Lesson

3 Asian Literature: Japanese

Japanese literature has been influenced heavily by the Chinese literature from
the ancient period all the way to the Edo Period (1603-1868) which corresponds to the
early modern Japanese literature. Japanese literary works also reveal elements of
Indian and later of Western elements but above all, they reveal a distinct style which
has also greatly influenced both Eastern and Western literatures.

Japanese literature can be divided into four periods: the ancient, classical,
medieval, and modern.

Ancient literature in Japan deals primarily with myths and legends. Tales like the
creation of Japan, wherein the islands came from the gemstones imbued in the swords
of gods are very prominent during this period. The celebrated writers during this period
are Ono Yasumaro, Nihon Shoki, and Man’yoshu who wrote based on real events in the
country.

The classical literature in Japan occurred during the golden age, the Heian
period. During this period, Murasaki Shikibu, one of the greatest Japanese writers,
wrote the seminal text, Tale of Genji. Tale of Genji, considered the world’s first novel, is
a very charming and accurate depiction of the Japanese court during the Heian period
under the reign of Empress Akiko.

History and literature were intertwined during the Medieval period due to the
influence of the civil wars and the emergence of the warrior class. Thus, war tales are
very prominent during this period. Besides war stories and tales, the popular form of
Japanese poetry, the renga, saw its rise.

Modern literature can be further divided into early modern, which happened
during the Edo period, and modern, which started during the Meiji period, when Japan
opened its doors to the West. The early modern gave way to the rise of new genres like
the Japanese drama, kabuki, the poetry form known for its simplicity and subtlety, haiku,
and the yomihon, a type of Japanese book which put little emphasis on illustration.

The modern period also marked the emergence of new styles of writing.
Japanese writers started to romanticize and tried experimenting with different genres
and subject matters. The Second World War heavily affected Japanese literature but
soon, the distinct Japanese style of writing manage to regain its popularity. Some of the
prominent modern Japanese writers are Yasunari Kawabata, Kobi Abe, Takiji
Kobayashi, and Haruki Murakami to mention a few.
(https://www.scribd.com/document/412634387/21st-Century-Literature-of-the-Philippines-and-of-the-
World-1)
You are now ready to ready to read an excerpt from Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the
Shore.

The Boy Named Crow (an excerpt from Kafka on the Shore)
by Haruki Murakami

“So you’re all set for money, then?” the boy named Crow asks in his typical
sluggish voice. The kind of voice like when you’ve just woken up and your mouth still
feels heavy and dull. But he’s just pretending. He’s totally awake. As always.
I nod.
“How much?”
I review the numbers in my head. “Close to thirty-five hundred in cash, plus some
money I can get from an ATM. I know it’s not a lot, but it should be enough. For the time
being.”
“Not bad,” the boy named Crow says. “For the time being.”
I give him another nod.
“I’m guessing this isn’t Christmas money from Santa Claus.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I reply.
Crow smirks and looks around. “I imagine you’ve started by rifling drawers, am I
right?”
I don’t say anything. He knows whose money we’re talking about, so there’s no
need for any long-winded interrogations. He’s just giving me a hard time.
“No matter,” Crow says. “You really need this money and you’re going to get it –
beg, borrow, or steal. It’s your father’s money, so who cares, right? Get your hands on
that much and you should be able to make it. For the time being. But what’s the plan
after it’s all gone? Money isn’t like mushrooms in a forest – it doesn’t just pop up on its
own, you know. You’ll need to eat, a place to sleep. One day you’re going to run out.”

“I’ll think about that when the time comes,” I say.

“When the time comes,” Crow repeats, as if weighing these words in his hand.
I nod.
“Like by getting a job or something?”
“Maybe,” I say.
Crow shakes his head. “You know you’ve got a lot to learn about the world.
Listen – what kind of job could a 15-year old kid get in some far-off place he’s never
been to before? You haven’t even finished junior high. Who do you think’s going to hire
you?”
 I blush a little. It doesn’t take much to make me blush.
“Forget it,” he says. “You’re just starting out and I shouldn’t lay all this depressing
stuff on you. You’ve already decided what you’re going to do, and all that’s left is to set
the wheels in motion. I mean, it’s your life. Basically, you have to go with what you think
is right.”
That’s right. When all is said and done, it is my life.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though. You’re going to have to get a lot tougher if you
want to make it.”
“I’m trying my best,” I say.
“I’m sure you are,” Crow says. “These last few years you’ve grown a whole lot
stronger. I’ve got to hand it to you.”
I nod again.
“But let’s face it – you’re only 15,” Crow goes on. “Your life’s just begun and
there’s a ton of things out in the world you’ve never laid eyes on. Things you never
could imagine.”
As always, we’re sitting beside each other on the old sofa in my father’s study.
Crow loves the study and all the little objects scattered around there. Now he’s toying
with a bee-shaped glass paperweight. If my father was at home, you can bet Crow
would never go anywhere near it.
“But I have to get out of here,” I tell him. “No two ways about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He places the paperweight back on the table and
links his hands behind his head. “Not that running away’s going to solve everything. I
don’t want to rain on your parade or anything, but I wouldn’t count on escaping this
place if I were you. No matter how far you run. Distance might not solve anything.”
The boy named Crow lets out a sigh, then rests a fingertip on each of his closed
eyelids and speaks to me from the darkness within.
“How about we play our game?” he says.
“All right,” I say. I close my eyes and quietly take a breath.
“OK, picture a terrible sandstorm,” he says. “Get everything else out of your
head.”
I do as he says, get everything else out of my head. I forget who I am, even. I’m
a total blank. Then things begin to surface. Things that – as we sit here on the old
leather sofa in my father’s study – both of us can see.

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction,” Crow
says.
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction.
You change direction, but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the
storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with
death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in
from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you.
Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the
storm, closing your eyes and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there,
no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the
sky like pulverised bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And that’s exactly what I do. I imagine a white funnel stretching vertically up like
a thick rope. My eyes are closed tight, hands cupped over my ears, so those fine grains
of sand can’t blow inside me. The sandstorm draws steadily closer. I can feel the air
pressing on my skin. It really is going to swallow me up.
The boy called Crow rests a hand softly on my shoulder, and with that the storm
vanishes.
“From now on – no matter what – you’ve got to be the world’s toughest 15-year-
old. That’s the only way you’re going to survive. and in order to do that, you’ve got to
figure out what it means to be tough. You following me?”
I keep my eyes closed and don’t reply. I just want to sink off into sleep like this,
his hand on my shoulder. I hear the faint flutter of wings.
“You’re going to be the world’s toughest 15-year old,” Crow whispers as I try to
fall asleep. As if he were carving the words in a deep blue tattoo on my heart.
And you really have to make it through that violent, metaphysical storm. No
matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will
cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you
will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own
blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through,
how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm
is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t
be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
On my fifteenth birthday I’ll run away from home, journey to a far-off town and
live in a corner of a small library. It’d take a week to go into the whole thing, all the
details. So I’ll just give the main point. On my fifteenth birthday I’ll run away from
home, journey to a far-off town, and live in a corner of a small library.
It sounds a little like fairytale. But it’s no fairy tale, believe me. No matter what
sort of spin you put on it. (Marikit Tara A. Uychoco, Rex Bookstore 2016), 152-155
source: p113/nick-ian/art/The-Boy-Named-Crow-456862974