春雨直播app

Which part does one read, when one reads a novel? Naturally, one reads the letters; however, it must not be possible to remember every word uniformly (if one could, that would of course be significant). Therefore, maybe we should ask instead: what does one like about a favorite novel? Is it a character, theme, plot, or description? For me, it is the voices. I liked the voices of the characters in the novels of Kawabata Yasunari. In particular, I like the groans and screams, which sound as though squeezed from the body—series of letters that vividly convey the tension of the bodies being squeezed. It can be words that constitute the novel and cannot be described in any other way than as being written by the author or words (that behave as letters to someone or reflective monologues) written by a character within the novel. Although they often veer away from the intended recipient or are not addressed to anyone else, they are undoubtedly heard by someone and read by me, the reader. While the content is important, I cannot separate it from how it is told and delivered once it is retained in my mind.
 
I think the process of compiling this volume was an effort to identify this liking of mine and refine it into words that are not screaming or groaning. Though the book is based on a doctoral dissertation submitted in 2021, I had not grasped the core of my interest, the undefined recipient, at that stage.
 
However, I had already discussed what I later called “voices” in the papers that became the prototypes of the body of the book and had been able to reason why they are important. Owing to an inferiority complex toward Western novels and self-esteem as the other side of the same coin, many critics have superimposed the protagonist and writer in reading Japanese novels, following the example of the I-novel in a narrow sense. Consequently, parts that do not represent the psychology of the protagonist, such as the words and actions of other characters, have been neglected, especially when the protagonist is a man and another character is a woman. This is particularly true in the case of Kawabata, whose texts have been recognized as part of the canon of modern Japanese literature, such that words spoken by women, unlike their appearances and symbolic roles, have rarely been discussed in research or criticism. Moreover, translations into English and other Western languages sometimes exclude women’s cries and calls or omit sections in which a woman’s letters form the center. The image of the author depicting beautiful Japan and women is merely a product of such biased readings prescribed by the historical context after the defeat in World War II and during the subsequent Cold War.
 
That is not a lie but a truth. I have always believed that from the depths of my mind. Nevertheless, I could not help but feel as though I was dragging past theories into an arena of my own, making and finding fault with them. Since I had three years before the publication of this volume, I was able to confront this slight anxiety and understand what has driven me, half-buried in its justification above. Scholarship certainly entails claiming a form of superiority; even more so if one attempts to make a living of it. That is not all, however. There comes a moment when one can stay as one is, giving oneself and receiving approval that this is who one is, without the need for yardsticks of superior/inferior or right/wrong. That is what I consider the best thing I have learned in composing this book and what I want those who read this essay to know the most.
 

(Written by: HIRAI Yuka / July 24, 2024)