Book Review: Natsume Soseki, Meiji Japan, and the novel Kokoro

The novel Kokoro by Natsume Soseki is about jealousy, abandonment, betrayal, guilt, friendship, cowardice, ego, and love. It is about death and suicide and loneliness. It is also about the mystery of the human mind, emotions, self-deceit, and remorse. At another level entirely, as indicated by the characters who are not even given proper names, Kokoro is about a rapidly changing Japan — modern cities, modern education, evolving gender relations, disruption of tradition and filial piety, alienation and “moral darkness”, and perhaps even the displacement of religion and spirituality. With such breadth and depth of meaning, on multiple levels, it is no wonder that Haruki Murakami considers Soseki “the representative modern Japanese novelist.” Yet Kokoro, published in 1914 and widely taught in Japan, is little known outside Japan.

Kokoro in Japanese means “mind, heart, spirit.” The kanji character for kokoro captures its elusive significance, in poignant abstract strokes relative to the many angular lines of kanji script.

Soseki had worked as a newspaper journalist before quitting to become a full-time writer. And before the newspaper, he quit a stable job as a popular university English literature professor. Before that, he was in London on a Meiji government sponsored scholarship to study English literature, but he grew disillusioned and quit that too.

Born in 1867, in a township near Tokyo, he became only the second graduate of the English department of the Tokyo Imperial University in 1893, but he abruptly left the new capital to teach middle school in the small town of Matsuyama on the Inland Sea and then to teach college in Kumamoto in Kyushu, the southernmost major island, remote and distant from Tokyo. Here only, he found some peace, composing haiku poems and Chinese verse, engaging with students and writing scholarly articles, getting married and becoming a father and family man.

Soseki suffered from bouts of depression and health problems, including tuberculosis. More so, he would have suffered from a sense of abandonment. Even though reasonably well off, his father arranged for his virtual adoption soon after his birth, perhaps because he was the eight child. His first adopted family in particular neglected him so much, leaving him in a wicker basket while they ran a shop, that his half sister had to rescue him only to receive a scolding. Then his father arranged for another adoption. One senses that Soseki, a name he changed from the original Kinnosuke and gave himself from the Chinese ideogram for “stubborn”, continually re-invented himself in order to survive. Just like Japan.

In 1916, at the young age of 49 and after writing eight novels in his last nine years of life, he died from a stomach ulcer. Kokoro was published in instalments in the Asahi Shinbun newspaper between April and August 1914, just before the outbreak of the “Great War.”

Kokoro lays bare a man’s psychology as the main character, referred to as Sensei or “teacher”, looks back on his “thought-feeling” (kokoro) and role in the suicide of good friend and fellow boarder who is known only as “K.” They were both university students and both lodgers in a house in Tokyo run by a widow whose husband died as a soldier in the 1894–95 war with China. She is referred to only as Okusan, meaning “wife” or “madam.” Her daughter is given the name Ojosan, a term of respect and meaning “young lady” or someone’s daughter. She is also a university student.

Sensei, K, and Ojosan belong to the same generation and would have been attending university in the 1880s, like Soseki himself did. Tokyo Imperial University was only founded in 1877. Okusan, on the other hand, belongs to an older generation. But Kokoro itself is only able to be narrated thanks to an anonymous young narrator, a university student in his mid-20s around the year 1912, as indicated by the death of the Meiji emperor in the novel. Thus, three generations are represented in the novel.

In modern Japanese history, recent historical eras have been known by the names of the emperor, accordingly:

1868–1912: Meiji emperor and era. The year 1868 is known for the “Meiji Restoration” or the “restoration” of the emperor system following the defeat of the forces of the Tokugawa shogunate, which ruled Japan, directly and through alliances, from 1603–1868. It is in the Meiji era that Japan transforms rapidly from a relatively isolated and “feudal” yet proto-urban and highly cultured society to a “modern” industrial nation. The Emperor is also made into a Shinto deity. Shintoism and Buddhism, which have grown together “at the hip” for more than a millennium are separated, and hundreds of Buddhist temples are destroyed or displaced along with hundreds of castles. The samurai formerly protected these castles in which resided their lords, being the landed aristocracy known as daimyos. The samurai voluntarily or forcibly become servants of the state such as officers and soldiers, bureaucrats, and teachers. Mass education and military conscription are instituted. Nascent but immature democratic institutions are introduced, such as a Parliament and a court system, but the Emperor has ultimate authority even in the Constitution. A modern army and navy are given ample authority and, financing the capital and infrastructure needed for rapid industrialization, Japan soon acquires overseas territories: Taiwan and parts of China in 1894, southern Manchuria in 1905, and Korea in 1910.

1912–1926: Taisho emperor and era. When the hollowness of democratic institutions fail.

1926–1989: Showa emperor and era. In the West, the Showa emperor is known as Hirohito, grandson of the Meiji emperor. The Showa era saw the end of democracy, the absence of accountability at the highest levels of government, the arrogation of power by the military, the East Asia war and the Pacific War, the bombings and destruction of Japan, then Japan’s stunning re-construction, pacificism, growth, prosperity, and global cultural influence.

What does any of this have to do with Kokoro and Soseki?

Maybe not much, but it’s open for debate. The Meiji era, with its clashes between tradition and modernity, the old and new Japan, the individual and society and the increasing demands of the state, is also Soseki’s Japan. Startlingly, the leading intellectual of the age, Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901) argued that Japan should “leave Asia”, which he saw as hopelessly backward while viewing the West, in the throes of nationalism and hurtling towards world war, as uniquely “balanced” and “civilized.” He even argued for Japan’s military expansion. Soseki, on the other hand, was skeptical and acutely apprehensive of the thoughtless imitation of the West and the rise of militant nationalism. The following examples from books published just before Kokoro reflect the intensity of his view:

In the novel Sanshiro, published in 1908, Soseki has a professor say to the main character, a young man from the provinces:

“Tokyo is bigger than Kumamoto. And Japan is bigger than Tokyo. And even bigger than Japan… even bigger than Japan is the inside of your head. Don’t ever surrender yourself — not to Japan, not to anything. You may think that what you’re doing is for the sake of the nation, but let something take possession of you like that, and all you do is bring it down.”

This man even forecasts to the young Sanshiro, “Japan is going to perish.” A clearer concern with nationalism, and the militarism with which it was accompanied, can hardly be stated.

In the novel Sorekara (“And Then”), published in 1910, he explores both the mind and the effects of materialism (“appetites”) more directly through the protagonist Daisuke:

“Contemporary society, in which no human being could have contact with another without feeling contemptuous, constituted what Daisuke called the decadence of the twentieth century. The life appetites, which had suddenly swollen of late, exerted extreme pressure on the instinct for morality and threatened its collapse. Daisuke regarded this phenomenon as a clash between the old and new appetites. And finally, he understood that the striking growth of the life appetites was, in effect, a tidal wave that had swept from European shores.”

On the one hand, Kokoro looks at the changes in psychology brought about by the churn, the rapid development and imitation of the West in the Meiji era. Sensei laments to the young narrator:

“Loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves.”

In 1914, the same year in which Kokoro is published, Soseki, the former professor and now full-time writer, delivered a university lecture which he titled “My Individualism.” Rather than viewing “individualism” as intrinsically a Western import, as it has been criticized by many, Soseki differentiates “individualism” from “egoism” and “selfishness” and a narrow focus on self. He extols an individualism that is true to oneself and one’s personal freedom, self-respect, and individuality while equally capable of fulfilling one’s duties to others and to the state and nation. Much as he lived his own life.

NOW… to the novel and to great themes of LITERATURE, not only history. I would like to delve into the novel and its meaning without giving too much away and yet — be warned (“spoiler alert”).

…

Our own egotistical selves. Jealousy, cowardice, betrayal. Guilt, remorse, suicide.

Sensei, in his own words to the young narrator, says his is a life of “moral darkness.”

And yet, can one person be responsible for the suicide of another? K left behind a suicide note addressed to Sensei in which “he had decided to die, he says, because there seemed to be no hope of his ever becoming the firm, resolute person that he had always wanted to be.” Remorse from failure to live up to his own ideals. And what were these ideals? In short, what he called “the true way” that exalts “concentration of mind” and leaves no room even for “love without bodily desires.” Yet K is smitten by Ojosan, who likes talking to him. What then is love? Isn’t it so much more than attraction, infatuation? These questions quickly engross the reader of Kokoro.

And why is it that neither K nor Sensei could talk to Ojosan about how they felt about her. For example, as one is encouraged to do in modern times, using words such as, “I’m developing stronger feelings for you…” and let it lead to a conversation. Vulnerability that, of course, risks rejection.

But this is imposing current cultural mores on to the past. The custom in Japan at that time, as in many parts of the world including Europe still, was to talk to the father or mother about interest in their daughter — “ask for her hand in marriage” was the expression. Since Okusan is a widow, there is no father for either young man to talk to. When Sensei finally does talk to her, he comes right out and says he wants to marry her daughter, and the conversation, including assent, lasts all of 15 minutes. A short while later, he happens to walk past Ojosan and says nothing to her! Her mother must inform Ojosan. And Sensei never even tells his good friend and fellow boarder K. After much dithering, Sensei had been finally motivated to go to Okusan because K had confessed twice to Sensei his attraction to Ojosan and wanted to know what his friend Sensei thought about it.

To give you an idea of the power of Soseki’s writing, and the psychological novel that Kokoro is, here is Sensei reflecting on himself so many decades later in the epistle to Kokoro’s narrator that makes up the third and final part of the book:

“What he wished to know was how I regarded him, who had fallen so deeply in love. He wanted my opinion of him as he was then. I felt that this desire of his to find out what I thought about him was a sure indication he was not his usual self. I want to emphasize here — though you may think me rather repetitious — that K was normally an independent-minded fellow, and what others thought of him mattered very little. He had the courage and strength to do anything if he thought he was right. I saw this trait in him only too clearly in his dealings with his foster parents. No wonder, then, that I thought his question in the park rather out of character.

“I asked him why he thought it necessary to seek my opinion. In an unusually dejected tone, he said, ‘I have found I am a weak man, and I am ashamed.’ Then he added, ‘You see, I am lost. I have become a puzzle even to myself. What else can I do, but ask for your honest opinion?’ ‘What do you mean,’ I asked quickly, ‘by ‘lost’? He said, ‘I mean that I can’t decide whether to take a step forward or back.’ Once more, I prodded him: ‘Tell me, can you really turn back if you want to?’ Suddenly, he seemed lost for an answer. All he said was, ‘I cannot bear this pain.’ His expression, as he said this, was indeed tormented. If Ojosan had not been involved, I would surely have spoken to him kindly and have tried to ease his suffering. He needed kind words, as dry land needs rain. I believe I was born with a compassionate heart. But I was not my usual self then.”

I believe I was born with a compassionate heart. But I was not my usual self then! Continuing:

“I watched him carefully, as though he were my fencing opponent. There was not one part of me that was not on guard. I did not relax for one single moment my eyes, or my heart, or my body. To say that K did not guard himself well would be an understatement. In his innocence, he put himself completely at my mercy. I was allowed to observe him in leisure, and to note carefully his most vulnerable points.”

“I could think of only one thing, and that was K’s defenselessness. He was hovering uncertainly between the world of reality and the world of his ideals. Now is the time, I thought, to destroy my opponent. I waited no longer to make my thrust. I turned to him with a solemn air. True, the solemnity was a part of my tactics, but it was certainly in keeping with the way I felt. And I was too tense to see anything comical or shameful in what I was doing. I said cruelly, ‘Anyone who has no spiritual aspirations is an idiot.’ This is what K had said to me when we were traveling in Boshu. I threw back at him the very words he had once used to humiliate me. Even my tone of voice was the same as his had been when he made the remark. But I insist that I was not being vindictive. I confess to you what what I was trying to do was far more cruel than mere revenge. I wanted to destroy whatever hope there might have been in his love for Ojosan.”

Anyone without spiritual aspirations is an idiot! This battle between the flesh and the spirit…

In a sense, this is the key line of the whole novel. For it throws the sensitive K into a hole, likely doubling a feeling of self-contempt and self-loathing, and he ultimately commits suicide a few weeks later. This line, at this critical juncture, constitutes Sensei’s “betrayal”, as he saw it, his “cowardice”, since not only could he never talk to Ojosan or Okusan about his own feelings of attraction, but he could not talk to his own best friend who was enamoured of the same woman.

Even after K’s suicide, he does not tell either Okusan or Ojosan what he said to K. Vaguely, he only asks Okusan for forgiveness, and she does not inquire too deeply. For it is decades later, when Sensei has been married to Ojosan for all that time, when Sensei feels the need “to confide in” the young narrator of the novel.

It is the young narrator who, oddly enough, has sought out this unique friendship with Sensei, an older man. Unlike his attitude toward his biological father, which is one of filial obligations about which the young narrator is not interested, he is interested in Sensei as though seeking something from history, some wisdom or the other. He reflects that his friendship with Sensei is not so much “intellectual” as “spiritual” — what a curious reflection and choice of words! Sensei to him is a mysterious figure around him many questions abound, and they are answered only in the long epistle that Sensei writes to him rather than face-to-face.

After so critical an event, in his wife Ojosan was also involved, how then does Sensei rationalize not telling his wife his role in K’s suicide?

“That I refused to tell her the truth was not due to selfish calculation on my part. I simply did not wish to taint her whole life with the memory of something that was ugly. I thought that it would be an unforgivable crime to let fall even the tiniest drop of ink on a pure, spotless thing.”

At the very end of the epistle, now that he is about to kill himself, Sensei reiterates his request to the narrator not to tell his wife anything about long ago events.

“Her memory of me should be kept as unsullied as possible.”

I’m afraid I have “spoiled” the novel for anyone who hasn’t read it. It leaves the blood pulsating and one feels the chill, something spine-tingling, of a powerful wrestling with the heart in conflict with itself. As such, it also leaves one with a feeling of illumination. As I assume the novel must have been taught in Japan, if in the hands of a good educator, the students would have been asked how could this have been prevented. That is the essential moral question. In reference to both K’s suicide and Sensei’s suicide.

The choice of suicide itself is a subject of inquiry. Why? Something as common as jealousy would not automatically have led to suicide in Japan then or now. Personal honour, for one, was a more common if sensational reason for suicide. Soseki, a socially engaged author attune to events of his time, was is said to have been moved in part to write Kokoro after a famous general committed suicide following the death of the Meiji emperor in 1912. In the old samurai and feudal tradition, this general under whose command thousands died in the victorious Russo-Japanese War of 1905, committed seppuku “to follow my lord to the grave.”

Kokoro offers so many questions worthy of reflection and discussion. Again — ego, jealousy, friendship, love, guilt, betrayal. But also, in terms of history. For a close reading favours an argument that:

– The young narrator represents the new Taisho era, starting in 1912 — still optimistic, dangerously naïve, yet curious, questioning, interested in something other than self-fulfilment.

– Sensei represents a facet of the Meiji era, 1868–1912, particularly the view of those who felt Japan lost as much as it gained during the period of rapid modernization.

– K represents an older, more spiritual, more self-effacing aspect of “old Japan”, known not only for the high culture of its courtly life but also for its austere simplicity and a conception of art and life that prioritizes nature, beauty, harmony, and “concentration of mind.” Curiously, when they were young and K found himself peeved because the young Sensei had no interest specifically in the historical figure of Nichiren, it was then that a rarely exasperated K had told Sensei, “Anyone with no spiritual aspirations is an idiot!” Nichiren is known for preaching austerity in a time that, as a Buddhist monk, he considered one of “dharma decline.” He lived in the 13th century during the Kamakura period of Japanese history. Of course, many people then and now, consider the period they live in as one of decline. But in just such terms, “dharma decline”, might people like Sensei, describing his own life as one of “moral darkness,” describe Japan in the Meiji era.

– Ojosan represents changing womanhood, and the unfortunate persistence of a view, in spite of modernization, that women, as a gender, do not know the truth, cannot handle it if told, and deserve protection. This view would still have been prevalent in early 20th century in Europe, where voting rights had not been secured and were still a long way off in many countries. Unfortunately, the view persists even today.

What is interesting is that Kokoro shows exactly the opposite: men cannot handle the truth! Men, as women know only too well, are the real hypocrites. And this is suicidal for men and society at large. And, if you cannot tell the truth to yourself, how can you tell it to others?

I found in Kokoro something timeless and universal. I am in awe of Soseki’s vision to construct such a novel, not only for its psychological depth but also for a symbolic reading of historical eras relevant to his times. I can well understand how the novel can be used with students of a certain age, starting in adolescence and more so in university years. Whether Japanese or not.