Books & Reviews Archive

> I was about to enter the ruthless world of adults, and there I had to survive on my own. Dovevo diventare più duro di chiunque altro / I had to become tougher than anyone else . First and foremost, the book is a bildungsroman, taking its cue from a short story by a major figure of Japanese literature: Natsume Soseki. He recounts the story of a student who runs away from home to work in a mine, undergoing an "experience of life and death" before returning to his former world. The singularity of Soseki's text lies in the fact that it never reveals whether the young man has changed. Reading it, one has the impression of "not understanding what it is meant to signify." Similarly, fifteen-year-old Kafka Tamura, one of the two protagonists of Haruki's novel, flees his hated paternal home to escape the pain of having been abandoned by his mother. He is weighed down by a tremendous spiritual wound, one that can only be overcome by accepting his mother's rejection without expecting explanations. He simply has to forgive her. It is an arduous existential passage, not least because doing so would bring him definitively into maturity, to the realization that all of us are like a mask in a Greek tragedy: > light and shadow, hope and despair, laughter and sorrow, trust and solitude . It is no coincidence that in a book steeped in metaphor, the library and the forest are the most crucial symbolic constructs of Tamura's inner journey. Having run away from home, Tamura finds shelter in a private library, where he befriends the clerk—a sort of philosopher, part man and part woman—and, above all, meets the woman who might be his mother, Miss Saeki, with whom he makes love. Yet the library is the symbol of the orderly arrangement of memories, without which we could not survive. > We all keep continually losing so many important things... living means this too, but each of us has a little room inside our head where we can keep all these things in the form of memories . Walking in the forest, on the other hand, symbolizes the search for a world apart, motionless, serene because it is devoid of memory. And indeed Tamura ventures ever deeper into the woods to reach > a particular place in my being, the luminous source where darkness is spawned and soundless echoes are born . There, in an unreal village, he may find that inner peace which constantly eludes him because he unceasingly wonders: > why didn't she love me? If my mother didn't love me, could it not have been because of some grave, fundamental flaw of my own? . Yet how did Tamura manage to enter this world, > where time is no longer needed and (therefore) memories are not needed either ? Here enters the parallel storyline running alongside Tamura's journey. Nakata has suffered the effects of a mysterious phenomenon that occurred during the Second World War. Still a child, he fell into a coma for several days and then, upon regaining consciousness, lost all memory, forgetting everything—even how to read and write. Ever since, he has remained somewhat impaired, endowed with strange and seemingly useless powers: for instance, he can speak with cats, as he knows the language of all living beings. Here, too, the author draws upon an ancient Japanese legend according to which there exist "living spirits" that possess the prerogative of leaving the body, traveling to faraway places, and dwelling at the edges of the world. Well, Nakata seems to possess these very qualities. His quiet life as an elderly man, somewhat odd yet harmless, is abruptly shattered because he is forced to kill a person who beheads cats (a man who is none other than Tamura's father). Nakata sets off on a journey partly because he feels he must carry out a mission: to seek the entrance stone, that is, to allow Tamura to enter the timeless world. And this is crucial for the boy, because transcending the boundaries of the real world allows him to meet his mother, forgive her, and accept coming of age. > I find myself trapped between one void and another. I cannot tell right from wrong. I do not even know what I am looking for..... yet from somewhere Miss Saeki's voice reaches me, saying in a firm tone: it doesn't matter, you have to go back anyway. I am the one who wants it. For you to be there . Narrating events and circumstances on the brink of the absurd allows the author to dispense with the criteria of verisimilitude and transport us into an oneiric world, belonging to dream rather than reality. At the outset, the narrative is structured like a classical novel; then, as one proceeds, the reader is no longer astonished by the events and characters, growing convinced that the author is recounting a dream, a journey through consciousness in which the different levels—rational and irrational—somehow merge and achieve a unified conception. One is in the presence of a book bearing strong philosophical undertones, with frequent recourse to symbolism and words laden with manifold meanings. It is a pity. Poised between psychological inquiry and fantastical tale, all too often inclined toward philosophical digressions, the story loses concision; the narrative's forward momentum dissolves, remaining in the end suspended without a definitive resolution. One is left with the sensation of having read something fascinating yet evanescent, > like water lingering in a small hollow in the ground on a summer morning before evaporating in the sun . Why read it? It is well worth reading, but one should expect neither an easy read nor a clear conclusion.

For Giuseppe Ungaretti, there is a mystery within us, unknowable and unspeakable, and the purpose of poetry is not to unveil it but to allow us to strike a balance, as the protagonist of this story, Momokushi, puts it, > between that which is shown to the world and that which is kept hidden; between what is apparent and what is intimate and real. Grappling with this mystery is, ultimately, what all artists pursue; if for some, like Javier Marías, this means venturing into the labyrinth of contemporary relationships, as in *Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me* (see the review on this site), Linda Lercari has chosen instead to investigate the secrets of the soul within a setting both dear and familiar to her: medieval Japan. The setting is the end of the Kamakura period, in 1330; following the Mongol attempts to invade Japan, the country is racked by endless warfare among rival feudal lords. Momokushi is a powerful castellan and warrior, with numerous samurai in his service. The story begins with the death in battle of Haka, the samurai closest to him in courage, prowess in combat, and loyalty. On his deathbed, Haka confesses something to him that throws Momokushi into turmoil. Deftly, the author does not reveal what his friend told him: it is a secret that Momokushi, and we alongside him, must slowly uncover. A sort of mystery novel unfolds in a setting that strikes us as fairytale-like, yet is rendered plausible through tangible details revealing Lercari’s deep knowledge of medieval Japan. Momokushi visits Haka’s concubine to ask if she knows anything, and is given a small chest containing his friend's belongings. Inside, he finds a poem of evocative yet obscure words ( > a thousand seasons / winter of the soul, / the heart dies. He discovers a *tsuba*, a small metal disc designed to protect the hand, which he realizes once belonged to him by its dragonfly motif: bewildered, he also notices that the engraving of a carp has been added, undoubtedly at his friend’s initiative. In Japanese culture, the carp symbolizes the freedom to follow one’s own path and the strength to overcome adversity. Alongside these physical clues, disordered memories of his life with Haka surface in Momokushi’s mind, particularly one episode: the two friends had walked away from the other samurai when Haka > suddenly grasped his hand and pressed it to his heart. His face scarlet red, redder than the cherry blossoms illuminated by the lanterns. In the memory > a faint pang of guilt stirred within Momokushi. Had he been more attentive, perhaps he could have divined what torment was corroding his friend’s soul, but he feared knowing the answer, and for that reason had always remained aloof. It will be the almond blossoms decorating his friend’s sword that reveal to him the secret of their life together and the words uttered by Haka on his deathbed. It is too late! As in the finale of João Guimarães Rosa's *Grande Sertão* (see the review on this site), nothing remains but the painful sense of loss for what never came to be. > Upon this meadow / among ancient trees / a sip of wine, / a song, a pillow, / no sounds / of fire and storm, / no threat, / illusion of feast. The story moves with the slow pace of a prose poem. One senses a melancholy sweetness, alternating between martial episodes, evocative descriptions of nature and the samurai milieu, and the whispers surrounding a bond as intense as that between Momokushi and Haka. The castellan Momokushi stands out in solitude: he is the proud, suffering protagonist. He scandalized the court by adopting Haka as a child, nurtured his intimacy with his friend despite the slander, and endured his grief, slowly becoming aware of what lay hidden behind their relationship—one only superficially akin to that between warriors. While the details are rich in evocative power, the plot is often redundant; frequent flashbacks confuse and weigh down the narrative flow to the detriment of rhythm. A leaner, more essential structure would undoubtedly have benefited the novel. The writing is elegant and pleasant: a remarkable mastery is evident in the descriptions of Japanese nature and society. Attention to detail lends verisimilitude to the entire narrative, steering clear of common clichés about Japan. Perhaps a deeper exploration of Haka’s character and his life choices would have been beneficial. Why read it? An engaging story, beautifully depicted settings.