Two great Japanese writers who committed suicide

 Yasunari Kawabata (June 11, 1899 – April 16, 1972)

 

Yasunari Kawabata won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1968 for his trilogy Snow Mountain, Thousand Cranes and The Old Capital. In 1966, he had been nominated but had failed to win. Born in Osaka, he graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in 1924. He was president of the Japanese P.E.N from 1945 to 1965. His novels were distinguished by his sparse and poetic style. 

On April 16, 1972, around 11 am, Yasunari was sorting letters in his family’s Kamakura home, 50 km, south of Tokyo. Around 2:45, Kawabata told his family that he was going for a walk and took a taxi to the coastal town of Zushi City, 5 km away, where he maintained a workshop in Marina Mansion. When he wrote, he lived alone and worked alone in this studio.  Tsuguo Edanami, the driver, dropped Yasunari at Marina Mansion in Zushi City after 3:00 pm. When he did not return home at night, his domestic helpers, Toshie Shimamori and Nuiko Kazawa, visited Marina Mansion after 9:45 pm.

In Room 417, they found Kawabata dead in the bathroom with a 1.5-metre gas hose in his mouth. The other end of the hose was connected to a gas stove sitting at the entrance of the bathroom. A bottle of sleeping pills was found in Yasunari’s bedroom. Police classified the case as suicide but Yasunari’s widow disputed this verdict as there was no suicide note. She claimed that her husband slipped and fell and the gas hose got entangled around him.

Masanao Kurihara, a psychiatrist who had been treating Kawabata for several years, said that the author had been suffering from insomnia and had been taking sleeping pills even while he was busy. Masanao concluded that Yasunari was depressed as he could not write anymore. The writer once told Masanao, “My eyes are sleepy and my movements are slow. This is like a drug addiction (sleeping pills). I personally think that creation is the life of an artist, but I can’t create. And I think it’s pretty tough on me.”

In 1977, Yoshimi Usui penned a novel claiming that Yasunari had a lover who left him, leaving him devastated and prompting his suicide. He was sued by Yasunari’s family.

                                                         aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Yukio Mishima (January 14, 1925 – November 25,  1970)

Yukio Mishima’s real name was Kimitake Hiraoka. He was nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1963, 1964 and 1965.  Yukio was a novelist, playwright, essayist, actor and model. After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University, he worked in the Japanese Ministry of Finance. His first novel Confessions of a Mask, published in 1949, shot him to fame and he turned full-time writer, creating more than 40 novels, plays, and short-story and essay collections during his lifetime. His schedule was to write from midnight till dawn every day. His works were themed with death, suicide, nationalism and self-torture due to inner demons.

On 25 November 1970, Mishima and four members of the Tatenokai—his small private army—Masakatsu Morita, Masahiro Ogawa, Masayoshi Koga, and Hiroyasu Koga visited the commandant Kanetoshi Mashita of Camp Ichigaya, a military base in Tokyo. Inside, they barricaded the office and tied the commandant to his chair. Yukio stepped out onto the balcony to address the soldiers gathered below.  He was disappointed that after World War II, America had re-written Japan’s Constitution, restricting its military powers. According to him, Japan had lost its cultural and religious roots, had become obsessed with materialism, globalism and Communism. Excerpts of speech are below:

“It is a wretched affair, to have to speak to Jieitai men in circumstances like these. I thought, that the Jieitai was the last hope of Nippon, the last stronghold of the Japanese soul. But Japanese people today think of most money, just money. where is our national spirit today? The politicians care nothing for Japan. they are greedy for power. The Jieitai, must be the soul of Nippon. The soldiers! The army! But.... we were betrayed by the Jieitai! Listen! Listen! Hear me out! We thought that the Jieitai was the soul of national honor! The nation has no spiritual foundation. that is why you don't agree with me! You don't understand Japan.…

“There you are in your tiny world. You do nothing for Nippon! Will any of you rise with me? You say that! Have you studied Bu (the warrior ethic)? Do you understand the way of the sword? What does the sword mean to a Japanese? I ask you. Are you men? Are you bushi? I see that you are not. You will not rise. You will do nothing! The constitution means nothing to you. You are not interested. I have lost my dream of Jieitai! I salute the emperor! Tenno Heika Banzai! Tenno Heika Banzai!”

After his speech, Yukio went inside the office of Kanetoshi Mashita and disembowelled himself.  As he lay dying, Masakatsu Morita tried to cut off Yukio’s head as part of the suicide ritual but failed after three attempts.  Hiroyashu Koga spared Yukio further agony by completing the task. Then Morita performed hara-kiri himself and his head was lobbed off by Hiroyasu Koga.

Yukio Mishima was cremated and his ashes interned at Tama Cemetery in Tokyo.  In 1985, Hollywood made a film about him titled Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters.

 /end

“This biography of Lin Zhao, a dissident poet, is wishy-washy,” I say to Mummy Lulu, “and Lin was executed on 29th April, today, fifty-four years ago.”

My hand clinging a spanking new paperback, I enter the cafe in The Chateau Spa and Wellness Centre, cast my gaze around and spot Mummy Lulu at a table, her fingers tapping on her cup. Sweet suffering saints! Her tom-cat Kitty is sitting on a doily at one side of the table, with a mug in front of him.  Short strides bring me to Mummy Lulu and I pull out a chair and plonk my butt down.

Mummy Lulu’s smile is so wide I can see all her teeth. “How was the massage?” I ask her. Cool mountain air washes over my face and tingles my senses.

“Fantastic! I feel ten years younger.” Mummy Lulu straightens up and pushes her spectacles up her nose.   “Did you nap?” Her skin is the color of over-ripe peach, her eyes walnut, and her breasts sagging like water-filled balloons inside her T-shirt.

“Nope, I read this book Blood Letters: The Untold Story of Lin Zhao.” I hold the book aloft. “Wasted my time, wasted my money. Lin was executed on this date, 29^th April, in 1968.” I pass the book to Mummy Lulu.

“Take a seat.” Mummy Lulu places it on her lap, flipping it open. My gaze slides downward to her shiny shins—gee, she has shaved them—and rests for a beat on her pink-tipped toes in strapped sandals. “I’ll brew you some Yorkshire Tea.” Mummy Lulu’s gnarled forefinger flicks a switch at the electric kettle beside her and then she nudges a platter of cookies to the centre of the table. “The Scottish Shortbread and Sultana Cookies are excellent.”   She hikes her chin in the direction of a corner table. “Jessica and Chow Kah are behaving like lovebirds. Let them be.” She winks, crinkling the corner of the eye. “Wati and Hussein have gone for a walk in the Japanese Garden.”

The Chateau Spa and Wellness Resort in Berjaya Hills is only thirty minutes’ drive away from KL. Yesterday, Mummy Lulu, Chow Kah, Jessica, Hussein, Wati and I had come in separate cars to de-stress in a one-night stay.

Mummy Lulu flicks the pages of the book and her eyes skim over each page, speed-reading them. “Lin Zhao was born in 1932, graduated from South Jiangsu Journalism Vocational School in 1950.” The kettle clicks and she pours tea into my China cup. Her gaze continues to hopscotch over the pages of the book. “In 1960, Lin wrote articles critical of the Great Leap Forward in underground journal Spark of Fire.  She labeled it the Great Leap Backward.” Mummy Lulu picks up a Scottish Shortbread, bites on it and obliterates half it.  She chews for a while, making her mouth look as if it opens and closes on hinges, and then chomps on the remaining half. “Same year, her father Peng Guoyan committed suicide by swallowing rat poison” She takes a swallow, sips a mouthful of tea, and continues to eye the pages one after another. “While in prison, she wrote letters to the People’s Daily newspaper.  Prison guards sent them out, and they were published. The editor Wu Lengxi was later sacked—Hallelujah!”—the corners of Mummy Lulu’s wrinkled lips curl in a scowl—“serves him right.” Her tongue rolls to the side of her mouth, the tip peeking out for a heartbeat. “Also wrote letters and poems in blood to her friends, relatives and propaganda organs.” As Mummy Lulu continues to read, in my mind, I recreate the drab prison that Lin had lived for eight years, evoking a feeling of claustrophobia in me, and then Mummy Lulu’s voice tows me back to the present. “Why Lin’s letters written in blood? Wasn’t she supplied ink?”

“She was given ink but wanted to add more drama to her writing.” My eyes jump from Mummy Lulu and lands on Kitty, whose tubby form makes me want to cuddle him. Holy cow! He’s drinking tea by dipping one paw in the cup in front of him and licking it! My eyes rebound to Mummy Lulu’s face and I add for emphasis, “Lin’s a drama queen wanting attention.”

“The first record of Chinese blood writing was traced to Buddhist monks who copied the sutras in their own blood.” She lifts her mug, blows at her tea and takes a swallow.  “There’s a belief that writing the sutras in blood earns you more merits than writing in ink.”  

Distant birdsong whines in my ears. “The author dubs her as a Christian martyr—this is nonsense.”  I cast my gaze at the colourful flowers, eye-soothing shrubbery and nerve-calming fir trees on the hill slope: they almost suck my breath away. My eyes meet Mummy Lulu’s. “Her arrest has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with politics. This attempt to tie religion to her imprisonment is a cheap ploy to boost book sales with Christians.”

Mummy Lulu points to a spot on a page. “Ah, here’s an interesting fact. It says here that ‘On a single day in April during the Suppression of Counterrevolutionaries Campaign of 1951, a citywide crackdown on counterrevolutionaries rounded up 8,359 people, 285 of whom were executed within the next three days. An additional 1,060 were shot over the months of June and July to fill the quota personally set by Mao: he had declared that “at least around 3,000” counterrevolutionaries of various stripes in Shanghai ‘must be killed in 1951.’ So, Mao had a quota.”

“Banal facts and figures to me.” One side of my lips veer upward in a sneer.  “Killing is inherent in a revolution, nothing shocking, nothing unusual; a revolution without killing isn’t a revolution, is it?” I spread my hands like a person feeling for rain. “The French Revolution, the Bolshevik Revolution, the Haitian Revolution all saw buckets of bloodshed.”

Mummy Lulu lifts her curved brows. “Haitian Revolution? Never heard of it.” Her eyebrows are thick, indicating a feisty temperament.

“An early 19th century event. Seventy-five thousand French colonialists were killed in Haiti, which then became independent. Twenty-five thousand Haitians gave their lives for the revolution.” I tickle Kitty on the chin which has stopped drinking his tea. The fuzzy sensation delights me. “I also find Lin’s poems uninspiring—superficial rhetoric that fails to etch in my memory. But what do you think?”

“Wait.” Mummy Lulu holds up one hand and returns it to the book to turn another page.  “Jesus Christ, she tore away Mao’s picture in the newspapers while reading them in prison, went on hunger strikes, attempted suicide by swallowing the heads of two boxes of matches, then swallowed medicated soap on a second attempt .” Mummy Lulu purses her lips. “Her poems? Let me see…” She mouths the words as she reads but, gradually, the light of interest fades from her big shiny eyes. “This woman’s no Emily Dickinson or Charlotte Bronte.” Mummy Lulu rests one foot on the bottom cross bar of the table and it wobbles. Gold-coloured tea spills from my cup to the saucer. “Oops! Can I steady the table with the book?”

“Go ahead. I was going to trash it anyway. I rate it one out of five stars—it’s a miserable attempt to lionize a journalist/poet who’s far from being extraordinary. And the book claims -- without supplying proof -- that, after Lin’s execution, the police went to Lin’s mother to collect five yuan as bullet fee—a cheap attempt to demonize the Communist Government.”

/end

Jessica discusses a Christian romance novel titled Oceans Apart by Karen Kingsbury

My gaze settles on the book in Jessica’s hands before rising to meet her eyes. “First, tell me something about the author.”

Jessica meets my gaze with a sliver of a smile. “Karen Kingsbury is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. Has written seventy, eighty novels. Four have been made into Hallmark Channel TV movies.”

I stare at Jessica’s face, my eyes drinking her in like a man in a desert. “Wow! Sounds like a heavy hitter.” I grab a chilled can of Asahi beer from an ottoman beside me and take a sip.

Jessica and I are sitting on a carpeted nook in her living room with big pillows, small throw-pillows and bean bags scattered around.  The scent of her perfume kisses my cheeks and soft jazz music from the hi-fi soothes my soul.

“Oceans Apart has a strong opening situation.” Jessica’s voice climbs an octave for emphasis. “A plane crashes into the ocean, killing everyone, including stewardess Kiahna, a single mother. Her will states that her seven-year old son Max, fathered by pilot Connor out of a one-night stand, will be sent to stay with his dad for two weeks.  This bloke’s married.” Jessica’s neutral expression slips away and turns severe. “But the boy will be told that Connor is his mother’s friend. At the end of the two weeks, the two-timing bastard can either accept the boy or send him home for adoption. So, Kiahna’s lawyer in Honolulu contacts Connor in Florida.  Connor pees in his pants when he hears the news!” Jessica’s hazel eyes dance with mirth. “Coz he never knew he has an illegitimate son.”

I uncross my legs and stretches them straight. “So, Connor told his wife about his son?”

“Yes, he did. But Michele, Connor’s wife, didn’t clobber him with a broom. That’s what that fucker deserved in the first place!” Scorn laces Jessica’s voice.  “The couple quarrels and, later, Michele allows her husband to let Max come. From here onward, the story bogs down with descriptions of Connor’s camping trip with Max and his two daughters. This episode should be the climax of the story as Connor tries to bond with his son but it has not been handled that well. I shan’t elaborate more so as not to give away the entire plot.”

I take another gulp of my beer. “What else you don’t like about the story?”

Jessica removes her spectacles and puts the book down. “First, it’s improbable that Kiahna has made a will at the age of twenty-something." Sitting straighter, she stretches her hands behind her head to tie her long hair into a pony tail.  "And why is she so dumb to have raw sex with Connor? There’s also an incident where a tree branch crashes through Kiahna’s bedroom window and hits her on the head, while she’s lying in bed.” She squishes her brows in disbelief. “It’s a bit far-fetched this thing can happen. I also don’t like that Kiahna is portrayed both as a Jezebel and a saint as revealed later by her journal entries.”

“Is the book preachy?”

“Moderately. References from the Scriptures are as frequent as mentions of God. Then, in a flashback scene, when Connor is getting physical with Kiahna, God’s voice in his head tells him to back off. But, unfortunately, Connor’s dick is stronger than God!” Jessica releases a chuckle, punching two dimples in her cheeks.  “All in all, nothing wrong with being preachy in a Christian fiction.”

I lace my fingers together and rest my hands on my lap “What about the prose? I mean, style of writing.”  

“A bit too sparse, a bit too straightforward for my liking. Several scenes happen in Hawaii but there’s not even a one-liner describing the setting. Also, the author’s sentences are on the long side. This writing style dilutes the tension in dramatic scenes.”

 “The good stuff about Oceans Apart?”

Jessica picks up the book from the carpet. “Forgiveness is the theme of this book.” She opens to a certain page in the book. “Let me read from the author’s note.” She wears her spectacles and sucks in an inhale. “Kingsbury writes ‘Forgiveness doesn't make a problem go away; it simply gives you the peace Christ intended. Often, when both parties are willing to work on a relationship, healing will come. But sometimes it doesn't. Even then, forgiveness is the only way to the freedom Jesus wanted for us, the freedom He died for.’ ” She raises one knee, drapes an arm over it and rests her chin on the latter.  “That’s damn good advice.” Jessica blinks, her eyelashes fluttering as if to fly her away. “Speaking of forgiveness reminds me of something.”

I cock my head sideways. “Oh? What?”

Jessica glances up, capturing my gaze with a potent one of her own, and my heart almost seizes. “When I was a little girl, I used to pray every night for a Barbie doll, until I realized that God doesn’t work that way.  So I stole one and asked Him to forgive me instead.”

 My lips veer into a wry smile.

 /end

Review of "Truth Stained Lies" by Terri Blackstock and a Great Giveaway!

 

In Amazon USA’s Author Central, Terri Blackstock describes herself as a “New York Times best-seller, with over seven million copies sold worldwide.” She writes Christian suspense, a sub-genre of Christian fiction. This is the first title of its kind I’ve read though I’ve enjoyed a few Christian-romance novels by Karen Kingsbury and Francine Rivers before.

Here’s the plot: Jay Cramer goes to his ex-wife’s home after receiving an e-mail from her to discuss custody arrangements of their five-year -old son. When he reaches her home, a clown dashes out and drives away in a white pickup. Inside the house, Jay finds his ex-wife dead and, after the cops question him, he’s arrested. Jay’s three sisters — Cathy, Juliet and Holly — play part-time sleuths to prove his innocence, and are assisted by Michael Hogan, a P.I. Later, Jay’s five-year-old son is deliberately poisoned with E.Coli.  

The prose is straight forward and, if you’re expecting the stuff of James Ellroy, James M. Cain or Ross MacDonald in terms of language, you won’t get it here. After all, this is a Christian mystery, not a hard-boiled detective story. No cursing, no sex scenes. But the story flows quickly. Now, the characters. Three characters investigating a crime has turned the story without a central character — not a strong point.  There's also a scene which is incredulous. A character manages to access his mother’s online banking account by guessing her password correctly! With no car chases and no fights, this novel delivers a mild thrill. What about the God element? Nope, I didn’t find anything preachy in here.  My rating: 3/5.

GIVEAWAY: If you want a PDF copy of Truth Stained Lies, drop me your e-mail address at thewordslinger@yahoo.com. It’s yours FREE! This giveaway is valid for one week from the date of this posting.   

/end

 

Review of ‘Confessions on the 7:45’ and a Great Giveaway!

 

‘Confessions on the 7:45’ by Lisa Unger on Amazon USA harpooned my attention because it had more than 1.6 million ratings.  So I bought it but, unfortunately, I couldn’t finish it.

Reading this murder mystery is like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. The story is told through several characters’ POV (point of view). Though there are only six or seven POVs, I found this book difficult to read as you have to figure out the connections among them. (But psychological thriller aficionados may say that's part of the fun.) And you've to read slowly, requiring patience (not my virtue). Furthermore, backstories are not indicated by a 'signpost', for example, “fifteen years ago.” Only after reading partway, do you realize that a particular scene happened in the past. This moving back from present to past and vice-versa annoys me.

The novel’s plot is this: Selena Murphy catches her husband Graham fucking their children's nanny Geneva on the spy camera. Later, while riding home on the 7:45 train, she tells a stranger Martha about her cheating husband.  Martha, in turn, confesses she’s having an affair with her boss. Days later, Geneva disappears, and the cops investigate. Meanwhile, Selena keeps getting strange text messages from Martha. Who’s Martha? What does she want? Who murdered Geneva?

Out of patience at the 50% mark, I flipped to Chapter 42 (third last chapter), where Detective Grady Crowe fills in part of the mystery to Selena.  More confusion popped up and I gave up on this international bestseller. Who the murderer is also disappoints me.   

GIVEAWAY:  You want a PDF copy of ‘Confession on the 7:45’? I’ll send it to you.  Of course, it's free. Perhaps your taste differs from mine, and you may enjoy this psychological thriller.  Just drop me your email address at thewordslinger@yahoo.com.  This giveaway ends one week from the date of this posting.