Japanese Short Stories from Tanizaki, Shiga, Seirai, Ogawa, & Nakajima

I. Longing [c.1917] by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki (trans. Paul McCarthy) – ★★★★

This is one dreamy, evocative and progressively eerie narrative of a seven-year-old boy on a journey through the dark countryside surrounded by “white, fluttering things”. He spots a house in the distance and thinks it is his home, only to be confronted with one nasty, unwelcoming version of his “mother”. Then, he hears the sound of a shamisen coming from somewhere deep inside the surrounding pine forest.

Though the end strongly suggests that this is a story of a boy/man who tries to come terms with a trauma surrounding his mother or her (new) attitude towards him, it may also be a story of a boy who tries to make sense of his new situation (his family got poorer and migrated to the countryside), or a parable of a child who first glimpses the frightening prospect of existence independently from his mother. Either way, there is certainly there a metaphor of a struggle one undergoes to find moments of hope and happiness in a life that presently appears full of heartache, confusion or despair. I read this short story in Longing and Other Stories by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki [translated by Anthony Chambers and Paul McCarthy, Columbia University Press 2022].

II. Rain Frogs [1923] by Naoya Shiga (trans. Lane Dunlop) – ★★★1/2

Translated somewhat crudely by Lane Dunlop, this is a story of a husband and wife pair. The husband, Sanjiro, a graduate of an agricultural college, and in charge of a sake brewery in his small village, falls under the influence of his close friend and poet Takeno, and begins to be interested in literature. Sanjiro’s wife Seki is uneducated and does not much share his passion for all things literary. One day, when an important literary seminar is about to take place nearby, and Sanjiro and Seki are set to attend, Sanjiro’s grandmother feels suddenly unwell, and Sanjiro sends Seki alone to the lecture.

Playwright S and novelist G are there to talk, and after the talk, Seki innocently and naively accepts an invitation to spend the night with another female acquaintance at Cloud-Viewing Pavilion, where novelist G also decides to stay. At first, Shiga’s narrative is very factual, but the author soon builds much tension as we have to guess what transpired that night with Seki. The simple plot slowly unveils to us one horrifying realisation, as Shiga condemns that “intellectualism” that, in reality, is also linked with predatory behaviour and exploitation. I read this short story in The Paper Door & Other Stories by Naoya Shiga [translated by Lane Dunlop, North Point Press 1987].

III. Insects [2005] by Yūichi Seirai (trans. Paul Warham) – ★★★★1/2

“The human world was over, I thought, and the world of insects was about to take its place.” This quietly powerful story is about elderly woman Michiko who receives a postcard from another woman Reiko, who once “stole” Michiko’s man and “love of her life” from her. Consumed by jealousy and hurt, Michiko does not let go of the past, and her mental state is made worse by her survivor’s guilt of being the only nurse in her workplace to survive a bombing during the World War II: “My life has been a blank, unthinking stretch of time“. Her memories of the man she still loves, but who is irreversibly lost, mingles with her horrific war experience: “There were two types of people now: those whose lives had been affected by the bomb and those who hadn’t suffered.” Can Michiko find some relief before the end of the story as she reveals her final secret?

The metaphor of insects works well in this story of one tormented desire, many “what ifs”, and coming to terms with war, betrayal, and the passage of time. I read this short story in Ground Zero, Nagasaki: Stories by Yūichi Seirai [translated by Paul Warham, Columbia University Press 2006].

IV. The Tale of the House of Physics [2010] by Yōko Ogawa (trans. Ted Goossen) – ★★★★★

“Those who live by the pen, a fragile instrument that can easily be snapped in two, are themselves equally vulnerable…“. In this story, a book editor (our narrator) sits and recalls all the books that she had helped to bring to the market in her thirty-two-year career in publishing. She often had to balance her personal preferences with work demands, trying not to overshadow any author’s unique personality or intent. Her first edited book was The Tale of the House of Physics. Recalling that book, the editor tells us of one derelict House of Physics and her childhood spent playing near it. The single occupant of this house was one eccentric, seemingly vagabond, woman with “ludicrous” writing aspirations. Her childhood self’s connection to that woman and the story she wanted to tell to the world are probably what also dictated our present narrator’s choice of profession.

This story reminded me why Ogawa (The Memory Police) is my favourite Japanese contemporary author. It is very easy to start feeling cosy in her narrative, following her narrator’s train of thought. This is one beautiful story of kindness, remembrance, and buried writing ambitions. I read this short story in The Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories [edited by Jay Rubin, Penguin Classics 2018].

V. Kirara’s Paper Plane [2017] by Kyōko Nakajima (trans. Ian Mccullough MacDonald) – ★★★1/2

In this fantastical story by Kyōko Nakajima (The Little House), boy Kenta is a ghost who still cannot wrap his head around as to why he keeps reappearing in this world when he is supposed to be dead (he was hit by a car near Ueno station and died). To his surprise, he discovers that there is one person who can still see him – a little girl by the name of Kirara. The two are soon friends, especially since Kirara’s mother is a sex worker who leaves the little girl alone for prolonged periods of time. Kenta is a ghost, but he still craves food that never sates him, and uses his invisibility to burglarise stores, sharing his bounty with Kirara. When he starts teaching Kirara how to fold a paper plane and fly it, his recklessness and apathy about risk and death mean that Kirara’s life is also soon in danger.

There is a sense of irreversible passage of time and post-war trauma hanging over this story, as Kenta tries to make sense of his new, changed environment, and there are themes here of child neglect and homelessness. Nakajima’s “light-hearted” prose vis-à-vis the story’s disturbing implications did not sit well with me, but it is still one intriguing short story. I read it in Things Remembered and Things Forgotten by Kyōko Nakajima [translated by Ian Mccullough MacDonald and Ginny Tapley Takemori, Sort of Books 2021].

This list was in the order of publication (earliest first), and see also my other post on Japanese Short Stories, where I talked about short works of authors Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Fumiko Enchi, Shūsaku Endō, Yasunari Kawabata, and Yasushi Inoue, and from such anthologies as This Kind of Woman: Ten Stories by Japanese Women Writers and Japan: A Traveller’s Literary Companion.