It’s funny how the Japanese concept of race works. Simply put, you’re either one of them or you aren’t. Thus, regardless of nationality, citizenship, or color, the great hodge-podge of humanity is usually subsumed under one general heading — that of the gaijin, or foreigner.
And while some have taken offense at the seemingly careless way we’ve been lumped into a single, homogenous entity, I think it’s safe to say that the Japs mean no disrespect. Their gaijin-versus-us mentality wasn’t something born out of willed resentment for the rest of the world (except for maybe the US), and it’s more likely that this way of thinking grew as a result of the sheer love they have for their country… not to mention the pride they carry in simply being Japanese.
Is it any wonder, then, that the country has morphed into one of the foremost cultural giants of the 21st century? They’ve single-handedly managed a worldwide invasion. I mean, you have the standard compact disc, anime, sushi, samurai-ninja spin-offs, karaoke, crazy spiked hair, Godzilla, and Sony as shining testaments to the fact.
That said, given the hold of these staple Japanese icons on the popular psyche, the beauty of their literature has, understandably enough, taken a backseat to all this. Nevertheless, thanks in part to the efforts of translators and foreign publishing houses, more and more popular works have been made available to the gaijin reading public. And I’m not just talking Haruki Murakami here.
Since I’ve only just realized the number of contemporary Japanese novels I’ve read (and enjoyed), I’d like to share two of my favorite, “off-the-beaten-track” ones — those hidden gems you can save from gathering dust in a bookstore near you.
‘Salmonella Men on Planet Porno’
By Yasutaka Tsutsui
Don’t let the title turn you off (or lead you on). While it doesn’t contain any porn, Tsutsui’s Salmonella Men is a wonderful disclaimer against the stereotype that Japanese fiction has to be as restrained as the society it inhabits. This collection of short stories, while hilariously morbid, positively paranoid, and downright insane, is a brilliant satire, no doubt about it. And what makes it so brilliant is the fact that at the end of it all, the crazy mix of the slapstick and the surreal actually works — dishing out cultural critique while it’s at it.
Case in point, in “Hello, Hello, Hello,” one of the book’s finer stories, Tsutsui takes a jab at Japan’s consumerist culture by turning it into your worst nightmare. Imagine yourself strapped for cash, with a persistent customer sales representative dictating the stuff you shouldn’t buy. It’s not so bad… until you realize that the sales rep takes “persistent” to a whole new level, literally popping in and out of your life at the most inopportune moments (while taking a dump or having sex, for instance) just so he can annoy you with the products you can’t have. The rendering is quite ingenious, actually; even if this is one of the collection’s more “toned-down” stories. You still have to contend with bonsai trees that promote life-like erotic dreams; an anti-smoking regulation that leads to the literal extinction of smokers; a floating city that begins to lean to one side and causes its citizens to reorient their daily lives according to the city’s alignment… the list goes on.
To be sure, Tsutsui is unapologetic about his dark, dystopic view of the future. So if you’re looking for something along the happy, humanistic, and generally upbeat strand of Japanese authors dabbling in the surreal… you’d probably be better off with Murakami. But don’t let this minor detail deter you; Tsutsui writes with just as much humanity as the best of them. With sounder wit, I might add.
‘The Housekeeper and The Professor’
By Yoko Ogawa
While I’m horrible at math and normally can’t stand baseball, Ogawa has managed to create such a beautifully moving story around the two that I can’t help but be transfixed. The style is so gentle and delicate — quiet, even — that reading it feels like walking on glass. No sudden movements or fidgeting allowed. Slow and steady, if you please. Not that “The Housekeeper and The Professor” is slow — it just seems to demand a higher level of restraint from its readers than most (American cinematic-style fiction, I’m looking at you).
But going back to math and baseball, it’s ultimately these two concepts that serve as the anchor of the whole novel, since, for one thing, Ogawa’s characters have no names. The story is narrated by the Housekeeper, with the rest of the characters only known to us as the Professor and Root (which is a nickname for the housekeeper’s son). Without any solid identities for the reader to hang on to, it’s clear that Ogawa wanted these characters to relate to us via something else. By their responsibilities perhaps, or at the very least by their hobbies and interests. And that’s how the story kicks off.
A genius mathematician, the Professor, who was injured in a car accident, only has a short-term memory of 80 minutes, and as a result has to re-learn the basics of his existence on a daily basis. Incidentally, he only holds memories of two things — his beloved math theorems and favorite baseball players. You can probably pick up the pieces from there. He forms a bond with Root on the basis of these two, and the intensity and tenderness of this bond manages to encapsulate the Housekeeper as well. The growth and development of the three as a family and as individuals is a delight to survey, and Ogawa does it ever so masterfully. Who needs names when you can delve into a person’s soul? In the end, however, what the narrative soars on is love, and it’s a love that both transcends and transform — without any of those cheesy, cliché undertones. Definitely a book worth fawning over, and one that has surprisingly moved me to tears.