscape and hazy, shadowy silhouettes evoke a sense of the immateriality of this world as

an imitation of a higher reality. The heavily evident graining at crucial points further distorts the sense of the ‘real,’ signifying the ethereal transience within the story which provides a particularly affecting experience of Kenji’s ‘different space’ (ikūkan). The absence of characters in Katao’s pictures of ‘Snow Crossing’ similarly works with defamiliarisation techniques that distort the dualistic sense of the here-and-now to encourage a more cosmological merger between humanity and nature. This absence and the artistic stylisation yield a profound feeling of the emptiness of the larger universe. For instance, Katao’s first scene shows an empty, misty landscape without any human figures, and when they do appear in later spreads, they seem to be extracted from the grainy atmosphere, both arising from yet merging with their surroundings to render a floating non-gravitational ‘otherworld.’ His atmospheric black and white pictures, at a further remove from ‘reality’ than colour, reject all notion of clarity. The distortion and dissonance signify the everyday made strange, suggesting the illusion of the material world and the recesses beyond. Tsukasa, who has depicted two of the tales discussed here, has used a different technique for each one, computer graphics for ‘Wildcat and the Acorns,’ and his earlier trademark scratch method for ‘Gōshu the Cellist.’ His psychedelic and iridescent colours against the black background for ‘Wildcat’ perpetrate a dazzling ‘otherworld’ quality and create a bright, intriguing atmosphere. Instead of clearly describing the distinction between the two realms, this offers an effervescent, integrative flavour that coheres with the transience and ethereality signified through the moral about pride and ego. Together with the suggestion of negative, reverberating images, the lack of depth and perspective on the black picture plane suggests a merger between all the positive and negative aspects in the universe, focussing on an interpenetrative oneness. For the tale of ‘Gōshu the Cellist’ on the other hand, besides the layering qualities evoked by his scratch technique, Tsukasa suggests deeper Buddhist significances through animal symbolism. 185

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Four of the most sustained abstract or nonreferential picture books are: Lee’s ‘Wildcat;’ Kim’s ‘Wild Pear;’ Nakura’s ‘Gōshu the Cellist;’ and Katao’s ‘Snow Crossing.’ As seen in Chapters 3 and 6 respectively Lee’s and Kim’s books, both from the same series, completely reject any replicatory representation. Such abstraction works metafictively by drawing attention to the artifice of the text(s) that makes readers work to draw more psychological and/or spiritual connections with the words. Katao’s ‘Snow Crossing’ and Nakura’s ‘Gōshu the Cellist,’ while not completely abstract, both distort the sense of time and space to construct a similar psychological exploration. It is these four books which offer the most sustained dialogic rejection of individualistic subjectivity by allowing a deeper exploration of the co-dependent interpenetration with the entire cosmos that is suggested in the narratives. Nakura’s ‘Gōshu the Cellist,’ for instance, accesses nature through surrealistic images that incite a psychological exploration of a holistic universe. To access the spiritual integration between humanity and nature, he juxtaposes material culture against natural phenomena through the musical allusions in the text (telephone/musical wires and strings attached to cello-trees etc). In contrast, in Kim’s ‘Wild Pear’, the surrealistic water drops (as nature) on newspaper (as culture) exploit the nature/culture dichotomy. The images allow for the dialogic exploration of consumption as a continuum of existence, symbolised through the life cycle of a pear. In comparison, Lee’s different brush strokes for ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ create a frisson between the touch of the brush and the blank white page. The brushwork thus metafictively alludes to the nature/culture dichotomy by evoking the tension between the natural wind that blows the characters around and Wildcat’s cultural sense of pride. Reading both Kim’s and Lee’s pictures requires a mixture of self-reflexive thought and imagination to create meaning from the combination of the verbal text and the accompanying images or strokes. This encourages a more intuitive, psychological interaction with the narrative that coheres with

the loss of subjectivity needed for any deeper sense of integration with the wider universe. Many artists also use penumbra, aureolae and mandalas to evoke a sense of subliminal interdependence. Katao, for instance, combines these features in his floating depictions of the characters of ‘Snow Crossing’ in ‘cosmic dances’ surrounded by ethereal coronae. Besides cleverly accessing Japanese foxlore (with his foxfire balls), Katao’s resolution resonates with a quiet mandala-like fusion where all sense of matter is imbued with the weightlessness of one huge amorphous realm. Suzuki Mamoru’s ‘Snow Crossing’ on the other hand constructs a particular sense of temporality with a staccato-like movement by alternating ‘stills’ with more ‘active’ pictures. By punctuating the end of the story’s Part 1 with a saliently hallowed deer, he heightens the notion of its higher-order intangibility. In his Part 2, the contrast of a vortex of fox shapes evokes the frenzy of a centrifugal yet immersive ritual of ‘cosmic union.’ Like Katao’s ‘cosmic dances,’ Suzuki renders the magic merger of the foxes’ dance as a kind of climactic apotheosis, but he then contra-punctuates this with two calmer plates; an ossified fox under the moon; and the siblings’ tiny figures, surrounded by aureolae, going home amid the wide expanse of landscape under a mandala-moon that symbolises unity and perfection. Itō’s rendering of the closure to ‘Kenjū’s Park’ offers another peaceful, yet this time more centrifugal, mandala-moon above the floating Kenjū who appears to be ‘pushing forward’ towards viewer space, inviting a similar transcendence within a sanctified cosmos. Ultimately, each of the pictorial styles constructs a particular atmosphere of immersion to reach beyond the material dualism of this earthly world and heighten the spiritual sense of cosmic union. The most successful artwork does this by rejecting referential cohesiveness, making readers process all the cultural and textual fragments or discordances at their disposal to create their own interpretations of a higher order world. This process not only promotes a dialogic reading approach but also heightens the transcendent significances. 186

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By consciously disrupting the habitual way of looking, disconcerting notions of reality, the worldas-we-know-it, the more stylised art connotes a more transcendental or mystical heterotopia. Operating together with cultural knowledge and conventions, this encourages the reader beyond an individualist viewpoint towards an intersubjective experience of merger with a more holistic cosmos. This investigation not only demonstrates how disparate artistic interpretations can shift the nuances of Kenji’s fixed words, but also the ways in which ideological metanarratives are being (re-)

inscribed in (post-) modern picture books. The more imaginative artists open up ways of seeing that allow the interrogation and exploration of the world from less familiar subject positions and simultaneously express life-affirming messages about the integrative nature of being. Against the void of declining cultural traditions in Japan and elsewhere, the artists’ very attempt to re-vision Kenji’s texts basically rejects all materialism and individualism, and the more dialogic the artwork, the more profound the reaffirmation of the aspiration for a cosmological worldview that recognises humanity’s interdependence with nature.

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Endnotes Introduction 1 The conventional order of Japanese names is that the family name is followed by the given name, but Miyazawa Kenji is commonly known by his given name, Kenji, rather than being called, for example, by his family name, Miyazawa, or by a pseudonyms (gagō) such as Sōseki or Ōgai. As this usage is widespread both in Japan and among international scholars, he will henceforth be referred to as Kenji unless otherwise stipulated. For all other Japanese names, the conventional order will be used; that is, family name followed by given name. When referring to academic works written in English by Japanese authors, the conventional order for English is used. 2 The word dōwa, literally children’s stories, will be interchanged with ‘tales.’ These dōwa are, of course, different from the more classical monogatari (which is also translated as ‘tale’; for example, Genji Monogatari – The Tale of Genji). 3 The literary canon is “a body of texts larger than the sum of its members”; Gorak, The Making of the Modern Canon (London: Athlone, 1991), p. 259. Writers and interested parties are active in the construction of this canon of ‘suitable’ children’s literary texts; Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1998), p. 8. 4 For further discussion as to debates on the suitability of Kenji’s tales for children-see, for example, Taguchi, Kenji Dōwa no Sei to Shi (Tokyo: Yōyōsha, 1991), p. 217; Kobayashi, “Yoku Mikiki Shi Wakari Soshite Agamezu,” Miyazawa Kenji Kaigakan (Tokyo: Aputo Intānashonaru, 1995–6), pp. 100–101; (1995–6); Suzuki, “Chūmon on Ōi Ryōriten” in Kokubungaku (1989), pp. 100–101. 5 Recent exhibitions include: September 2007 at the Hiratsuka Museum of Art, see: http://www.city .hiratsuka.kanagawa.jp/art-muse/2007203.html; and July-September 2010 at the Oyama City Museum, see: http://www.city.oyama.tochigi.jp/kyoikuiinkai /kurumayabizyutukan/tenrankai/koremade/heisei22/ miyazawakenji.html. 6 There is a distinction between illustrated books (with the occasional illustration) and picture books of larger format (with full pictures on every page). The words and pictures of the latter are usually created in conjunction with each other symbiotically, even when reproducing a pre-existing ‘classic.’ Because Kenji’s

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words remain unchanged, however, the picture books under discussion here provide an exception to the co-productive convention. Nishida Yoshiko (personal communication, August, 2000). Single quotation marks will be used throughout when referring to titles of stories rather than book titles or journal articles. Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” Jugyō ni Ikiru Miyazawa Kenji (Tokyo: Tosho Bunka Sha, 1996) p. 20. Stephens and Watson, From Picture Book to Literary Theory (Sydney: St. Claire Press, 1994), p. 52. Stephens and McCallum define metanarratives as “implicit and invisible ideologies, systems and assumptions which operate globally in a society to order knowledge and experience”; Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1998), pp. 2–3. Examples of metanarratives are fictions, historiography, personal narratives that, “are shaped so as to conform with culturally desirable narrative shapes”; Stephens and Watson, From Picture Book to Literary Theory (Sydney: St. Claire Press, 1994), p. 52. McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1999), p.3. Kami, “Ehon no Rekishi,” Kodomo no Hon to Dokusho no Jiten (Tokyo: Iwasaki Shoten, 1983), p. 25. Tsukamoto found at least sixteen different versions of this particular story. (Some of these are discussed in Chapter 7.) She surveys school children about their preferences and reactions to the covers and makes a brief examination of how the cover illustrations have nuanced the tale historically. Tsukamoto, “‘Chūmon on Ōi Ryōriten’ no Juyō to Irasutorēshon ni kansuru Kōsatsu,” Gengo Hyōgen Kenkyū, vol. 17 (March, 2001). ‘Intertextual’ will be used throughout this investigation in the full Kristevan sense, that is: “to signify the multiple ways in which any one literary text is inseparably inter-involved with other texts, whether by its open or covert citations and allusions, or by its assimilation of the formal and substantive features of an earlier text or texts, or … by its unavoidable participation in the common stock of linguistic and literary conventions and procedures that are “always already” in place and constitute the discourses into which we are born. … [A]ny text is an ‘intertext’ – the site of an intersection of numberless other texts, including those which will be

notes to pages 3–9

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written in the future”; Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms (Fort Worth, Orlandon: Harcourt Brace College Pub., 1993), p. 285. McCallum has further pointed out that intertextuality is “an implicitly polyphonic narrative strategy because it enables the representation of multiple simultaneous intersecting voices, discourses and subjectivities within a text; McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 264. The importance of such dialogic aspects will become clearer in Chapter 2. Discussion of artistic conventions and reading strategies will also be included in the later chapters on the picture books. The word ‘transtextual’ will be used when referring to the connections between verbal text and pictures within the same picture book. Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories, p. 18. Hunt, “Introduction,” Understanding Children’s Literature (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), p. 8. Stephens, Language and Ideology in Children’s Fiction (London and New York: Longman, 1992), p. 162. Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories, p. 8. Ibid., p. 26. See, for example, Strong, Night of the Milky Way Railway (New York and London: M.E. Sharpe, 1991); Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales”; Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview (Osaka: Yodogawa Printing Company, 1995); Mori, “The Epic of Transition” (PhD Diss., Pennsylvania State University, 1990); Fromm, “The Ideals of Miyazawa Kenji” (PhD Diss., Faculty of Arts, London, University of London, 1980); Golley, When Our Eyes No Longer See (Harvard: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008). For my article on ‘The Bears of Mount Nametoko,’ see Papers: Explorations into Children’s Literature vol. 7, no. 1, (April 1997), pp. 16–30. Pictorialisations of ‘Yodaka no Hoshi’ (and other stories) have been discussed in my MA thesis (Ideologies inherent in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales: A comparative interpretation of Western and Japanese Picture Books, submitted to Macquarie University, Sydney in 1995). Nishida, Nihon Jidō Bungaku Kenkyū (Tokyo: Makishoten, 1974), p. 124; Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales” (PhD Diss., Department of Asian Studies, University of British Columbia, 1986), p. 86. See Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai”; Hagiwara, “Kenji no Hyōgen” in Nihongogaku: Tokushū: Miyazawa Kenji no Sakuhin to Hyōgen, vol. 19, no. 9 (1997). Kenji continually revised his work, so the dates given here are approximate. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67.

Chapter 1 1 Hatayama, “‘Kenjū Kōenrin’ Kaisetsu,” Kenjū Kōenrin (Tokyo: Shogakkan, 1993), p. 61. 2 See, for example, Winds from Afar (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1972); Wildcat and the Acorns (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1985); Matasaburo the Wind Imp (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1992); and Once and Forever (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1993). 3 This picture books series is published by the International Foundation for the Promotion of Languages and Culture (IFLC) (Tokyo, 2000) with translations by Sarah M Strong and Karen Colligan-Taylor who also provide a brief essay in each volume about the represented story. Information on the RIC project comes from communication with the artist Satō Kunio, whose artwork is discussed in later chapters (December 2011). 4 “Night on the Milky Way Train,” Pulvers, R. (trans), Mainichi Daily News (Sunday English Edition), September 26 – December 12, 1983; “Short Story: Night of the Milkyway Railroad,” Sigrist, S.J. (trans), Japan Quarterly 31 April – June, 1984, pp. 174–83, July – September, pp. 314–63; Night Train to the Stars and other Stories, Bester, J. (trans) (Tokyo: Kōdansha International Ltd.), 1987; Night of the Milky Way Railway: a translation and guide, Strong, S. (trans) (Armonk, NY: Sharpe, 1991); Kenji Miyazawa’s Night on the Milky Way Train, Pulvers, R. (trans) (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1996). (This is not intended to be an exhaustive list but merely an indication of what is available.) Some other translations have now also appeared online. 5 Strong, “Night of the Milky Way Railway”; Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales.” 6 This includes Strong’s PhD thesis, “The Poetry on Miyazawa Kenji” (PhD Diss., University of Chicago, 1984) and that of Fromm, “The Ideals of Miyazawa Kenji” (PhD Diss., University of London, 1980) which concentrates on Kenji’s ideals based on his ‘Outline of Agrarian Art.’ 7 Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales”; Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World. The Tales of Miyazawa Kenji,” Monumenta Nipponica, vol. 47, no. 2 (1992), pp. 241–263; Hagiwara, “The Boddihsattva Ideal and the Idea of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Life and Literature,” Journal of the Association of Teachers of Japanese, vol. 27, no. 1 (1993), pp. 35–56. The concept of innocence inevitably arises when speaking about Kenji and his work. It is inextricably related to his Buddhist ideals and to the childlike innocence of characters such as Kenjū, in Kenjū’s Park (which is discussed in Chapter 5). 8 It is largely due to the breadth and depth of the work of the few researchers mentioned here that my own analysis can focus more on the interplay between the verbal and pictorial representations. Kerstin Vidaeus’s

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thorough research entitled Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters and Worldview, provides a synopsis of each of ninety four (94) tales in English, replete with notes, then goes on to introduce the characters, Kenji’s worldview and finally, his biography and a useful reading list of works on Miyazawa Kenji. This is a useful starting point in English for research into Kenji’s tales. Golley, When Our Eyes No Longer See. The Daily Yomiuri, February 20, 1995. This article is entitled Hōgo 60 nen: Miyazawa Kenji no senkensei – subete no seibutsu ga heiwa ni kuraseru shakai (Miyazawa’s Foresight: A Society in which all Living Creatures can Live Peacefully: sixty years after his death) (December 12, 1993). These are the first two lines of the untitled poem. This translation is by Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era (New York: Henry Holt and Company Inc, 1984), p. 290. The poem is also known as November 3rd, the date recorded in Kenji’s notebook in about 1931. For the original see Kōhon Miyazawa Kenji Zenshū (The Complete Works of Miyazawa Kenji), KMKZ, vol. 12, no. 1, pp. 44–46. For similar evaluations see, for example, Tsuzukihashi, Kenji Dōwa no Tenkai (Tokyo: Dai Nippon Tosho, 1987), p. 5. Ueda, Modern Japanese Poets and the Nature of Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1983), p. 210. Hara is the editor of the Glossarial Dictionary of Miyazawa Kenji and the New Glossarial Dictionary of Miyazawa Kenji. Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten (Tokyo: Tokyo Shoseki, 1989a); Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten (Tokyo: Tokyo Shoseki, 2000). Hara, “Makoto no Buntaironteki Hiyō e no Kitai,” Nihongogaku: Tokushū Miyazawa Kenji no Sakuhin to Hyōgen, vol. 16, no. 9 (1997), pp. 6–8. For further detail of Hara’s exposition and a critique of this style of reading, in relation to illustrated versions of Kenji’s tales as monologic, see Chapter 2. Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories, p. 7. Also see Nodelman on some of the pitfalls in reading crosscultural codes and symbols of representation. Nodelman, “Illustration and Picture Books,” International Companion Encyclopaedia of Children’s Literature, ed. Peter Hunt (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 264–7 Stephens, Language and Ideology in Children’s Fiction, p. 14. Yoshimoto, “The Difficulty of Being Radical: The Discipline of Film Studies and the Postcolonial World Order,” Japan in the World, ed. M. H. Masao and H. D. Harootunian (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1993), p. 342. For further discussion of the potential problems of ‘speaking for the other’ in relation to Japan, see, for example, Pincus, “In a

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Labryinth of Western Desire: Kuki Shuzo and the Discovery of Japanese Being,” Japan in the World, ed. M. H. Masao and H. D. Harootunian (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1993) and Miyoshi and Harootunian, ed., Postmodernism and Japan (Durhan and London: Duke University Press, 1989), passim. McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 8. Mouer and Sugimoto, “Nihonjinron at the End of the Twentieth Century: A Multicultural Perspective,” Japanese Encounters with Postmodernity, ed. J. P. Arnason and Y. Sugimoto (London and New York: Kegan Paul International, 1995), p. 242. Also see Toshiko Ellis, “Questioning Modernism and Postmodernism in Japanese Literature,” Japanese Encounters with Postmodernity, ed. J. P. Arnason and Y. Sugimoto (London and New York: Kegan Paul International, 1995). Barthes, Empire of the Signs, trans. Richard Howard (New York: The Noonday Press, 1982), p. 4. This biographical information comes from various sources including: Amazawa, Shinchō Nihon no Arubamu: Miyazawa Kenji (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1984); Nishida, “Futago no Hoshi Kenji Dōwa no Genten,” Kokubungaku Kaishaku to Kanshō, vol. 11 (1996); Tsuzukihashi, “Kenji Dōwa Zensakuhin Mokuroku,” Kokubungaku, vol. 31, no. 6 (1986); Tsuzukihashi, Nihon Bungaku no Kindai (Tokyo: Genchōsha, 1990); Kudō, “On the Poet Miyazawa Kenji,” Japan Quarterly, vol. xxxviii, no. 3 (July – September, 1991); Keene, Dawn to the West; Yasuda, “Miyazawa Kenji,” Kōdansha Encyclopaedia of Japan (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1983); Strong, Night of the Milky Way Railway; Ueda, Modern Japanese Poets and the Nature of Literature (Stanford: Standford University Press, 1983); Onda, Miyazawa Kenji Ron (Tokyo, Shoseki, 1991); Satō, Miyazawa Kenji Selections (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007). Also see http://www.i-hatov.com/kenji/datakenji.html. Satō, A Future of Ice: Poems and Stories of a Japanese Buddhist Miyazawa Kenji (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1989), p. xiv. Along with poets such as Takamura Kōtarō and Kusano Shinpei, Ishikawa Takuboku is now considered one of the progenitors of modern Japanese poetry (as exemplified in what is known as ‘free verse’ style with an emphasis on colloquial language). Tanka is a type of traditional Japanese poetry made up of 31 syllables made up of five lines in a syllabic pattern of 5-7-5-7-7. See Nishida, “Futago no Hoshi,” p. 45. ‘Happiness’ might be better translated as ‘harmony’ in the sense of a balanced relationship among equally respected beings, without any sense of a self-centred or egoistic partiality. See Niwano, Buddhism for Today: A Modern Interpretation of the Threefold Lotus Sutra (Tokyo: Kōsei Publishing Co., 1990), pp. 188–191) for

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further clarification of this kind of happiness in relation to the fundamental principles of Buddhism, ‘The Seal of the Three Laws’ of Buddhism (“All things are impermanent,” “Nothing has an ego,” and “Nirvana is quiescence”). See later discussion in this chapter. He based his ideas of this ‘different space’ on his study of Einstein’s relativity theory and the fourth dimension. See later discussion. The nine tales, in order of appearance, are: Yamaneko to Donguri (Wildcat and the Acorns); Ōi no Mori to Zaru Mori, Nusuto Mori (Wolf Forest, Basket Forest and Thief Forest); Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (The Restaurant of Many Orders); Karasu to Hokutoshichisei (The Crow and the Big Dipper); Suisenzuki no Yokka (The Fourth Month of Narcissus); Yamaotoko no Shigatsu (The Mountain Man in April); Kashiwabayashi no Yoru (Night in the Oak Forest); Tsukiyo no Denshinbashira (Electric Light Poles in the Moonlight); and Shika no Harjimari (How the Deer Dance Began). Two of the stories from this volume will be discussed in later chapters: ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko); and ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten) (in Chapters 3 & 6 respectively). The other tales have not been published as often in picture book form. Rasu is a word created by Kenji. There is no record of its formulation but scholars and friends have offered suggestions. For instance, ‘rasu’ has been seen as: a transliteration of ‘lath’ (as a pillar of farming); the first syllable of rustic or of John Ruskin’s (1819–1900) surname; or a reverse reading of shu-ra. For a summary of the various possible meanings of the name of the society, see Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 743–44). Onda, Miyazawa Kenji Ron, p. 264; also see KMKZ, vol. 12, no. 1, pp. 17–20. Onda, Miyazawa Kenji Ron, p. 269. For more information on how Kenji was influenced by William Morris, see for instance, Tada, “Miyazawa Kenji to Uiriamu Morisu,” Miyazawa Kenji II (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1983), pp. 212–225. The bodhisattva chooses to forgo salvation to help others achieve buddhahood, remaining in the phenomenal world until all sentient beings have attained enlightenment. For more information, see, for instance, Mircea Eliade, ed., The Encyclopaedia of Religion, (New York: MacMillan, 1987), pp. 265–69). Videaus, Miyazawa Kenji, pp. 271–272; Horio, Nenpu Miyazawa Kenji Den (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1991), p. 240. Golley, When Our Eyes No Longer See, p. 189. Satō, A Future of Ice, p. xv. Hagiwara, “Īhatōbu no Kaze kara Kīta Ohanashi,” Futago no Hoshi, ed. T Amazawa and M. Hagiwara (Tokyo: Kumon Shuppasha, 1993), p. 39. These ideas are expressed in the poem as dekunobō (literally

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‘blockhead,’ but translated by Takao Hagiwara as ‘good-for-nothing’). This concept is discussed in detail in Chapter 5. For more on such debates, see for example, Hara, “Kenji Jūyō no Genzai,” Kokubungaku: Kaishaku to Kyōzai no Kenkyū (Tokushū: Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu Tame no Kenkyū Jiten), vol. 34, no. 14 (1989), p. 6; and Strong, “On the Poetry of Miyazawa Kenji.” Satō, A Future of Ice, p. xiii; Satō, Miyazawa Kenji: Selections. For a view criticising Kenji’s status as a saint, see Yoshida Tsukasa, Miyazawa Kenji Satsujin Jiken (Tokyo: Ōta Shuppan, 1997). Keene, Dawn to the West, p. 284. Colligan-Taylor, The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1990), p. 3. Ibid., p. 34. This is a story about an orphan puppy who is raised by a cow then, in a show of filial piety, avenges his parents against a tiger and a fox. Whereas the theme was familiar to previous folktales, the entertaining style and colloquial voice has seen this tale characterised as a departure that captured the ‘imagination of childhood.’ Ericson, “Introduction,” A Rainbow in the Desert: An Anthology of Early Twentieth-Century Japanese Children’s Literature (Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe, 2001), p. ix. Muta, Unpublished paper presented at the Combined Conference on Youth Literature, Perth, IBBY The International Board on Books for Young People, September 1985. Torigoe, “Japanese Children’s Literature in the 1920s,” The Artists and the Picturebook: The Twenties and the Thirties (Tokyo: JBBY, 1992), p. 5; Kami, “The Akahon Culture of the 1920s,” The Artists and the Picturebook (Tokyo, JBBY, 1992), p. 29. Matsui, “Introduction: The Exhibition of Japanese Children’s Books of the 1920s,” The Artists and the Picturebook: The Twenties and the Thirties (Tokyo: JBBY, 1992), p. 1. Torigoe, “Japanese Children’s Literature in the 1920s,” p. 5; also see Kami, “The Akahon Culture of the 1920s.” Seki, “Jidō Bungaku: Sono Zenshi kara Gendai made,” Nihon no Kodomo no Bungaku Ten, ed. K. Ōta (Yokohama: Kaminarakawa Literature Foundation, 1985), p. 19; Torigoe, “Japanese Children’s Literature in the 1920s,” p. 5; Matsui, “The Akahon Culture of the 1920s,” pp. 1–2. Red Bird carried numerous children’s stories by such major writers as Akutagawa Ryūnosuke and Arishima Takeo and the poems of Kitahara Hakushū and Saijō Yaso, authors who have retained an enduring appeal in the Japanese literary world. The journal stood out, together with Kodomo no Kuni (Children’s Land),

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among the children’s journals of the day. They were both more ‘high-brow,’ concentrating on complete literary pieces written specifically for children, whereas the content of the ‘pulp magazines’ consisted of a mixture of short stories, serialised novels and practical advice articles, various commentaries etc. Kami, “The Akahon Culture of the 1920s,” p. 29. Fukazawa, “Gaka no Kotoba,” Miyazawa Kenji: Dowa no Sekai Ten (Ibaraki: Ibaraki Ken Kindai Bijutsukan, 1991), p. 39; Fukuzawa, “Kikuchi to Kenji: Futari no Kessho,” Ehon, vol. 5, no. 9 (1977), p. 27. Tatsumi, “Miyazawa Kenji no Shōgai to Shisō,” Kaze no Matasaburō, ed. Seiroku Miyazawa (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1972), p. 244. Nishida, Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu (Osaka, Sōgensha, 1995a), p. 9; Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 270. Tsurumi, “From Meiji to Taisho,” The Artists and the Picturebook: The Twenties and the Thirties (Tokyo: JBBY, 1992), p. 13. Tsuzukihashi, Kenji Dōwa no Tenkai, p. 5; S. Itō, “Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten,” Miyazawa Kenji Hikkei, vol. 6 (1980), pp. 126–7. Ishī et al, Kodomo to Bungaku (Tokyo: Fukuinkan Shoten, 1981), pp. 90–1. There is also a more recent collection. It is known as the ‘Shinshū Miyazawa Kenji Zenshū’ (SMKZ – The New Collection of the Complete Works of Miyazawa Kenji, 1980) which has slight alterations to make written characters more accessible to modern readers. Roger Pulvers, trans., Strong in the Rain: Selected Poems. Miyazawa Kenji (Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books, 2007), p. 26. Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” pp. 243–244; Fromm, “The Ideals of Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 235. Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” pp. 241– 243. As Hagiwara suggests, such innocence is recognised through a realisation of the senselessness of this world of desires, competitiveness and deceptions, materialism, pride, envy – all the brutality of life as we know it. Hagiwara, “The Boddihsattva Ideal,” pp. 63–67. Bester, Winds from Afar (Tokyo: Kōdansha International, 1972), p. 8. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 175. Colligan-Taylor, The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan, p. 48. Satō, A Future of Ice, p. xvii. Numerous scholars have mentioned Kenji’s ‘difference.’ See for instance: Umehara, “Shura no Sekai o Koete: Miyazawa Kenji no Sekai,” Jigoku no Shisō (Tokyo: Chuko, 1967), pp. 295–6; Nishida, Miyazawa Kenji: Sono Dokujisei to Dōjidaisei (Tokyo: Hayashi

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Shobō, 1995b), p. 3; Colligan-Taylor, The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan, p. 44; Morton, “Foraging on Green Mountain: An Exploration of the Modern in Twentieth Century Japanese Poetry,” Ulitarra, vol. 4 (1993), p. 42; Kudō, “On the Poet Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 332; and Keene, Dawn to the West, p. 283. Morton, “Foraging on the Green Mountain,” p. 42. Umehara, “Shura no Sekai o Koete,” pp. 295–6. Also see Videaus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 226. Kenji’s particular ‘style’ of Buddhism was Nichiren. The Lotus Sutra is central to the Nichiren sect (and others such as Tendai). Nichiren follows the Mahayana tradition (of Southern Buddhism) but, being a specifically Japanese incarnation, maintains some differences from this tradition (and from other Japanese sects). For further details, see, for example, Pelzel, “Human Nature in the Japanese Myths,” Personality in Japanese History, ed. Albert M. Craig and Donald H. Shively (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970); Endō, “Nichiren Shonin’s View of Humanity: The Final Dharma Age and the Three Thousand Realms in One Thought-Moment,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, trans. J. Stone, vol. 26, no. 3–4 (1999); and Itō, “Nichirenshū,” Sekai Daihyakka Jiten (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1988). Ōe, “Japan’s Dual Identity: A Writer’s Dilemma,” Postmodernism and Japan, ed. M. Miyoshi and H. D. Harootunian (Durham: Duke University Press, 1989), p. 213. S. Itō, “Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten,” Miyazawa Kenji Hikkei, vol. 6, p. 126. See Satō, “Donguri to Yamaneko,” Kokubungaku, vol. 34 (December, 1989), p. 96. The two exceptions were ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (Donguri to Yamaneko) and ‘The Restaurant of Many Orders’ (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten), discussed here in Chapters 3 and 7 respectively. Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen,’” Nihongogaku: Tokushū, Miyazawa Kenji no Sakuhin to Hyōgen, vol. 16, no. 9 (1997), p. 48. For a summary of these views, see Itō Shinichirō, “Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten,” Miyazawa Kenji Hikkei, vol. 6, p. 126. The meaning of Īhatōbu remains rather elusive but it is generally considered to be Iwate, the prefecture where Kenji lived. Kaneko has broken the term down from English connections into ‘I’ of Iwate, the ‘hāto’ as ‘heart’ and the ‘obu’ as ‘of,’ creating “Iwate as the heart of Japan.” Kaneko, “Īhatōbu no Chizu o Megutte,” Ehon, vol. 5, no. 9 (1977), pp. 22. Also see Hara for various theories ranging from the term as a combination of Esperanto and German to suggestions of the meaning of ‘I don’t know where’ and ‘Paradise.’ Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 59–60. Hara indicates that it first appeared in a 1923 poem (p. 60).

notes to pages 16–19 78 Napier, The Fantastic in Modern Japanese Literature: The Subversion of Modernity (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 226–7. 79 Suzuki, K., “Kenjū Kōenrin: Oboegaki: Tasha no Zonzai,” Miyazawa Kenji Gensō Kūkan no Kōzō (Tokyo: Sōkyū Shorn, 1994), p. 9. 80 Isogai, H., “Nihon Kindai Bungaku Shijō ni okeru Miyazawa Kenji,” Nihonbungaku Kenkyū Shiryō Kankōkai, ed. Takamura Kōtarō (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1973), pp. 169–70. 81 Western children’s literature, for example, is essentially oriented by humanist views, driven by pre-modern conceptions of the individual, the self and the child and does not usually embrace anti-humanist ideologies. McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 4. 82 Hagiwara, “The Boddihsattva Ideal,” p. 51. 83 Ibid. 84 Ibid. 85 Ibid., p. 52. 86 Keene, Dawn to the West, p. 184. 87 For Kenji’s unusual romanticism with relation to his Īhatōbu dreamland, see Okada, Kodomo no Hon no Miryoku, p. 33. 88 Karatani, “One Spirit, Two Nineteenth Centuries,” Postmodernism and Japan, ed. M. Masao and H. D. Harootunian (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1989), p. 271; For further discussion of metanarratives in relation to the pictorial re-visionings of Kenji’s tales, see Chapter 2. 89 Karatani argues that, in 1980s Japan, parody, pastiche and collage had become dominant trends and that the associated exteriority of language – that is, the rejection of the notion that the ‘I’/subject controls its own discourse independent of social context – harks back to a pre-modern Japanese metanarrative. Karatani, “One Spirit, Two Nineteenth Centuries,” p. 188. Bowen Raddeker and Faure, have criticised Karatani’s claims because of their “reverse- or self-orientalism” partly on the basis that such claims are new variants of Nihonjinron ideology. That is, claims that Japan was ‘postmodern’ before anyone else simply add to the chorus of ‘Japan as number 1.’ Bowen Raddeker, “Takuboku’s “Poetic Diary” and Barthes’s Anti-autobiography: (Postmodernist?) Fragmented Selves in Fragments of a Life,’” Japanese Studies: Bulletin of the Japanese Studies Association of Australia, vol. 19, no. 2 (1999), p. 188; Faure, “The Kyoto School and Reverse Orientalism,” Japan in Traditional and Postmodern Perspectives, ed. Charles Wei-hsun Fu and S. Heine (New York: State University of New York Press, 1995), p. 267. 90 Sasaki-Uemura, “Tanigawa Gan’s Politics of the Margins in Kyushu and Nagano,” Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique, vol. 7, no. 1 (Spring, 1999), p. 152;

Tanigawa edited a picture book cassette series of Kenji’s tales. Two of the picture books from this series are analysed in later chapters. For further discussion of this series and Tanigawa’s motivations, see Chapter 2. 91 Easthope & McGowan, A Critical and Cultural Theory Reader (Toronto and Buffalo: University of Toronto Press, 1997), p. 67. 92 Ibid. Emphasis in the original. 93 Ibid. 94 Sasaki-Uemura, “Tanigawa Gan’s Politics,” p. 153. 95 Nihonjinron is literally ‘discussions on being Japanese’ but has been called a ‘science of the same’ (Miyoshi & Harootunian, 1989: xv), involving purposive ideologies of homogeneity. Miyoshi and Harootunian, ed., Postmodernisn and Japan (Durham and London: Duke University Press), p. xv. 96 On Kenji’s more dynamic view of nature, see, for instance, Sakai, Hyōden Miyazawa Kenji (Tokyo: Ōfūsha, 1968), pp. 366–367; Hagiwara, “Īhatōbu no Kaze kara kīta Ohanashi,” p. 74); Colligan-Taylor, The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan, p. 38, and Videaus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 222. For further explication of shizen, see Kōdansha Encylopaedia of Japan, vol. 5, 1983, p. 357. 97 Sakai, Hyōden Miyazawa Kenji, pp. 366–7. 98 See KMKZ vol. 9, p. 17. For the online version of the diary, see http://why.kenji.ne.jp/douwa/82arunou .html. 99 Sakai, Hyōden Miyazawa Kenji, pp. 371–3. 100 Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 277. 101 Tamura, “The Ideas of the Lotus Sutra,” The Lotus Sutra in Japanese Culture (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1989), pp. 41–2. 102 Itō, “Nichirenshū.” 103 Watson, “Introduction,” Spring & Asura, ed. H. Satō (Chicago Review Press, 1973), p. xv. 104 Nichiren (1222–82) regarded the doctrine of ichinen sanzen as “the essence of Buddha’s teachings.” Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 109. This is related to the idea of dependent co-origination (innen shōki) which, in turn, coheres with the cosmic law (dharma) of interpenetration among all phenomena (rijimuge hokkai and jijimuge hokkai). The difference between rijimuge hokkai and jijimuge hokkai is that the former relates to the “non-impededness of the noumenal and the phenomenal,” while the latter is “non-impededness among phenomenal things, e.g., a man and a tree.” Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 77. 105 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, pp. 114–5. 106 Matsunaga & Matsunaga, Foundation of Japanese Buddhism (Los Angeles and Tokyo: Buddhist Books International, 1976), pp. 164–5.

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notes to pages 19–23 132 KMKZ, 12, vol. 1, p. 15. 133 Such peritextual ‘jo’ are ideologically influential, and besides being used by teachers with school textbooks (see, for example, Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” 1996), are also included as part of the peritext in some of the picture books discussed later. Gerard Genette’s idea of paratextuality includes the concept of the peritext which implies that the physical qualities of books, such as their paper, covers and illustrations etc, have a significant importance in the reading experience. Genette, “Paratexts,” Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 134 The is one of the most oft-cited poems to explain Kenji’s world view. See, for instance, Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 72; Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten; Satō, Miyazawa Kenji: Selections. The AC stands for alternating current which was a modern concept at the time. 135 This translation is by Satō, A Future of Ice, p. 29, but it could also translate as “Just as I am in all phenomena, all phenomena are in me.” Also see Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 47. 136 Umehara, Shura no Sekai no Koete: Miyazawa Kenji no Sekai, p. 200. 137 Ibid. Also see Satō Hiroaki, Miyazawa Kenji: Selections, p. 50. 138 Nishida, Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu, p.12; Also see Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 189. 139 Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. 140 Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 76–77. 141 A heterotopia refers to fictional “spaces in which a number of possible orders of being can coincide.” Stephens, “Modernism to Postmodernism, or the Line from Insk to Onsk: William Mayne’s Tiger’s Railway,” Papers, vol. 3, no. 2 (1992), p. 52. 142 Okada, Kodomo no Hon no Miryoku (Nagoya: KTC Shuppan, 1992), p. 32. 143 Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. 144 KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 388. This translation is by Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” pp. 243–4. 145 Tatsumi, “Miyazawa Kenji to no Sakuhin,” Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Tokyo: Shinchosha, 1961), p. 272. 146 As Hagiwara has noted: “It is suggestive that, according to Japanese tradition and customs, the dead, whether they were ‘good’ or ‘evil’ in their lives, are invariably called hotokesama (venerable Buddha, the enlightened one).” Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. 147 KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 389; This translation is by Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” pp. 243–4.

107 For further explanation of the worlds in relation to Kenji’s poetics, see Watanabe Hōyō, “Hokekyō no Shijin: Miyazawa Kenji: Kenji no Bungaku ni miru Shūkyōsei,” Hokekyō o Ikiru, ed. Tamura Yoshirō and Watanabe Hōyō (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1984), pp. 7–8. For discussion of the entire ten realms as containing the Buddha within the senses of the heart and mind, see Suzuki, Miyazawa Kenji Gensō Kūkan no Kōzō (Tokto: Sōkyū Shorin, 1994), p. 22. 108 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 103. 109 Ibid., p. 110. 110 Ibid., p. 101. 111 Ibid. 112 Hagiwara, “Irasutorēshon ga Kanaderu Kenji no Ginga,” Art Express, vol. 4 (Autumn, 1994), p. 95. 113 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 32. This sense of enlightenment arises from the Lotus sense of harmony. See Niwano on the aforementioned “Seal of the Three Laws’ of Buddhism” (pp. 188–191). 114 Mori, “The Epic in Transition: John Keats’s ‘Fall of Hyperion’ and Miyazawa Kenji’s ‘Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru’” (PhD Diss., Pennsylvania State University, 1990), p. 53. 115 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 108. 116 Bester, Once and Forever (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1993), p. x. 117 Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 226. 118 KMKZ, vol. 12, no. 1, p. 9. This translation is adapted from those of Ōe Kenzaburō, “Japan’s Dual Identity,” p. 213, and Fromm, “The Ideals of Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 71. 119 Ueda, Modern Japanese Poets and the Nature of Literature, p. 209. 120 KMKZ, vol. 13, pp. 453–54. 121 Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 46. 122 Sukuzi, Miyazawa Kenji Gensō Kūkan no Kōzō, p. 27. 123 Umehara, “Miyazawa Kenji to Fūshi Seishin,” Gendaishi Dokuhon (Tokyo: Shichōsha, 1979) pp. 164–5. 124 Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 175. 125 Colligan-Taylor, The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan, p. 38. 126 Golley, When Our Eyes no Longer See, p. 277. 127 Nishida, 1995, Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu, p. 12; Also see Strong, Night of the Milky Way Railway, pp. 104–105. 128 Nishida, Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu, p. 12. 129 This volume of poetry is the only other book of Kenji’s work published (again at his own expense) during his lifetime (in 1924). 130 For more information on the lectures and a translation of the Introduction, see for instance, Satō, Miyazawa Kenji: Selections, pp. 25–27. 131 KMKZ, vol. 12, no. 1, p. 9; This version is adapted from the translations of Ōe Kenzaburō, “Japan’s Dual Identity,” p. 213, and Fromm, “The Ideals of Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 71.

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notes to pages 23–32 148 Kenji’s preface often forms part of the peritext of many of today’s picture books, so this works as part of the ideologically-driven metanarratives. 149 (December 20, 1923) (KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 7 [my emphasis]). This translation is based on that by Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 73. 150 Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 213. 151 See Chapter 2 for further discussion on these notions of obtaining any ‘true meaning’ through the artwork. 152 ‘Wildcat’ is the subject of Chapter 3, while ‘Snow Crossing’ is the subject of Chapter 4. 153 Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” pp. 241–3. 154 See Chapter 5 for further discussion of ‘Gōshu the Cellist’ and ‘Kenjū’s Park’ and Chapter 6 for ‘Twin Stars’. 155 While ‘The Nighthawk Star’ and ‘The Bears of Mount Nametoko’ are not dealt with in this book, ‘Wildcat and The Acorns’ and ‘Gōshu, the Cellist’ form the subjects of Chapters 3 and 5 respectively. 156 For further discussion of the dialogic mode, see Chapter 2.

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Chapter 2 1 Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon Press, 1972), p. 296. 2 Nichols, Ideology and the Image: Social Representation in the Cinema and Other Media (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981), p. 2. 3 Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images (Victoria: Deakin University Press, 1990), p. 15. 4 Nodelman, Words About Pictures: The Narrative Art of Picture Books (Athens and London: University Georgia Press, 1988), p. 195. 5 Doonan, Looking at Pictures in Picture Books (Stroud: Thimble Press, 1993), p. 78. 6 Addiss, How to Look at Japanese Art (New York: Harry N. Abrams Inc., 1996), pp. 8–9. 7 Menzies, ed., Moba Moga (Sydney: Art Gallery of NSW, 1998), p. 160. 8 See Menzies, “Exoticism,” Moba Moga, ed. J. Clark (Sydney: Art Gallery of NSW, 1998), p. 134; Hickey, “Waves of Influence,” Monet and Japan, ed. P. Green (Canberra: National Gallery of Australia, 2001). 9 Hickey, “Waves of Influence,” p. 176. 10 Hibbett, The Floating World in Japanese Fiction (Rutland, Vermont and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1975), p. viii. 11 Winther, “Japanese Thematics in Postwar American Art: From Soi-Distant Zen to the Assertion of AsianAmerican Identity,” Japanese Art After 1945: Scream against the Sky, ed. A. Monroe (New York: Henry N. Abrams, Inc., 1994), p. 56.

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Hibbett, The Floating World in Japanese Fiction. Ibid., p. 70. Ibid., p. 71; Hickey, “Waves of Influence,” passim. Umehara, “Mitsuhara Setsuko: Kenji no Dōwa ni Yoru Nisaku,” Ehon, vol. 5, no. 9 (1977), p. 31. Umehara, “Mizūmi no Densetsu,” Miyazawa Kenji: Dōwa no Sekai Ten (Ibaraki: Ibaraki Ken Kindai Biutsukan, 1991), p. 20. Nodelman, The Pleasures of Children’s Literature (New York and London: Longman, 1992), p. 137. Keene, Landscapes and Portraits (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1971), pp. 15–18; also see Hickey, “Waves of Influence.” Yanagi, The Unknown Craftsman: A Japanese Insight into Beauty (Tokyo and New York: Kodansha International, 1989), passim. Keene, Landscapes and Portraits, p. 17. Ibid. Hokkaidōritsu Kindai Bijutsukan, ed., Kaiga Nyūmon Kodomo to Oya no Bijutsukan (Hokkaido: Shinchōsha, 1991). Ibid., pp. 60–63. Keene, Landscapes and Portraits, p. 17. Yanagi, The Unknown Craftsman, p. 121. Hill, A Visual Dictionary of Art (Greenwich, Connecticut and New York: Graphic Society Ltd., 1974), p. 321; also see Evett, The Critical Reception of Japanese Art in Europe in the Late Nineteenth Century (Faculty of the Graduate School, Cornell University, 1980). Yanagi, The Unknown Craftsman, p. 120. Keene, Landscapes and Portraits, p. 24. Ibid. Kenji was writing here about the older ukiyo-e of say, Hokusai, in contrast to the more modern woodblock prints of, say, Munakata or Satō Kunio (whose work will be discussed in later chapters). See KMKZ, vol. 12 (2), pp. 314–15. Ibid., pp. 316–18. The ‘singing line’, Kenji notes, is a foreign term applied to the curved lines of Utamaro’s woodblock prints. Horio, “Miyazawa Kenji no E ya Ukiyoe nado,” Ehon, vol. 5, no. 9 (1977), p. 39. KMKZ, vol. 12 (2), pp. 316–18. Addiss, How to Look at Japanese Art, pp. 8–9. Ibid. Hickey, Waves of Influence, p. 179. Yanagi, The Unknown Craftsman, pp. 127–57. Ibid., p. 154. This is only one among other ‘ways’ in artistic or sporting pursuits, such as sadō (the way of tea) or kyūdō (archery), for instance. Lewis, Reading Contemporary Picturebooks: Picturing Text (London and New York: Routledge/Falmer, 2001), p. 163.

notes to pages 32–38 59 Amazawa, “Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū no Kankō ni tsuite,” p. 1. 60 Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen’,” p. 50. 61 McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 64. 62 Nodelman, Words About Pictures, p. 211; Also see Lewis, Reading Contemporary Picturebooks, p. 39. 63 Ibaraki Ken Kindai Bijutsukan, ed. Miyazawa Kenji: Dōwa no Sekai Ten, p. 11. 64 For further discussion of this kind of ‘loss of the self’ by Japanese artists, see, for example, Newland & Uhlenbeck, Ukiyo-e to Shin Hanga: The Art of Japanese Woodblock Prints (London: Bison Group, 1990), p. 208; Addiss, How to Look at Japanese Art, pp. 112–15. 65 Nodelman, The Pleasures of Children’s Literature,p. 137. 66 As Althusser puts it, “All ideology hails or interpellates concrete individuals as concrete subjects.” Althusser, “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” A Critical and Cultural Theory Reader, ed. A. Easthope and K. McGowan (Toronto and Buffalo: University of Toronto Press, 1970), p. 55. Ideology ‘acts’ or ‘functions’ to ‘recruit’ subjects among individuals, recruiting them all, or ‘transforms’ the individuals into subjects, transforming them all “by that very precise operation [… of ] interpellation or hailing, … which can be imagined along the lines of the most commonplace everyday police (or other) hailing: ‘Hey, you there!’” (Ibid.). Chapter 4 on ‘Yukiwatari’, for example, analyses instances of such techniques in relation to specific picture books. 67 See, for example, Ushiyama, Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai, p. 20; Kobayashi, “Yoku Mikiki Shi Wakari Soshite Agamezu,” p. 106. 68 Nodelman, Words about Pictures, p. 24. 69 Ibid. 70 Nishida, personal communication, 1998. Also see Kobayashi, “Yoku Mikiki Shi Wakari Soshite Agamezu,” p. 106. 71 Hara, Kenji Jūyō no Genzai, Kokubungaku: Kaishaku to Kyōzai no Kenkyū (Tokushu: Miyazawa Kenji o yomu tame no Kenkyū Jiten), vol. 34, no. 14 (1989), p. 7. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid., p. 8. The latter quotation is from Nichiren himself whose words here remind Hara of discourse theorists who see readers, in the process of making the self strange, as assimilating with the ‘defamiliarised’ text. 74 Ibid., pp. 6–8. 75 LaFleur, “Interpretation as Interlocution,” Masao Abe: A Zen Life of Dialogue, ed. D. W. Mitchell (Boston, Rutland, Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing, 1998). 76 Ibid., pp. 87–88. 77 The terms ‘interactive’ (referring to both readers and producers) and ‘represented’ participants have been borrowed from Lewis, Reading Contemporary Picturebooks, p. 155.

43 Stephens and McCallum, Retelling Stories, Framing Culture, p. 9. 44 Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images, p.159. 45 Hickey, “Waves of Influence,” p. 178. 46 Clark, “Open and Closed Discourses of Modernity in Asian Art,” Modernity in Asian Art, ed. J. Clark, (Broadway, Sydney: Wild Peony, 1993), p. 16. 47 Nodelman, “Decoding the Images: Illustraion and Picture Books,” Understanding Children’s Literature, ed. P. Hunt (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), p. 73. 48 McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 35. 49 Lewis, Reading Contemporary Picturebooks. 50 Nishida, Miyazawa Kenji no Ehon no Hikari to Kage (Kobe: 1995); Ōfuji Mikio, personal communication, 2000. 51 See for example, Amazawa, “Miyazawa Kenji Dōwa no Sashie, Ehon wa dono yō ni Kanōsei ka,” Ehon, vol. 5, no. 9 (1977); Amazawa, “Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū no Kankō ni tsuite,” Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū: Chūmon no Oi Ryōri Ten, ed. T. Amazawa and M. Hagiwara (Tokyo: Kumon Shupan, 1992); Kami, “Kenji Dōwa Sashie no Hyakka Ryōran,” Miyazawa Kenji Kaigakan: Gakatachi ga Kaita Kenji no Sekai, ed. N. Teraoka (Tokyo: Aputo Intānashonaru, 1995); Nakagawa, Ehon wa Āto (Tokyo: Kyoiku Shuppan Centre, 1991); Kobayashi, “Yoku Mikiki Shi Wakari Soshite Agamezu,” Miyazawa Kenji Kaigakan: Gakatachi ga Kaita Kenji no Sekai, ed. T. Amazawa and N. Teraoka (Tokyo: Aputo Intānashonaru, 1995), p. 106. 52 Kenji was influenced greatly by Andersen’s work (see, for example, Nishida, Nihon Jidō Bungaku Kenkyū 1974; Yoshiya, “Kenji Dōwa ni okeru Kaigasei,” Miyazawa Kenji Kenkyu Shiro Shusei, ed. T. Tsuzukihashi (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Senta, 1990), p. 240; and Akieda, “Futago no Hoshi,” Kokubungaku: Kaishaku to Kyoza no Kenkyu, vol. 43, no. 14 (1989), p. 76. As Videaus suggests, in contrast to Andersen’s ‘mainly common sense society’, Kenji has an ‘interior’ view of the world with less explicit interpretations of good and bad. Vidaeus, “Miyazawa Kenji no Dōwa ni Tsuite,” Bessatsu: Shinshū Miyazawa Kenji Zenshū, ed. K. Shinpei (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1984), p. 249. 53 Kobayashi, “Yoku Mikiki Shi Wakari Soshite Agamezu,” p. 106. 54 Ibid. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Matsui, “Motai Takeo no Koto Nado,” Miyazawa Kenji Kaigakan: Gakatachi ga Kaita Kenji no Sekai, ed. T. Amazawa and N. Teraoka (Tokyo: Aputo Intānashonaru, 1995); Amazawa, “Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū no Kankō ni tsuite.” 58 He further points out that each of these words has the character for ‘fresh’ in it.

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notes to pages 41–63 25 Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, pp. 133–34. 26 Ibid., p. 195. 27 Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World,” p. 257. 28 This translation comes from Bester, Once and Forever, p. 79. 29 For biographical information on Kobayashi, see: http:// parol.co.jp/bookdetail245.shtml, and http://d.hatena.ne .jp/akkokko-ehon/. (Last accessed 2nd January, 2012). 30 Kobayashi intends to keep publishing Kenji’s work. Personal communication with Kobayashi (17 January, 2012). 31 Wada, Miyazawa Kenji Bunken Kenkyuu (Tokyo: Yaritsu Shuppan, 1984), p. 60. 32 Kobayashi has kindly given permission to reproduce any of his pictures here. 33 For further discussion of visual gaze as demand, see Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images, p. 27ff. 34 This translation is by Bester, Once and Forever, p. 71. 35 Nodelman, “The Eye and the I,” Modern Language Association Division on Children’s Literature and the Children’s Literature Association (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1991), p. 20. 36 Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, [1972] 1980), p. 245. 37 Nodelman, “The Eye and the I,” pp. 2–3. 38 Page numbers refer to the picture book under discussion. 39 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols in Eastern and Western Art (New York: Harper Collins, 1995), p. 104. 40 Ibid., pp. 3–4. 41 This information comes from Satō Kunio’s web page at: http://www.yamanekokoubou.com/. This page has links to his newspaper pieces. Satō has kindly given permission to reproduce his images. 42 These comments can be found, along with Satō Kunio’s profile, at: http://www.yamanekokoubou.com/prof/ (in Japanese. 43 This publication information comes from email communication with Satō (January 2012). 44 See Chapter 2 for detail on both Munakata and the mingei movement. 45 Newland and Uhlenbeck, ed., Ukiyo-e to Shin Hanga, p. 208; Addiss, How to Look at Japanese Art, pp. 112–15. 46 Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images. 47 My gratitude for this observation goes to Dr. Tomoko Aoyama (personal communication, 2004). 48 See http://www.jlit.net/reference/awards/awards_a _to_m.html (accessed 3rd January 2012). 49 For information on the exhibition (with some of Tsukasa’s images of Kenji’s work), see http://www.mmag.gsn .ed.jp/exhibition/tsukasa.htm. Further information on Tsukasa can be found at http://www.fineza.biz/SHOP/

Chapter 3 1 Henceforth, this tale will be referred to as ‘Donguri.’ To differentiate between bibliographic items and story titles, the latter will be indicated with (single) quotation marks. The names of picture book volumes (which sometimes hold more than one story) will be italicised. The story of ‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ is the only other story from Kenji’s book to be discussed here (see Chapter 7) as the other seven tales are not pictorialised as often as ‘Donguri’ and ‘Chūmon.’ 2 Kudō, “On the Poet Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 334. 3 Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 12; Satō, “Donguri to Yamaneko,” p. 96. 4 Such peritextual elements are therefore working as part of the ideologically driven metanarrative surrounding Kenji’s work. For further discussion of the usage of the advertisement for teaching purposes, see Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 15. 5 KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 388. 6 Satō, T. “Donguri to Yamaneko,” Kokubungaku, vol. 34 (14 December, 1989), p. 97. 7 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 416. 8 Ibid. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid., pp. 416–17. Contradictions between the ideal of contentment and ambition will be considered further in Chapter 5. 11 Amazawa, “Kaisetsu,” Miyazawa Kenji Zenshū, ed., T. Amazawa (Tokyo: Chikuma Bunkō, 1994), Vol. 8, p. 652. 12 Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. 13 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 31. 14 Solomon and Higgins, A Passion for Wisdom (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 19. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid., pp. 19–20. 18 Tsuzukihashi, “Jiyuu ni Sōzō suru Tanoshimi,” Donguri to Yamaneko, ed. T. Amazawa and M. Hagiwara (Tokyo: Kumon Shuppan, 1993), p. 75. 19 Satō, T. “Donguri to Yamaneko,” p. 97. 20 Amazawa, “Kaisetsu,” p. 652; Amazawa, “Kyōsō Ishiki o Hasai,” Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu, ed. Y. Nishida (Osaka: Sōgensha, 1995), p. 123. 21 Cats in Kenji’s tales often portray characteristics he was censorious of, such as selfish, capitalistic, superior or political behaviour. (For further discussion see, for example, Nishida, Nihon Jidō Bungaku Kenkyū, pp. 206–7; Videaus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters and Worldview, p. 195). 22 Onda, Miyazawa Kenji Ron, p. 102. 23 Ibid. 24 Tsuzukihashi, “Jiyuu ni Sōzō suru Tanoshimi,” p. 75.

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notes to pages 63–76

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61 62 63

64 Bryson, “The Gaze in the Expanded Field,” Vision and Visuality, ed. H. Foster (New York: The New Press, 1988), p. 101.(Bryson 1988:101) 65 Okada, “The Artistic Path from Theory to Practice,” p. 84. 66 Inui, Ri Ufan no Kaiga (Tokyo: Garō, 1980). 67 Tani, “A Presence that Eclipses Subject,” p. 10. 68 Aoki, “Towards the Presentation of a New World,” Ri Ufan Ten: Kansei to Ronri no Kiseki, ed. M. Aoki, K. Okada and M. Sawamura (Gifu: The Museum of Fine Arts, 1988), p. 74. 69 This translation, by Nicol and Tanigawa, accompanies this picture book. The English follows the Japanese (on page 16, the same page as this image of tear-drop ‘points’).

Serohikino.html ; http://homepage1.nifty.com/naokiaward/akutagawa/kogun/kogun100TO.htm; and www .mmag.gsn.ed.jp/m-news/news-no144.pdf (accessed 19th November, 2011). The latter site also holds some images of his early artistic work. Several picture books from this series are discussed in later chapters. This print-run information comes from Kumon Publishing. For a 2009 reader’s review, see http://www .amazon.co.jp/product-reviews/4875767013/. Accessed 29th July, 2012. This quotation comes from Kenji’s advertisement for the book, The Restaurant of Many Orders. See KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 388. D’Souza, “Lee Ufan — Correspondance.” http://www .artfacts.net/en/exhibition/lee-ufancorrespondance-14581/overview.html. (2004). Accessed 5th April, 2012. This information comes from the following sources: Teraoka, Miyazawa Kenji Kaiga Kan: Gakatachi ga egakaita Kenji no Sekai (Tokyo: Aputo Intânashonaru, 1995–6), p. 113; and Michelle D’Souza at: http://www .artfacts.net/index.php/pageType/exhibitionInfo/ exhibition/14581); http://www.guggenheim.org /new-york/press-room/news/4164; Alexandra Munroe http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/ exhibitions/past/exhibit/3952; http://www .personalstructures.org/var/cat_file_PERSONAL _STRUCTURES_264-341.pdf. Accessed 21st November, 2011. This is the Monogatari Bunka no Kai (Story Culture Club) cassette series. Tanigawa Gan’s ideals are discussed in Chapter 2. Tani, “A Presence that Eclipses Subject: The Art of Lee Ufan,” Hara Museum of Contemporary Art (Tokyo: Foundation Arc-En-Ciel, 1991), p. 10. Minemura, “The Cosmos and the Meteoric,” Ri Ufan Ten: Kansei to Ronri no Kiseki, ed. M. Aoki, K. Okada and M. Sawamura (Gifu: The Museum of Fine Arts, 1988), p. 12. Ibid., pp. 12–13. Saitama Kenritsu Kindai Bijutsukan, ed., Tōsetsu Tenji (Saitama: Saitama Kenritsu Kindai Bijustukan, 2000), p. 2. http://www.rodin.co.kr/rodingallery/rodin/ exhibition/leeufan/en_sub.html accessed 29th October, 2005. Hagiwara M., “Irasutoreshon ga Kanaderu Kenji no Ginga,” p. 95. KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 7. Okada, “The Artistic Path from Theory to Practice,” Ri Ufan Ten: Kansei to Ronri no Kiseki, ed. M. Aoki, K. Okada and M. Sawamura (Gifu: The Museum of Fine Arts, 1988), p. 84.

Chapter 4 1 Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” Kokubungaku Kaishaku to Kanshō (November, 1996), p. 152. 2 Tsuzukihashi, “Kenji Dōwa no Tenkai,” p. 38; Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” p. 148. 3 Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 13; Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen’,” p. 56. 4 Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” p. 150. 5 Solomon and Higgins, A Passion for Wisdom, p. 61. 6 Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhism: Teachings, History and Practices (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 110. 7 For further details on ‘suchness’ as ‘emptiness’ see DeMartino, “The Zen Roots of Masao Abe’s Thought,” Masao Abe: A Zen Life of Dialogue, ed. D. W. Mitchell (Boston, Rutland, Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing, 1998), pp. 42–45. 8 In the Tōhoku region in which Kenji lived, the snow in the rice paddies and vegetable fields softens with sun but in the cool evenings the surfaces freeze hard, making them easy to cross. Colligan-Taylor, “About the Story: Crossing the Snow (1921),” Miyazawa Kenji Picture Book Series, ed. K. Kajikawa. (Tokyo: International Foundation for the Promotion of Languages and Culture, 2000), n.p.. 9 All translations in this chapter are my own. 10 Eleven years old may not correspond to eleven calendar years. These students would be nine or ten years by the old Japanese way of reckoning which counted newborns as one year old, with everyone becoming a year older on New Year’s Day. 11 The word gentō has been translated as ‘slide’ for convenience but it can also be translated as ‘magic lantern’, which evokes the mystical atmosphere. 12 Colligan-Taylor, “About the Story: Crossing the Snow,” n.p..

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notes to pages 77–101 13 Goff, “Foxes in Japanese Culture: Beautiful or Beastly?,” Japan Quarterly, vol. 44, no. 2 (April – June, 1997), p. 66. 14 Nozaki, Kitsune: Japan’s Fox of Mystery, Romance, and Humor, pp. 183–4; Hamei, Human Animals, pp. 91–2. 15 Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, 1989, p. 134; Seta, “‘Yukiwatari’ ni tsuite,” p. 47. 16 Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” p. 150. 17 Nishida, “Yukiwatari,” Kokubungaku Bessatsu, vol. 34, no. 14 (1989), p. 106; Nishida, “Shizen to Kōryū dekiru Kokoro,” Kairo Danchō (Miyazawa Kenji Dōwa Shū, vol. 7), Tokyo: Kumon Shuppan, 1992, p. 72. 18 Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” p. 149. 19 Colligan-Taylor, “About the Story: Crossing the Snow,” n.p.. 20 Hagiwara, “Innocence and the Other World. The Tales of Miyazawa Kenji,” p. 248 21 Niwano, Buddhism for Today, pp. 238–9. 22 Hirasawa, “Yukiwatari: Arui wa nijū no fūkei,” p. 150. 23 Colligan-Taylor, “About the Story: Crossing the Snow,” n.p. 24 KMKZ, Volume 11, p. 124. 25 Hayashi, “Yukiwatari: Eien de wa nai kara koso,” Miyazawa Kenji o motto Shiritai (Tokyo: Sekai Bunkasha, 1996), p. 45. 26 Waters, “Sex, Lies, and the Illustrated Scroll: The Dōjōji Engi Emaki,” Monumenta Nipponica, vol. 52, no. 1 (Spring, 1997), p. 71. 27 For information on Kobayashi’s books and readers’ responses to his ‘Yukiwatari,’ see: http://www .ehonnavi.net/ehon/11413/雪わたり/. Accessed 7th May 2012. Other responses can be found at Amazon Japan, for example. 28 For more on ‘demand’ see Chapter 3 here, and Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images, p. 27. 29 Space precludes discussion of the surrounding pictures. 30 A monochromatic (greyish) replica of this scene, without the three children, frames the book in the front and back end pages. This peritextual feature further signifies the importance of the moment. 31 Email communication with the artist, 3rd January, 2012. 32 See http://www.u-gakugei.ac.jp/~ehon/cn10/cn21/ pg448.html. Accessed 3rd January, 2012. 33 Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 126–7. 34 Colligan-Taylor, “About the Story: Crossing the Snow,” n.p.; also see Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, pp. 4–5. 35 See Suzuki’s home page at: http://www.i-younet .ne.jp/~basaract/. 36 See http://www.kanemiller.com/biography.asp?sku=83. At least one of their books, ‘The Park Bench’, has been translated into English. 37 Email communication, 30th August, 2011.

38 This publication information comes from Suzuki himself, and he was not quite sure whether the latest impression was 2010 or 2011 (email of 22nd January, 2012). 39 For convenience, the landscape settings are differentiated as contextualised pictures, and the more decorative backgrounds (with no specific setting) as decontextualised. As some of the ‘contextualised’ backgrounds are embellished with abstract ornamentation, however, this nomenclature is rather arbitrary. Not all pictures have been included here. Some others from the book can be found by searching for Yukiwatari (雪わたり) within Suzuki’s blog at: http://blog.goo.ne.jp/nestlabo4848. Accessed 3rd January, 2012. 40 See, for example, 1worldart.com/catlbyartist/catkatao _ryo.html. For some basic biographical information, some of which is included above, see http://www.f-ritz .net/2009/02/gallery-3.html. For a recent (2011) list of his works see http://www.geocities.jp/ninian5/katao .html. Accessed 3rd January, 2012. 41 See http://www.ehonnavi.net/mailmagazine/ magazine20090902.htm; and http://picturebook-event .seesaa.net/archives/20090210-1.html. Accessed 3rd January, 2012. 42 http://www.f-ritz.net/2009/02/gallery-3.html. 43 See Ito (2004) http://p-www.iwate-pu.ac.jp/~acro-ito/ Joycean_Essays/J&KM_Buddha.html#fff. Accessed 17th January 2012. 44 Leidy and Thurman, Mandala: The Architecture of Enlightenment (London and New York: Thames and Hudson, 1998), p. 164. 45 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, p. 209. 46 Ibid. 47 Leidy and Thurman, Mandala, p. 167. 48 Rexroth, The Buddhist Writings of Lafcadio Hearn (London: Wildwood House, 1981), p. 13. 49 My thanks go to an anonymous reviewer for pointing out Katao’s visual references to ‘fox-fire.’ 50 Leidy and Thurman, Mandala, p. 166. 51 Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhism, p. 108. Chapter 5 1 For ease of distinction between the names of the author, Kenji, and the protagonist, Kenjū, in ‘Kenjū Kōenrin,’ I will refer to the author as Miyazawa in this chapter. 2 ‘Serohiki No Gōshu’ was adopted into the school curriculum soon after World War II. See Satō, “Donguri to Yamaneko,” p. 96. ‘Serohiki’ is usually taught at senior high (final year) level. Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 13; Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen’,” p. 56. It is unclear when ‘Kōenrin’ was written and suggestions vary from 1923 (Tsutsui) to about 1927 (Nishida).

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Tsutsui, “Kaisetsu,” Kenjū Kōenrin (Tokyo: Fureberu Kan, 1988); Nishida, Nihon Jidō Bungaku Kenkyū, p. 161. Others, like Hagiwara and Tsuzukihashi date the extant copy at around 1922 or 1923. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 65; Tsuzukihashi, “Kenji Dōwa Zensakuhin Mokuroku,” p. 171. Because of its concerns with the environment, Nakachi assumes the story to have been written around 1924 when there was some heated exchange in local newspapers about the felling of cedar trees from the banks of the Kitagami River to make way for Iwate Highway Number 4. Miyazawa sent letters and had a poem, ‘73 Dawn’ (73 Ariake), published in “The Iwate News” (Iwate Shimbun) which shows concern about the destruction of forests and fields to widen the town of Morioka. Nakachi, “‘Kenji Kōenrin’: Hasso no Haikei o Megutte,” Kokubungaku to Kaishaku (November, 1996), p. 103. Tatsumi suggests that, due to its style, it was written later than this. Tatsumi, “Miyazawa Kenji to no Sakuhin,” Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1961), p. 264. For further discussion of ‘Kenjū Kōenrin’ as an ecological tale, see Nakachi, “‘Kenji Kōenrin’: Hasso no Haikei o Megutte,” p. 102ff; and ColliganTaylor, “The Emergence of Environmental Literature in Japan,” pp. 59–62. For the former argument see Suzuki, “Hibikiau Kokoro no Fukasa,” Kenju Kōenrin, ed. A. Taijirō and M. Hagiwara (Tokyo, 1993); “Miyazawa Kenji Gensō Kūkan no Kōzō”; Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 474–5; and Kudō, “Dekunobō o Megutte,” Kenji Ronkō, ed. T. Kudō (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 1995), pp. 12–23. On the other side, Yamauchi, for instance, expresses doubts about Kenjū’s dekunobō qualities. Yamauchi, Miyazawa Kenji o Yomu, ed. Y. Nishida (Osaka: Sōgensha, 1995), p. 172. In Ōfuji, “Serohiki no Gōshu,” Kokubungaku, vol. 34, no. 14, p. 94. Tokita and Nakano both discuss Gōshu as dekunobō. There is also much deliberation upon whether Gōshu represents Miyazawa or one of his friends, or whether the conductor might represent him or his father. See Ōfuji, “Serohiki no Gōshu,” pp. 94–5. According to the Kōjien (The Comprehensive Compendium of Words), the literal translation for dekunobō is a dunce, blockhead or puppet. It is also a pejorative term for someone who is slow-witted or not helpful. Shinmura, ed., Kōjien (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1991), p. 1759. The poem is thought to be largely responsible for Miyazawa’s deity-like status in Japan. Satō, A Future of Ice, p. xiii. Despite such regard, the poem’s critical merits are widely debated. Miyazawa also used dekunobō in one of his poems, ‘Sakhalin Railway.’ Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 258.

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Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. KMKZ, vol. 12, p. 46. This layout follows the format of the original and this translation is based on those by Vidaeus and Satō. Vidaeus, “Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149; Satō, A Future of Ice, pp. 215–6. The Japanese is as follows, with the slashes representing line breaks: Minna ni/ dekunobō to yobare/homerare mo sezu/ ku ni mo sarezu/ sō iu/ mono ni/ watashi wa/ naritai. KMKZ, vol. 12 (1), p. 46. Suzuki, “Kīwādo,” Kokubungaku, vol. 31, no. 6 (1986), p. 160. Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 485. Suzuki, “Kīwādo,” p. 160. Fundō, “Kenji to Kenju no Dekunobō Seishin,” Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū: Kenjū Kōenrin (Tokyo: Kumon, 1993), p. 70. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. While in French it literally means left-handed, gauche generally means ‘clumsy’ or ‘awkward’ or, according to The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, “lacking in subtlety or skill, crude, unsophisticated.” Satō, “Miyazawa Kenji no Ongaku Taiken,” Serohiki no Gōshu (Tokyo, Kumon, 1992): 76–7. Also see Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 98. Hatayama, “‘Kenju Kōenrin’ Kaisetsu,” p. 61. The term hotokesama is also the generic term for the deceased. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. (Also mentioned in Chapter 1.) Nakachi, “‘Kenju Kōenrin’: Hassō no Haikei o Megutte,” p. 102. These are the power to: “(1) know right and wrong states, (2) know the consequences of karma, (3) know all meditations and contemplations, (4) know the various higher and lower capabilities of living beings, (5) know what living beings understand, (6) know the basic nature and actions of living beings, (7) know the causes and effects of living beings in all worlds, (8) know the results of karmas in past lives, (9) know by supernatural insight, and (10) be free from all error, or infallibility in knowledge.” Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 434. KMKZ, vol. 10, p. 234. Bester translates this more loosely as: “Ah, well, who’s to say who is wise and who is foolish?” Bester, Once and Forever, p. 245. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. For further discussion of Miyazawa’s aversion to the idea of comparison among things, see for example, Kudō. Kudō, “Dekunobō o Megutte.” pp. 12–23. ‘Wildcat and the Acorns’ (see Chapter 3) demonstrates this disdain for comparison, found in the sermon where:

notes to pages 102–131

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31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40

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42 On this owl symbolism, see Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, pp. 28, 37. The later discussion of Tsukasa’s and Satō’s artwork will return to similar symbolism. 43 Email communication with the artist (January 3rd, 2012). 44 This information comes from Kaiseisha (January, 2012). 45 Recent reader’s comments can be found at: http://www .ehonnavi.net/ehon/15703/セロ弾きのゴーシュ/. (Last accessed January 5th, 2012.) 46 Tsukasa also produced different artwork for the same story for a 1998 bi-lingual series of Kenji’s work edited by Amazawa Taijirō and published by the Labo Education Centre. The series is still available today. 47 Kusano, “Akaba Suekichi,” Nihon Jidō Bungaku Daijiten, ed. IICLO (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Zusho, 1993), pp. 8–9. 48 Instead of reproducing the illustrations in the order they are mentioned here, they are grouped according to artist in the order in which they appear in each picture book. 49 See Kress and Van Leeuwen on ‘demand.’ Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images, p. 27. Also mentioned in previous chapters. 50 In Buddhist scriptures and Chinese classics the owl is a bird that eats its mother. Its kanji ideogram (fukurō) represents a bird crucified on a tree. Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 232. 51 Miyazawa Kenji actually wrote his own sutra known as the ‘Owl & Kite Sutra’ (Kyōshiku Goshō) as a guide to enlightenment or release from this world of bad karma where all beings are connected to the likes of owls and kites who, in order to survive, will eat other species and even go as far as to eat their own parents. Ibid, pp. 193, 232, 616. 52 Bester, Once and Forever, p. 94. 53 Ibid., p. 61. 54 Reading direction for Tsukasa is right to left. 55 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols. 56 Ibid., p. 48. The swallow is also known as a Christian symbol of the incarnation of Christ. Its arrival in spring made it a symbol of the Resurrection. 57 Ibid., pp. 48–49. 58 Bester, Once and Forever, p. 241. 59 This information from the publisher is current as of January, 2012. 60 For at least one reader’s 2008 comments on Itō’s ‘Kōenrin,’ see: http://honwagohan.blog19.fc2.com/ blog-entry-155.html. 61 Bester, Once and Forever, p. 239. 62 This line is reflective of Miyazawa’s aversion to mercenary pursuits such as his own father’s pawnshop. 63 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, p. 104.

“The most stupid among them, the most foolish one is absolutely good for nothing, he is the greatest.” Translation by Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. The shura/makoto concept is dealt with in Chapter 6. Suzuki, “Kīwādo,” p. 160. Hara, Shin Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 485–6. Nishida, Nihon Jidō Bungaku Kenkyū, p. 135. Fundō, “Kenji to Kenjū no Dekunobō Seishin,” p. 70. Indo no Toragari is a humorous dancing song published at the time. Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, pp. 67–8. According to Hara, Miyazawa was particularly fond of this particular symphony. Ibid., p. 431. All translations of these two tales, unless otherwise mentioned, are from Bester’s Once and Forever. This quotation is from p. 244 of that book. Also see Hagiwara, “Īhatōbu no Kaze kara kīta Ohanashi.” p. 74. This also reveals a paradox between jiriki and tariki. For a fuller explanation of ‘enlightenment’ through this kind of loss of self, see Odin on Tanabe’s analysis of metanoetics in relation to a synthesis between jiriki and tariki. Odin, “Review of: Tanabe Hajime, Philosophy as Metanoetics,” Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, vol. 14, no. 4 (1987), pp. 337–43. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. Ibid. For more on intersubjective subjectivity see McCallum, Ideologies of Identity, p. 3. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 149. Ikegami, “Serohiki no Gōshu,” Kokubungaku, vol. 31, no. 6, pp. 140–1. Beethoven’s Pastorale has five movements reflecting the heart of nature. These are: “Cheerful feelings aroused on arrival in the countryside”; “By the brook”; “Peasants’ dance”; “Storm”; and “Shepherd’s song thanksgiving after the storm.” Rowley, ed. The Book of Music (Sydney: Sandstone Books, 1997), p. 42. Hagiwara, “The Boddihsattva Ideal,” p. 37. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 78. This information comes from Kumon Shuppan (emails of January 2012). See http://www.animebooks.com/nayanoseil.html and http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/名倉靖博. Accessed 2nd January, 2012. ‘Descriptive’ here is used in the sense that it repeats what the text tells. Schwarcz and Schwarcz, The Picture Book Comes of Age: Looking at Childhood through the Art of Illustration (Chicago and London: American Library Association, 1991), p. 5.

Chapter 6 1 The term for asura (or ashura) is often abbreviated to shura in Japanese but will be referred to as asura here.

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notes to pages 131–138

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Asura is further explained, but for the moment it can be seen collectively as the mental dissatisfaction that arises from envy, competition, insecurity, fear and resentment. Palmo, Reflections on a Mountain Lake (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2002), pp. 65–6. Hagiwara, The Bodhisattva Ideal, pp. 45–6. Moore, Care of the Soul: A Guide for Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in Everyday Life (New York: Harper Perennial, 2001), p. 134. As with all the tales in this corpus the latest extant version is the most commonly published form. Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 13; also see Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen’,” p. 56. Leidy and Thurman, Mandala, p. 169. Palmo, Reflections on a Mountain Lake, p. 252. Niwano, Buddhism for Today, pp. 102–3. Ibid., p. 110. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters, and Worldview, p. 230. Ibid., p. 229. Hiro, Ashura yo … rinne no sekai (Tokyo, Tōjusha, 1979), pp. 138–9. Also see Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters and Worldview, p. 229. Strong, Night of the Milky Way Railway, p. 113. Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 3. Vidaeus, Miyazawa Kenji: His Stories, Characters and Worldview, p. 230. See Sara Strong on Kenji’s use of asura as an ‘imagistic motif’ in his poems. Strong, “On the Poetry of Miyazawa Kenji,” pp. 214 – 223. As mentioned earlier, the words ‘I am an asura’ are found in the title poem from Kenji’s Haru to Shura (Spring and The Demons), where “asura tears fall on the ground.” KMKZ, vol. 2, p. 20–22; translation by Strong, “On the Poetry of Miyazawa Kenij,” p. 125–6. This synopsis has been partially adapted from Ozawa, “Futago no Hoshi,” Kokubungaku Bessatsu, vol. 6 (1980), p. 145. The names are not Japanese but Hara suggests that Kenji borrowed them from the names of two Gemini stars, Castor and Pollux. Hara, Miyazawa Kenji Goi Jiten, p. 463. Castor and Pollux are the original names of the stars in the constellation of Gemini. Suzuki, Hoshi no Jiten (Tokyo: Kōseisha, 1965), p. 141. Gemini, in astrological terms, is sometimes considered the most child-like sign of the zodiac. Fontana, The Secret Language of Symbols: A Visual Key to Symbols and Their Meanings (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1994), p. 165. Amazawa, in a footnote to the verbal text of the picture book illustrated by Makino, suggests that the twin stars are not the Gemini constellation, but the two greenish stars near the tip of the barbed tail of the Scorpion constellation. Amazawa, “‘Miyazawa Kenji Shigakan’ e Yōkoso,” Miyazawa Kenji Shigakan, eds., T. Amazawa and M. Hagiwara (Tokyo: Kumon

18

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Shuppansha), p. 19. Strong further suggests that: “These two stars, Lambda and Upsilon Scorpii, are called the ‘brother stars’ in Japanese tradition.” Strong, Night of the Milky Way Railway, p. 113. Chunse and Pōse in this tale are both seen as male and Chunse is the older of the two. Hara, Miyazawa Goi Jiten, p. 463. “Song Of The Circling Stars” Red-eyed Scorpion (Scorpius) Outspread wings of the Eagle (Aquila) Blue-eyed Little Dog (Canis Minor) bright Serpent’s coil (Serpens). Orion sings out loudly sprinkling mist and frost The clouds of Andromeda in the shape of the Fishes’ mouths (Pisces). Great Bear’s feet outstretched (Ursa Major) to five places in the north Above the Lesser Bear’s forehead (Ursa Minor) marking the circuit of the sky. Kenji also composed music for this piece and several versions of this tune can be heard at: http://www.ihatov .cc/song/star_.htm. All translations from ‘Futago’ are my own. The word waterspout (tatsumaki) is made up kanji characters meaning ‘dragon’ (ryū) and ‘coil’ or ‘roll. Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 203. As mentioned elsewhere, according to Japanese tradition and customs, all the dead are known as hotokesama (venerable Buddha, the enlightened one) whether they were good or evil. Hagiwara, “The Theme of Innocence in Miyazawa Kenji’s Tales,” p. 67. Kida, “Tōjō Jimbutsu no Miryoku,” Futago no Hoshi, ed. T. Amazawa and M Hagiwara (Tokyo: Kumon Shuppansha, 1993), p. 76. It is only bodhisattvas, as enlightened beings from one of the four higher worlds, who can move between the samsara realm (made up of the six worlds of illusion and suffering) and the realm which represents the escape from illusion (made up of the four more exemplary heavenly worlds of the bodhisattvas and buddhas). Nishida, “Futago no Hoshi Kenji: Dōwa no Genten,” p. 46. Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 99. This information about print runs comes from the publisher, Kaiseisha, and is current as of January, 2012. The publisher, Kumon, has not released copy figures. While Kaiseisha is increasing the number of copies printed in each run, Kumon’s have reduced slightly since 2009, though there is no intention to stop reprinting them in the future. Emails with Kumon, January 2012. Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, pp. 20–21; Fontana, The Secret Language of Symbols, p. 19.

notes to pages 138–162 28 This information comes from http://www.ifn.co.jp/ sakka/makino/index.html Accessed 21st January 2012. Examples of Makino’s artwork can also be seen on this page. 29 For a list of Makino’s illustrated books for Kodansha Publishing, see http://www.bookclub.kodansha.co.jp/ bc2_bc/search_tyosha.jsp?ty=9107&x=B. For insight into her inspiration and a list of her exhibitions, see http://www.art-marmelo.com/SHOP/415494/list.html. For information on her most recent exhibition, see http://picturebook-event.seesaa.net/archives/201106-1 .html Accessed 21st January 2012. 30 Ibid., pp. 29, 36. Hippocampus may also be associated with Cetus, the sea-monster which threatened the life of Andromeda. Cornelius and Devereux, The Secret Language of the Stars and Planets (Gordon, NSW: Universal International, 1997), pp. 100–104. 31 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, p. 209. 32 Ibid., pp. 3–4. 33 Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, p. 104. 34 Cornelius and Devereux, The Secret Language of the Stars and Planets, p. 53. 35 Leidy and Thurman, Mandala, p. 162. 36 For further discussion of jiriki in relation to the dekunobō ideal (or buddha-nature), see Chapter 5. 37 Hagiwara, The Bodhisattva Ideal, p. 46. 38 This information about print runs comes from Kobayashi himself (January, 2012). As mentioned in Chapter 3, the publisher, Parole-sha, is now insolvent. 39 For more information on Kim Tschang Yeul, see for example, http://www.operagallery.com/artist/ Kim_861;0;0.aspx. 40 The publisher has not released copy figures. 41 Kress and Van Leeuwen, Reading Images.

8 9

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Chapter 7 1 Pincus, In a Labyrinth of Western Desire, p. 229. 2 Ibid., pp. 229–30. 3 Ibid., p. 229. 4 KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 388; also see Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai,” p. 15. This translation is by Aoyama, “The Divided Appetite,” Being Modern in Japan: Culture and Society from the 1910s to the 1930s, ed. E. K. Tipton and J. Clark (Sydney: Australian Humanities Research Foundation, 2000), p. 163. 5 Satō, “Donguri to Yamaneko,” p. 96. 6 Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai.” p. 13; Hagiwara, “Kokugo Kyōshitsu ni okeru ‘Kenji no Hyōgen,’” p. 56. 7 See, for example, the discussions by Ushiyama (1996) and Tsukamoto (2001). Ushiyama, “Kenji Kyōzai no Genzai”; Tsukamoto, “‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ no Juyō to Irasutorēshon ni Kansuru Kōsatsu.” ‘Chūmon’ has also been made into at least one animated film and numerous picture books (as opposed to illustrated versions).

22

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As in English, the word ‘Chūmon’ has the double meaning of a command or an order of food or goods etc. Potential buddhas, for instance, are expected not to fraternise too closely with hunters. Niwano, Buddhism for Today, p. 135. Ibid., pp. 114–15. Tsukuda, “‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ Kō Shōhi, Dokusho soshite Taberu Koto,” ‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ Kō Īhatōbu kara no Fūshin, ed. N. Akasaka and F. Yoshida (Tokyo: Goryū Shoin, 1995), p. 95. The egoistic traits of fear of death are discussed with regard to ‘The Wild Pear’ (Yamanashi) in Chapter 6. Tanaka, Japan As It Is (Tokyo: Gakken, 1986), p. 37. Solomon and Higgins, A Passion for Wisdom, p. 21. Tsukuda, “‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ Kō Shōhi, Dokusho soshite Taberu Koto,” p. 95; footnote pp. 104–5. Ibid., p. 94. Aoyama, “The Divided Appetite,” p. 163. All of this publishing information comes from the publishers, apart from that for Kobayashi, which he supplied. The information is correct as at January 2012. Despite its evident popularity Tsukamoto, in her survey of children’s responses to covers of illustrated versions of this tale, reported that the children did not particularly favour Shimada’s book. Tsukamoto, “‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ no Juyō to Irasutorēshon ni Kansuru Kōsatsu,” p. 36. Perhaps it is adults rather than children who choose it (for themselves and/or their children). According to Kaiseisha, the publisher of this book, the number of copies printed in each print run for the Kenji series is increasing. Solomon and Higgins, A Passion for Wisdom, p. 119. The information here comes from the following online sites: http://www.ehonnavi.net/author.asp?n=136; and http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/飯野和好. This information on Shimada comes from the book cover and: http://www.alps.or.jp/match/gallery/ shimada/shimada.html. The latter site has some stunning images of her larger prints. Tsukamoto, “‘Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten’ no Juyō to Irasutorēshon ni Kansuru Kōsatsu,” p. 36. The mingei movement was led by Yanagi Sōetsu in the 1920s and the sōsaku hanga movement was around the same period. The latter goup valued control of all aspects of printing by one artist. Munakata Shikō, devoted to the portrayal of Buddhist themes, was associated with both but the latter in particular. (Both these artists and their philosophies are discussed in Chapter 2.) This information about Suzuki Kōji comes from the following online sites: http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/スズ キコージ; http://www.ehonnavi.net/author.asp?n=757; http://d.hatena.ne.jp/keyword/スズキコージ. His profile and some examples of his artwork can be viewed at:

notes to pages 165–185

26 27 28

29 30

Conclusion 1 Kumon Publishing, for example, has provided figures and mentioned that each print run is increasing exponentially but, as the exact numbers are confidential, they have asked that such details not be divulged (email communication, January 5th, 2012). 2 Matsui, “Motai Takeo no Koto Nado,” p. 99. 3 Hill, A Visual Dictionary of Art, p. 321. 4 McCallum, Ideologies of Identity in Adolescent Fiction, p. 35. 5 Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhism, p. 108. 6 For more on the mingei movement, see Chapter 2.

http://www.art-life.ne.jp/creator/artist_top.php?artist _id=C0086. For Suzuki Kōji’s official homepage, see: http://www .zuking.com/. Last accessed 29th July, 2012. Fontana, The Secret Language of Symbols, p. 77. Any quotations used throughout come from Bester’s Once and Forever. Mirrors are said to reveal the innermost soul of the living and dead. See Hall on the symbolism of mirrors in the East. Hall, Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols, pp. 4–5. My translation. KMKZ, vol. 11, p. 389. This quotation is from Kenji’s own advertisement for ‘Chūmon.’’

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Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Satō Kunio, Yukiwatari. Tokyo: Benesse, 1990. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Satō Kunio, Donguri to Yamaneko. Tokyo: Benesse, 1989. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Shimada Mutsuko, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten. Tokyo: Kaiseisha, 1984. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Illus. Suzuki Mamoru, Yukiwatari. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1986. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Suzuki Kōji, Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten. Tokyo: Miki House, 1987. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Tōyama Shigetoshi, Futago no Hoshi. Nihon no Dōwa Meisakusen Shirīzu. Tokyo, Kaiseisha, 1987. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Tsukasa Osamu, Donguri to Yamaneko. Miyazawa Kenji E Dōwa Shū, vol. 1, edited by Amazawa Taijirō and Masayoshi Hagiwara, Tokyo: Kumon, 1992, pp. 50–72. Miyazawa Kenji, Illus. Tsukasa Osamu, Serohiki no Gōshu, Tokyo: Fuzanbō, 1986.

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Index A absorptive understanding (see shikidoku) AC (alternating current) lamp 21, 194 n134 Aesop’s fables 16 Aikoku Fujin (Patriotic Woman) 75 Akaba Suekichi (artist) 106, 111–13 Serohiki no Gōshu 112–13, 116–19, 129 Akai Tori (see Red Bird) Akutagawa Ryūnosuke 135, 191 n52 Ame ni mo Makezu (see Undaunted by the Rain) Andersen, Hans Christian 34, 196 n52 animism 16, 17, 18 ano yo (see otherworld) anthropocentrism 16–22 anthropocentric individual 18, 72 anthropocentric humanism 20–22 Arishima Takeo 191 n52 asura (shura, demon) 20, 23, 131–53 asura/makoto 131–33 Asura (god) 132 authenticity 3, 25, 37, 155, 184 autophagy 17, 20, 133, 150. 153. 156 autophagous concerns 145 autophagous cycle of existence 142

Buddhism Buddhist gods 132, 133 Buddhist power/wisdom (see jūriki) emptiness and non-attachment 23, 33, 44, 45, 66, 75–76, 78, 79, 86, 98, 181, 185, 198 n7 as suchness/thusness/fullness 76, 79, 98, 198 n7 five desires/senses/vices 78, 93 Five Great Elements 93 five poisons 93 five precepts 93 five wisdoms 78, 93 impermanence/transience 19, 23, 30, 32, 37, 38, 42, 46, 47, 49, 71, 90, 93, 124, 134, 148, 158, 181, 184, 185 Lotus Sutra 11, 13, 16, 18–20, 42, 45, 78, 102, 160, 190 n29, 192 n71 Mahayana Buddhism 192 n71 ten realms of existence 19, 132, 194 n107 Vairocana (in Japanese, Dai Nichi, the Great Sun) 93 wisdom (see jūriki) C canon 188 n3 artistic canonical demands 33–34, 183 canonical enterprise 2–4 canonisation process 2, 24, 28 Kenji’s work and canon 13, 15–17 Children’s Land (Kodomo no Kuni) 191 n52 children’s literature (jidō bungaku) 1–3, 13–16, 24, 27, 193 n81 Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten (see The Restaurant of Many Orders) cosmic law (see dharma) The Crow and the Big Dipper (Karasu to Hokutoshichisei) 191 n31

B Bears of Mount Nametoko (Nametoko Yama no Kuma) 5, 24, 35 binaries (see dualism) Biography of Gusukōbudori (Gusukōbudori no Denki) 4, 5, 35 bodhisattva (bosatsu) 191 n35, 202 n22 bodhisattva effort (also see jiriki) 19 bodhisattva ideal 12, 13, 18, 19 bodhisattva innocence 23–24 bodhisattva path to redemption 131 Bodhisattva Universal Virtue 42 dōji as 134 Fukyū Bosatsu 102 Buddha (Sākyamuni, Shaka) 13, 18, 19, 131 Buddhahood/Buddha in self 18–19, 21, 22, 78, 132, 133, 194 n107, 202 n21 buddha-deities (five main) 93 buddha-nature 131, 132, 203 n36 buddhas of meditation 139 Great Buddha in Nara 43, 52 hotoke/hotokesama as 102, 194 n146 potential buddhas 203 n9 The Ten Great Disciples of the Buddha (by Munakata Shikō) 35

D death acceptance of 148, 149, 153, 157 artistic points and lines as representation of life and death 67–69, 78 fear of 133, 142, 148, 153, 157 karmic attitudes to 18–24, 128, 131 lasting impact of 105, 128 Miyazawa Kenji’s 1, 13, 101 Miyazawa Toshiko’s 12, 131 owl symbolism 110, 114, 116, 163 reincarnation/transmigration through 18–19, 20, 22, 24, 123, 132, 134, 148, 152–3 spiritual 116

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miyazawa kenji and his illustrators demand as visual contact/contract 47, 49, 51, 60, 72, 79–80, 113, 128, 141–2, 163, 172, 174, 178, 179, 185, 197 n33, 199 n28 demon (see asura) dependent co-origination (innen shōki) 193 n104 dharma (cosmic law) 65, 78, 86, 95, 99, 113, 139, 193 n104 (also see interpenetration and non-impededness) different realms of existence (see six realms) different space (ikūkan) 15, 18, 20–24, 37, 58, 66, 84, 185, 191 n30 discourse dialogic (reading relationship) 4, 25, 28, 31–38, 46, 67, 69, 72, 80–81, 99, 107, 126, 129, 143, 152, 153, 158, 166, 172, 181, 183–87, 189 n14 monologic 4, 10–11, 33–38, 46, 99, 107, 113, 116, 126, 152, 158, 178, 181, 183–87 narrative discourse 3 verbal/visual discourse 4–5, 10, 24–39 Doctrine of the Three Thousand Realms in One Mind (ichinen sanzen) 18, 193 n104 Donguri to Yamanko (see Wildcat and the Acorns) dōwa (children’s tale) 1, 9, 14, 131, 183, 188 n2 dreamland (see Īhatōbu) dualism 75–99 asura/makoto dichotomies 131–33, 140, 153 binaries 75, 76, 82, 134 Cartesian dichotomies 16 culture/nature dichotomies 56, 72, 73, 78, 80, 84, 174, 186 dualistic essentialism/essence/materiality 37, 51, 73, 91, 93, 184 dualistic (humanist) view of the world 75, 78–79, 84, 184, 186 dualistic realms 153, 185 dualistic stasis 97 non-dualistic space 22, 32 subject/object dichotomies 72, 86, 99, 165, 184 substantialism 75, 84, 184

F fourth dimension (see yojigen) The Fourth Month of Narcissus (Suisenzuki no Yokka) 191 n31 foxes 75–99 dual image of 77 folklore 76, 77 fox-deities 76 fox-fire (kitsune-bi) 77, 95, 96, 97 hoshi no tama (star balls) 77, 95, 97 Inari deity (rice spirit) 77 Futago no Hoshi (see Twin Stars) G galactical consciousness (see Miyazawa Kenji) Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (see Night on the Milky Way Railway) Gōshu, the Cellist (Serohiki no Gōshu) 5, 6, 12, 23, 24, 42, 63, 84, 101–29 picture books of 106–126 synopsis of 103 Gusukōbudori no Denki (see Biography of Gusukōbudori) H happiness harmonious society as 11, 13, 19, 20–23, 42, 105–06, 190 n29 heterotopia 22, 23, 38, 49, 64, 75, 79, 93, 140, 187, 194 n141 higher world of existence (see six realms) hotokesama (see Buddha) How the Deer Dance Began (Shika no Harjimari) 191 n31 humanism 17, 37, 38 anti/non-humanist ideologies 1, 2, 4, 5, 24, 33, 35, 38, 79, 184, 193 n81 humanist ideologies 11, 16, 17, 20, 24, 31, 35, 38, 79, 96 I ichinen sanzen (see Doctrine of the Three Thousand Realms in One Mind) identity (see subjectivity) Īhatōbu (dreamland) 16, 22, 192 n 77 ikūkan (see different space, otherworld) illustration illustrated texts/books 1, 2, 3, 4, 13, 28, 33–37, 38, 63, 188 n6 narrative illustration 35, 38 image sketch (shinshō sukecchi) 22, 34 impermanence (see Buddhism) Inari (deity) 77 (also see foxes) individual/individualism (see subjectivity) innen shōki (see dependent co-origination)

E ecology 1, 9, 13 ecological movements/ideals 17, 183, 200 n2 ego 19, 20–22, 23, 41, 42–43, 44–46, 51, 55, 59, 60, 62–3, 64–66, 68, 70, 71–73, 75, 101, 106, 108, 140, 149, 153, 156–58, 169, 181, 184–85, 190–91 n29, 203 n12 Einstein, Albert 10, 11, 21, 191 n30 fourth dimension (see yojigen) Electric Light Poles in the Moonlight (Tsukiyo no Denshinbashira) 191 n31 enlightenment (see nirvana) erasure 155, 158, 168, 172, 181, 185

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index Kitahara Hakushū (poet), 191 n52 Kobayashi Toshiya (artist), 34, 36, 46, 47, 79, 142, 158, 166, 197 n29 Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten 166–181, 184–85 Donguri to Yamaneko 47–57 Gahon Miyazawa Kenji 79, 166 Yamanashi 142–148 Yukiwatari 79–84 Kodomo no Kuni (see Children’s Land) kono yo (this world, world of here-and-now) 5, 19, 22, 46, 66, 75, 132, 184 Kusano Shinpei 14, 16, 19 n26

innocence 9, 15, 22, 23, 24, 102–03, 104, 106, 129, 131, 134, 153, 189 n7, 192 n62 Iino Kazuyoshi (artist) 38, 158 Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten 159–60, 172, 173, 175, 177, 181 interconnectivity 18, 23, 49, 66, 68 interculturality 75, 77, 79, 84, 91, 92 interpellation 36, 80, 81, 83, 90, 113, 142, 166, 181, 185, 196 n66 interpenetration among all phenomena (also see rijimuge hokkai and jijimuge hokkai) 193 n104 among life and death 152 humanity and nature 4, 5, 13, 16, 18, 24, 31, 33, 41, 43, 46, 59, 61, 79, 86, 88, 91, 93, 96, 99, 106, 108–9, 120, 141, 183, 185, 186–87 non-impeded world/cosmos 16, 22, 43, 46, 56, 63, 184, 193 n104 intersubjectivity (also see subjectivity) 5, 18, 20, 37, 38, 63, 101, 106, 129, 148, 160, 167, 181, 184, 187 intertextuality 3, 17, 24, 37, 44, 62, 67, 72, 99, 188 n14 Ishī Momoko (1907–2008) 14 Ishikawa Takuboku (poet, 1886–1912) 11, 190 n26 Itō Wataru (artist) 9, 106, 126, 186 Kenjū Kōenrin 126–129

L Lee Ufan (artist) 35, 38, 46, 66, 198 n53 Donguri to Yamaneko 66–72, 186 Lotus Sutra (also see Buddhism) Encouragement of the Bodhisattva Universal Virtue 42 five desires 78 five wisdoms 78 M Makino Suzuko (artist) 138, 203 n28 n29 Futago no Hoshi 131, 138–42, 153 Mandala 52, 139, 140, 186 Matasaburō the Wind Imp (Kaze no Matasaburō) 5 material embeddedness 155–181, 156, 158, 185 materiality/immateriality 21–4, 31, 37, 38, 42–46, 59, 63, 67, 69, 70–72, 84, 91, 93, 95, 98–99, 152, 155–56, 158, 160, 181, 185 Matsutani Miyoko 135 mental sketch (see image sketch) metanarrative 2, 4, 13, 17, 25, 32, 34, 36, 38, 183, 184, 187, 188 n10, 193 n89, 195 n148 mingei (folk art/craft) 30, 35, 37, 56, 68, 161, 185, 203 n24 Minkowski, Hermann 21 Miyazawa Kenji and ikūkan (also see different space) 20–21, 185 as agriculturalist 1, 10, 11, 12, 21 as natural scientist 1, 10, 12, 18 Buddhist faith/ideals of 11–24 galactical/cosmological consciousness 19, 20–23, 68, 72 modality 27, 32–33, 35–37, 66, 81–2, 99, 135, 158, 183–84 Morris, William 12, 191 n34 The Mountain Man in April (Yamaotoko no Shigatsu) 191 n31 mukōgawa (see otherworld)

J jidō bungaku (see children’s literature) jijimuge hokkai (also see interpenetration among all phenomena) 193 n104 jiriki (self-empowered enlightenment) 18, 20, 43, 44, 102, 105, 110, 112, 114, 126, 129, 141, 158–60, 161, 165, 173, 181, 201 n30 (also see tariki) Jung, Carl Jungian shadows 84, 140 jūriki (Buddhist power/wisdom) 24, 102 K kami (gods) 84 Karasu to Hokutoshichisei (see The Crow and the Big Dipper) karma 5, 19–20, 43, 93, 114, 116, 124, 132, 134, 138, 181, 200 n17, 201 n51 karmic suffering 19–20, 22, 24, 116 Kashiwabayashi no Yoru (see Night in the Oak Forest) Katao Ryō (artist) 91 Yukiwatari 91–99, 183, 185, 186, 199 n40 Kaze no Matasaburō (see Matasaburō the Wind Imp) Kenjū Kōenrin (Kenjū’s Park/Wood) 5, 6, 23, 42, 101–29, 134, 186, 189 n 7 synopsis of 103–04 Kikuchi Takeo (artist) 2 Kim Tschang-Yeul (artist) 27, 35, 38, 142, 148, 203 n39 Yamanashi 148–53, 186

N Nakura Yasuhiro (artist) 106 Serohiki no Gōshu 101, 106–11, 126, 128–29, 186

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miyazawa kenji and his illustrators Nametoko Yama no Kuma (see Bears of Mount Nametoko) nature (shizen) communion with 17, 18, 56, 106 (also see humanity and nature) contemplative view of 17–18, 52, 66, 104, 106, 129 dynamic view of 17–18, 24, 67, 68, 71, 90, 142 Nichiren Buddhism 12, 17, 36, 192 n71, 193 n104 Nichiren Shonin (1222–1282) 36, 196 n73 Nighthawk Star (Yodaka no Hoshi) 5, 24, 29, 103, 189 n21 Night in the Oak Forest (Kashiwabayashi no Yoru) 191 n31 Night on the Milky Way Railway (Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru) 2, 5, 9, 10, 55, 107 nihonjinron 11, 17, 193 n89 n95 nirvana (enlightenment) 11, 18, 19, 42, 43, 75, 87, 91, 93, 97, 102, 104, 105, 110, 114, 123, 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 138, 141, 156, 158, 168, 181, 191 n29 n35, 194 n113, 201 n30 n51 Nishida Yoshiko 2, 21, 22, 102 Nōmin Geijutsu Gairon Kōyō (see Outline of Agrarian Art) non-impeded world (see interpenetration) non-self (see self)

The Restaurant of Many Orders (Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten) book (of nine stories) 2, 12, 16, 22, 23, 34, 41, 47, 191 n31, 198 n52 picture books of 158–181 story 3, 5, 6, 24, 37, 79, 155–181, 185, 192 n74, 203 n7 n19 synopsis of 156 rijimuge hokkai 193 n104 (also see interpenetration among all phenomena) ritual 77, 88, 186 chants as 76–77, 81, 88, 90, 95 Ruskin, John 12, 191 n32 S Saijō Yaso 191 n52 Sākyamuni (see Buddha) Satō Kunio (artist) 2, 9, 36, 37, 46, 55, 106, 185, 195 n30, 197 n41 Donguri to Yamaneko 55–63, 72, 75 Serohiki no Gōshu 111–17, 118, 129 Yukiwatari 75, 81, 84–88, 99 self/subject 2, 18, 72, 140 absolute self 16, 99 modern self/individual 16, 102 non-self/selflessness 5, 6, 99, 102 self-empowered enlightenment (see jiriki) semiotics of representation 4 Serohiki no Gōshu (see Gōshu, the Cellist) Shaka (see Buddha) shibusa 30 Shika no Harjimari (see How the Deer Dance Began) shikidoku (absorptive understanding) 36–38 shikishin nihō (the combination of the two laws of matter and spirit or body and mind) 36 Shimada Mutsuko (artist) 37 Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten 155, 158, 160–63, 176–77, 181, 203 n19 shinshō sukecchi (see image sketch) Shintō 77, 84 shizen (see nature) shura (see ashura) six realms of existence 19, 132, 202 n22 Snow Crossing (Yukiwatari) 5, 6, 23, 37, 75–99 picture books of 79–99 synopsis of 76 spiritual/ity 4, 10, 13, 17, 30, 32, 34–37, 39, 45, 47, 56, 64, 66, 67–68, 84, 86–87, 91, 94, 98, 99, 110, 124, 129, 138–40, 148, 152, 155, 156, 158–9, 165, 170, 181, 184–86 subjectivity 4, 5, 10, 15, 17–25, 27, 32–33, 41–72, 106, 128, 129, 142, 148, 167, 186 subject/object dichotomies (see dualism)

O Ōfuji Mikio 2 Ogawa Mimei (1882–1961) 14, 16 Ōi no Mori to Zaru Mori, Nusuto Mori (see ‘Wolf Forest, Basket Forest and Thief Forest’) other-powered enlightenment (tariki) 18, 43, 110, 132, 201 n30 otherworld 20–22, 46 (also see different space) Outline of Agrarian Art (Nōmin Geijutsu Gairon Kōyō) 20, 21, 189 n6 and psyche 21, 22, 23, 24, 41, 46, 47, 49 P paratextuality 194 n133 peritext 21, 41, 47, 194 n133, 195 n148 The Phenomenon of I (poem) 75, 21 picture books 24–25, 27–38 as re-visionings 2–5, 28, 33, 34, 36, 38 polyphonic representation 3, 33–38, 184, 188–9 n14 postmodernism 29, 35, 37, 38, 183, 184, 193 n89 pre-existing text (pre-text) 3–4, 11, 25, 34–38 Q quiescence (see nirvana) R Red Bird (Akai Tori) 14, 159, 191 n52 reincarnation (see death) representation iconic 32 indexical (or symbolic) 32

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index Undaunted by the Rain (Ame ni mo Makezu) 10, 13, 19, 35, 42, 101, 104

substantialism (see dualism) Suisenzuki no Yokka (see The Fourth Month of Narcissus) Suzuki Kōji (artist) 162 Chūmon no Ōi Ryōriten 158, 162–66, 172–77, 181, 185 Suzuki Mamoru (artist) 88 Yukiwatari 88–91, 99, 186

V vacuum (of space) 18 W Wildcat and the Acorns (Donguri to Yamanko) 41–73 picture books of 46–72 synopsis of 43–44 Wild Pear (Yamanashi) 5, 6, 24, 27, 34, 38, 129, 131–2, 133, 142–53 picture books of 142–53 synopsis of 142 wisdom (see jūriki) Wolf Forest, Basket Forest and Thief Forest (Ōi no Mori to Zaru Mori, Nusuto Mori) 191 n31 world of here-and-now (see kono yo)

T Takamura Kōtarō (poet, 1883–1956) 14, 190 n26 Tanigawa Gan (1923–1995) 17, 38, 46, 66, 148 tanka 11, 90 n27 tariki (see other-powered) ten worlds of existence (also see Buddhism) 19 this world (see kono yo) Tōyama Shigetoshi (artist) 135 Futago no Hoshi 135–38, 141, 153 transience (see Buddhism: impermanence) transmigration (see death) Tsukasa Osamu (artist) 46, 47, 63, 106, 197 n49, 201 n46 Donguri to Yamaneko 63–66, 72 Serohiki no Gōshu 111–12, 120–26, 129, 185 Tsukiyo no Denshinbashira (see Electric Light Poles in the Moonlight) Twin Stars (Futago no Hoshi) 5, 6, 11, 23, 131–53 picture books of 135–42 synopsis of 133–34

Y Yamanashi (see Wild Pear) Yamaotoko no Shigatsu (see The Mountain Man in April) Yanagi Sōetsu (1889–1961) 30–32, 37, 68, 203 n24 Yodaka no Hoshi (see Nighthawk Star) yojigen (fourth dimension) 10, 20, 21–23, 191 n30 yūgenism (mystery and depth) 29–30 Yukiwatari (see Snow Crossing)

U ukiyo-e (woodblock prints) Ukiyoe Hanga no Hanashi (Discourse on Woodblock Prints) 30–31

Z zenshū (complete works) of Miyazawa Kenji 14, 190 n12, 192 n59

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