Keywords: Ishikawa Jun, Modernism, resistance literature, tradition, Edo, haikai, kyōka, modanizumu, zokka
When you try to sum up the whole of Edo using some newfangled literary theory, she slips away elusively, laughing at you in derision. This is because it is the Edoites— and not, as most scholars assume, their descendants— who truly deserve the label of “modern.”
—Ishikawa Jun, “On the Ways of Thinking of the People of Edo” (1943)
What is “modern” in the Japanese context? Is all that is recent “modern”? Or are there competing forces that run through the last few centuries of Japanese history, each vying for the title of “modern”? According to the conventional wisdom, Japan's "modern" (as contrasted with “early modern,” which is usually taken to mean the Tokugawa period), begins with the opening up of the country and the inception of the modern nation-state, which was founded upon a fusion of ideologies, namely: the neo-Confucianism of the Tokugawa period; the emperor system revived at the end of the Tokugawa period to bolster the authority and legitimacy of the new regime; and Westernization, which was used to overhaul not only scientific, legal, and political systems, but artistic and literary ones as well. Specifically in literature, the introduction of Western ideas led to the wholesale adoption of previously disparaged notions of mimesis, realism, and naturalistic depiction— concepts which were in vogue among the Victorians and others in the late 19th century. With the help of Tsubouchi Shōyō (1859-1935) and other “modernizers” who sought to do away with the “old" and “vulgar” Edo literary traditions and elevate literature to the realm of “high art,” this new ideology of realism quickly gained prominence, effectively marginalizing the literary traditions of Edo, which unlike the Western literature of the day, had no pretensions of loftiness.
But for Ishikawa Jun 石川淳 (1899-1987) this narrative of the modern is the false one. The real modern, according to Ishikawa, was that which was pushed into the margins at the advent of Meiji, namely, the plebeian culture of the Edo period (1603-1868) as represented in kibyōshi prints, sharebon novels, and haikai and kyōka poetry. Like Nagai Kafū, Ishikawa too turned to this period as source of sanity and refinement, especially during the war years, seeing the period “as more modern than the Japan of the first half of the twentieth century" (Tyler, 219).
Ishikawa traces the roots of this “modern” tradition as far back as the Tang dynasty (618-907), which saw the flourishing not only of new forms of art but of an entirely new kind of civilization. This Tang spirit was revived centuries later in Japan "during the liberal years of the Meiwa, An'ei, and Tenmei," when it was forged into a culture that consciously pitted itself against the prevailing neo-Confucianism of Tokugawa (Tyler, 218-219). Hattori Nankaku 服部南郭 (1683-1759), Ōta Nanpo 大田南畝 (1749-1823), aka Shokusanjin蜀山人, and others helped to revive this vision of the modern as an alternative to the rigid ideologies and government restrictions of the day. Similarly, Ishikawa continued this project in the twentieth century by helping to create a vision of Japan’s past that countered the essentialistic “Japanism” orthodoxy (Nihonshugi) of his day. As William Tyler notes, "there are many Japans within Japan; and Ishikawa's championing of Edo and the Tenmei literati also represents his counterbalance to the orientalism promoted by officialdom or the concept of a 'national literature' (kokumin bungaku) in which writers were called upon to effect their 'return to Japan' (Nihon e no kaiki)" (Tyler, 195).
In each of the works to be discussed in my thesis, Ishikawa repeatedly returns to the fundamental questions of what is the past (both literary and historical), to whom does it belong, and who determines what it was and meant. The two above-described narratives of the modern survive to this day, where they continue to vie with one another for dominance; however, a broader historical perspective might reveal that neither is the authentic version, and that they are instead mutually-dependent dual aspects of the total modern experience— a kind of Janus-faced symbol for the Japanese "modern," as it were.
In his essay “On the Ways of Thinking of the People of Edo” (Edojin no hassōhō ni tsuite; 1943), Ishikawa Jun describes the important features of the Tenmei kyōka poets, and in doing so, reveals much about his own philosophy of and approach to literature. He argues in his essay that it was "the secularization (zokuka) or haikai-ization (haikaika) of ideas [which] constituted the special genius of the denizens of Edo" (Tyler, 250). To Ishikawa, it was this ability to "make shabby"— i.e., to deconstruct, deflate, or poke holes in the utopian myths (either political or aesthetic) propped up to serve various ends— that the Edo plebeians (chōnin) possessed and his contemporaries lacked. This ability to “haikai-ize” requires a high degree of sophistication and flexibility of thought, and it was the lack of this quality in his contemporaries that Ishikawa saw as the fatal flaw that led the nation (and much of Asia) to the brink of total destruction.
Just as the Tenmei poets secularized the Kokinwakashū 古今和歌集 (905) and the Tōshisen 唐詩選 (Selection of Tang Poems, late 16th century)— two collections from the sacred canon— in their Mansai Kyōkashū 万歳集 (A Thousand Centuries of Kyōka, 1783) and other anthologies, Ishikawa used similar strategies to “secularize” the ostensibly sacred and inviolable forms that he found all around him, from political and national ideologies, to religious texts, to dominant literary movements. In addition to giving a broad revaluation of both Japanese Modernism—or modanizumu— and resistance literature in general, I intend to explore in my doctoral thesis how Ishikawa Jun’s essay “Edojin no hassōhō ni tsuite,” which describes the literary devices of a poetic movement over two centuries old, actually forms an aesthetic treatise that is both an indirect attack on the literature (and civilization) of the modern age and a personal admission that reveals much about his own particular process of creation, particularly with regard to his stories “Mars’ Song” (Marusu no uta; 1937), “Moon Gems” (Meigetsushu; 1945), “The Legend of Gold” (Ōgon densetsu; 1946), and “Jesus of the Ruins” (Yakeato no iesu; 1946).
Before I outline my intended examination of these works themselves, let me first say a word about some of the important terms that appear in “On the Ways of Thinking of the People of Edo.” First, there is haikaika 俳諧化, a technique of rendering into haikai (eccentric poetry) something not typically regarded as eccentric. The second term is yatsushi やつし, which is defined by John T. Carpenter as the technique of "making shabby, disguising," or, "as a prefix in ukiyo-e titles, [the term is] suggestive of parody and informality" (Designed for Pleasure, 255). Tyler says of the term: “Derive[ed] from the verb ‘yatsusu,’ meaning ‘to disguise,’ ‘yatsushi’ refers originally to the act of a highborn person traveling incognito . . . [and] implies the aristocratic descent into the plebian (i.e., the courtly Genji becoming an Edo townsman [in Yatsushi Genji]) (Tyler, 253).”
Next is zokuka 俗化, which is the “secularization” of things thought to be sacred. Mitate 見立て is another important term, which in general “means ‘selection’ and signifies imagery that combines at least two completely different subjects, often drawn from the high culture and popular culture respectively: for example, a scene from classical literature reenacted by fashionably dressed contemporary figures” (Designed for Pleasure, 62). In the visual arts, mitate-e are “allusive pictures,” and, more specifically, the term is “used in ukiyo-e to describe works in which a classical or other well-known theme is cleverly reinterpreted, often with a modish twist, and in a modern setting” (249).
Other terms that appear in Ishikawa's essay include the more commonly known honkadori 本歌取り, usually translated as “allusive variation,” and tōkai-buri 韜晦振り, a technique of mystification used by the author who wishes to hide himself in his work. The distinction between the courtly (ga) and the worldly (zoku) is also stressed in Ishikawa’s essay, and the ever-present tension between the two is a common theme in most of his works.
In “Mars’ Song,” Ishikawa parodies the watakushi shōsetsu narrative structure, particularly that of tenkō or “conversion” novels, which were self-indulgent diatribes of former leftists who had renounced their radical views and joined the “national cause.” “Mars’ Song,” in which the inverse phenomenon occurs, can thus be read as a haikai of this genre. Also, Ōta Nanpo is referred to in this story (as in others) as a model of sanity for a narrator who, trapped in the historical moment, has only this nostalgic past to turn to as a "last bastion of resistance" (Tyler, 181). With Nanpo and other kyōka poets as his guide, the narrator is able to "look unblinkingly at the harsh facts of life," and see through the empty slogans and symbols that surround him. Contrasted with watashi—a sort of last-sane-man figure— the other characters lack "the mental armor . . . [needed] to take up the challenge and argue" against the jingoistic fervor and empty nationalistic symbols (Tyler, 572). It is these points that will serve as the central focus of my discussion of the work.
The well-wrought miniature piece “Moon Gems,” too, can be read as a haikai-esque parody of the watakushi shōsetsu. It can also be seen, as Katō Koichi points out, “as a parody of Chinese tales about Taoist immortals in which watashi [the narrator], rides a bike rather than a cloud” (Katō, 21). Furthermore, the two competing visions of the “modern” are presented in this story most clearly: on the one hand is the single-minded pursuit of what I call the “Fukuzawa vision of the modern” (associated with empire, industrialization, and Westernization), which is represented by the character “Boots.” It is this vision of the modern which is responsible for the horrific situation watashi finds himself in, and which he sees as “more likely to propel one headlong down the path to barbarism" (191). On the other hand, there is the alternative vision of the modern— that of the multiple-minded Tenmei kyōka poets, whose world watashi and his eccentric neighbor, the poet Gūka (modeled after Nagai Kafū), seek as refuge. In addition to my discussion of these two visions of the modern, I will also explore another important lesson Ishikawa seemed to learn from the Tenmei poets, namely, that the act of writing is not the description of reality but the creation of it— a theme particularly central to this story. Finally, I will also explore how the wenren hermitic tradition, which was used by the Tenmei poets as a vehicle for "revolt against Tokugawa orthodoxy" (Tyler, 187), informs the general tone, content and structure of this piece.
“The Legend of Gold” is a work that parodies both travel literature (kikōbun) and Jacobus de Varagine's (1230-1298) Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, a retelling of the stories of the Christian saints. Echoes of Edo narrative styles can also be heard throughout the work, such as when an authorial voice suddenly interrupts the action to comment about the text— a technique often employed by Santō Kyōden (1761-1816) in his kibyōshi. In this work, Ishikawa also refashions worn-out literary tropes into yatsushi forms, an example being the once chaste and submissive wife who is transformed into a prostitute working in the infamous Honmoku region of Yokohama. As Tyler notes, “In the process of her transformation, the woman in red has discarded the courtliness of speech and classic refinement of romance, or the best aspects of Japan as it used to be" (Tyler, 209).
Finally, there is “Jesus of the Ruins,” a yatsushi retelling of the story of Jesus, set in Ueno immediately after the war. The horrors of the past are over, and there is the hope that Japan can experience a revival of the “truly modern” tradition, which had been confined to the shadows for so long. Emerging out of this blank slate, however, is not the urbane plebeian culture that Ishikawa had perhaps hoped for; rather, it is the more ambiguous figure of the “wild child” of Ueno, who might be read as a symbol for contemporary man’s return to the primitive state of nikutai, and whom we are not sure whether to welcome or abhor. I also plan to examine through a close reading of the text the relationship between “high” culture (as presented through Christian iconography and the refined culture of Hattori Nankaku and other Edo writers) and “low” culture (as represented by and the “wild child”), all the while paying close attention to Ishikawa’s notion of the interdependent relationship of high and low culture, particularly as this relates to the project of Japan’s regeneration. Finally, I will examine this text within the context of other works of the period, specifically those of Sakaguchi Ango (1906-1955) and other buraiha writers who addressed these themes of nikutai and “total devastation as fertile soil” (Tyler, 203).
In conclusion, unlike Tanizaki who employed a kind of Platonic idealism in seeking not the particulars of reality but the forms behind the particulars, Ishikawa's literature can in a sense be seen as the opposite project: one of deconstruction, or the dismantling of predetermined forms, tropes, ideologies, and other established categories of thought. The methods for this process of deconstruction he learned, at least in part, from the writings of the Edoites, specifically the Tenmei kyōka poets, who taught him how to “make shabby” or “secularize” those forms regarded as sacred.