Attention is sparse.

I read the first half in a physical book, translated by Lu Qiushi; the second half on an e-reader, translated by Moro Miya (a name so hard to remember that I forgot it after seeing it once).

I have to say that I am becoming less and less receptive to paper as a medium. I have grown used to reading on an e-reader. Perhaps the type in print is too small: I took in almost only the first sentence of each paragraph, and across the first half of the book there were only four or five places where I could focus. In the second half, though, my attention became much more concentrated. The translator may have had something to do with it, and the density of the plot cannot be ignored either.

The first half is comparatively fragmented, and it does not deliberately lay out the characters’ relationships as a play would. Untangling the relationships among Fujio, Iris, Kōno, Ono, and Munetika is difficult.

I also complained halfway through that the dialogue ought to have labels such as A. or MJ before it. Whenever a conversation begins, it goes on for a long time—especially the opening conversation between Munetika and Kōno—with no names inserted at all. With my scattered attention in the first half, I could not even tell who was speaking. I did not figure out who wore the fox-fur vest until nearly the end.

This is unquestionably a play.

I do not know much about drama, and I have seen very little of it: The Merchant of Venice and several works written by Mishima. Borrowing Watanabe’s remarks about ancient Greek drama in Norwegian Wood, this work is like Euripides: at the end of the plot, a character appears and resolves every problem that had seemed unsolvable. In this novel, Munetika is that character. Yet it is also reasonable. The cause of every problem is only Ono’s hesitation and concern for appearances, while Munetika is thoroughly frank and quite carefree. One act of honesty could solve everything, but from Ono’s perspective, I felt that there was no way forward or back.

Let me first give my overall impression of the work, then pick out the parts I especially care about.

The translator’s preface mentions that this was Natsume’s first work after he left teaching to become a full-time novelist. It can absolutely be called a love story, and as the number of installments increased, so did the pressure on him. This work apparently does not hold an especially strong position among all his works; on the contrary, scholars even consider it quite poor.

Coincidentally, one of the few plays I have seen is The Merchant of Venice, and these two works feel extremely similar to me. More coincidentally, the novel I read just before this was Kokoro. Earlier still, I read I Am a Cat.

From these three works by Natsume, I can infer that his audience is extremely broad—almost all East Asians—and that his work is almost entirely free from the constraints of its era. Many Chinese realist writers are difficult and boring to read without historical context. That may be why I do not read much Chinese literature: it is too heavy. Fortress Besieged is an example of something not bound by its era. (Some may think it petty, but I like this kind of thing.) I do not like people who, whenever they speak of a work’s intent, immediately raise it to the nation and the world. Though “the spark passes on, flying on without cease” from GuJian 3 moves me, I think and reflect more often on myself. (Perhaps I was only lamenting that my one life is too short beside a thousand autumns and ten thousand generations.) “Petty” and “grand” are only different points of focus. I prefer to observe the individual human self regardless of time or place, so I am “petty,” and even a little resistant to “grand narratives.” Some of my own problems may be no different from those of people a hundred years ago. In that sense, there is no need to talk about an era. A person alone already has far too many problems. So perhaps a work does not always have to reflect the problems of its time.

All three of Natsume’s works reflect certain unnoticed defects in people who are twisted and self-contradictory, along with possible solutions.

In The Poppy, Munetika offers the solution. In Kokoro, Sensei chooses to bury the problem forever. But readers will also analyze it for themselves and follow the author’s hints to their own answers.

It is interesting. If I considered Kokoro and The Poppy separately, I would only say I recommend them, four stars. But I read both recently and they have a considerable connection when placed together, so I would say I strongly recommend them, five stars.

More coincidentally, I had no idea what was going on in the first half of both books, and only concentrated in the second half. Perhaps they assembled themselves together in my mind in some strange way.

The Part I Especially Care About: Perhaps I Should Marry Into Someone Else’s Family

Leaving aside the central conflict I vaguely discussed earlier, between the frankness human nature needs and the concern for appearances needed to live in society,

I have to say that Fujio is a woman who surprises me. Whether Iris or Sayoko, they are only characters in a play; their behavior and personalities can be placed within ordinary reason and categories. I can simply say that Iris is a rough woman who toys with others’ feelings, while Sayoko is innocent and fragile. But I cannot simply summarize Fujio or make a judgment about her. Yet she is so simple and pure. This touches on something she and Kōno discuss: “It is better not to marry, and to remain unchanged,” and “You can stay carefree like this.”

1. She has spiritual insight. (In Buddhism, this seems to mean the capacity for sudden enlightenment. It includes intelligence, but more than that, innocence.)

I especially care about her conversation with Kōno: “When you move, you change,” “Leaving your parents and brother will change you,” “You will become clever,” and “It is better not to marry; it is good to stay unchanged forever.”

“I do not want to get married.”

At the time, I really felt Fujio’s innocence in that conversation. And I must say, Kōno was not called a philosopher for nothing: he is a true philosopher. Philosophy ultimately cannot be confused with literature. Writers often dwell in anguish or sentiment, but Kōno’s attitude of not caring about circumstances is truly transcendent. Writers are still more concerned with reality and practicality than philosophers are.

I think Fujio changed after that conversation, as if she reached enlightenment beneath a bodhi tree. She stepped out of the role the author had assigned her. She changed from “an innocent, romantic, carefree younger sister” into “a younger sister who decides to remain innocent and carefree.” She did not become cleverer; she became clearer and more aware. She moved from ignorance to deciding that it would be enough to remain unchanged forever.

If beauty could be held still, that too would be something moving.

So I still cannot explain in a single sentence what kind of person she is. But whatever the case, I like her this way.

Also, I still think Kōno’s words are worth considering further. Perhaps remaining unchanged is a good thing. (Some may argue that no one remains unchanged, and in one sense that is certainly true. But some people become increasingly pure, such as eminent monks who let go of attachment to the self.)

Maybe I should marry into someone else’s family someday, so that the other person can remain unchanged rather than changing by leaving home.

Though my attention was scattered when I first read it, by the time I have written this, Natsume is no longer just an unfamiliar name to me. I can say that I chewed over the parts I wanted from Kokoro and The Poppy carefully, and savored them again.

Human consciousness and attention are difficult to judge. We remember what we like, and what we see is easy to remember. It is precisely because of this strange mechanism that there are so many interesting works.