I never had an interest in Japanese literature until my best friend started reading through Ryu Murakami and Yukio Mishima. I had read Kobo Abe and Masanobu Fukuoka, but I took these works as individual pieces from a library, and not as part of the larger literary tradition of Japan. I have to say that it's been enjoyable to read through these interesting works as of late. The Old Capital, one of Kawabata's works that won him the Nobel Prize in Literature, was a stark departure from the grim, neo-tokyo atmosphere of In The Miso Soup. The masterful narrative explores mid-century Japan through the life of Chieko Sada, her family and the larger community.
The Old Capital reads lightly, like an Ukiyo-e painting. The story delicately unfolds as Chieko navigates through the challenges of young adult life against the backdrop of Kyoto, the traditional capital of Japan. Her mother and father operate a cloth wholesale store under a massive oak, tucked deep within one of Kyoto's old quarters. As an only child, lovingly devoted to her parents, Chieko grows up under the gentle influence of artisans and merchants in her classically styled home.
This book is not really about the "story". This book is about what's going on in Chieko's heart, as sappy as that sounds. It's true. And it's a masterpiece for that reason. An author can take their characters to hell and back, through epic dragon fights or horrible murders or any number of sensually tantalizing scenes, and that makes for a fine adventure. What sets this work apart is not the amazing things you see in your minds eye as you read it. The Old Capital takes the sensitive, loving, almost imperceptible influence of civilization and culture on the human heart as it's subject matter. It captures that ghost of a feeling and asks you to feel it too.
Reading The Old Capital, I had two distinct emotional responses. The first was a disconnect. I don't know if my heart is not sensitive enough to fully understand the way Chieko feels, but there were many moments where I was surprised by her reactions. She would cry, and I would feel nothing. Maybe we're not meant for each other. The other, stronger reaction I felt was a sense of longing. America is a young country, and I have the feeling that we still have a lot to learn about culture and tradition. I know that some Japanese (like Ryu Murakami) lament Japans seclusion into itself, but at the other end of the spectrum I wonder how it feels to be part of an inclusive and caring culture. Life here is often hard, and often ugly. I wonder how it would feel to be brought up under the gentle influence of artisans like Chieko. Maybe I would be happier.
Another question that The Old Capital asks is: "what is life without culture?". Walking around town today I couldn't help but to ask myself that same question. Chieko sweeps the street outside of her shop every day, but I can't walk down the sidewalk without seeing empty bottles, plastic containers, grime, soiled cardboard boxes, and endless dirty parking lots in every direction. Is there any meaningful emotional undertones to the urban culture of American life? Is it only because of a shared hunger for money that we even get along? Coming out of Kawabata's rose tinted world into reality is a gross shock. It pains me to see the bottles in our canals and the disquiet in our hearts. I hope we can find a way out of this.
This book is without doubt worth a read.