Saturday 4 October 2008

日記:潰されし蟷螂、枯れがれの花


一昨日、家を出たら宝石のようにきらきらと光っていた物があった。
下を向けば、きれいな赤色の花だった。
その時、「今度、写真を撮ろう」と思った。

今日又家を出ると例の花を見る。
しかし今度は、枯れがれな姿を表す。
悲しく思い、家に帰ろうとすると、更に道路の真ん中に、車に潰されてしまった蟷螂の亡骸がある。

その花に、そしてその虫に、何と言う儚い命だった。
我々も孰れ死の橋を渉れば、その時自分の事を同じく思うだろう。


Diary:  A Crushed Mantis, a Withered Flower

The day before yesterday, I saw something glittering like a jewel when I left my house.  When I looked down, there was a beautiful red flower.
At that time, I thought, 'Next time, I'll take a picture.'

Today I left my house again, and saw the flower.
But this time, its form was bare and withered.
Thinking sadly to myself, I went to return home, and came across the dead husk of a praying mantis, crushed in the street by a car.

For that flower, and for that insect, how transient indeed was life.
When we too one day cross the bridge of death, will we not think the same thing of ourselves?

On the Vulgar in Literature, Part I


I write today about the vulgar in literature, from the etymological meaning of vulgar, that is to say, common. By vulgar, then, I mean the common effects of the body as represented within literature: sexuality, functions of the toilet, and such like. I have noticed a great shift in modern times toward, rather than away from, the representation of these things, and would rather like to spend some time on the topic.

I am myself from a somewhat older school of literary thought that included Tolkien, Tennyson, Gibran, and others; which held that such lower functions of the body, while undeniably a part of the human experience, need not be given a place within serious literature. No doubt this school was somewhat influenced by the morality of religion, which tends broadly to discriminate against such earthly functions, but the deeper philosophical premise was that the inclusion of vulgarity into literature detracted from meaning.

From both sides of our English literary heritage this vein of thought has been handed down. Marcus Aurelius wrote to us:

'Hoc quicquid tandem sum, caruncula est et animula et animi principatus. Missos fac libros: noli amplius distrahi; sed ut jam moriens carunculam contemne: cruor est ossicula et reticulum, ex nervis, venulis et arteriis contextus.'

'Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part; reason. Throw away thy books; no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou wast now dying, despise the flesh; it is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries.'

The Anglo-Saxons, too, despite being of a ribald and exceedingly earthy culture, found fit to publish, in the works of Cynewulf and others like "Beowulf" and "The Battle of Maldon", poems and stories that dwelt not on these things, but on the moral fortitude of Christianity, the glory of war, and the transience of man.

Thus we in the English tradition have come down through the ages seeing the more common functions of the body treated with a measure of disdain, or at the least, a lack of interest, in our literature. And there is a simple reason for it, to my mind, which is simply this: the purpose of literature is to excite the imagination to morality. No more, no less. There is a wide breadth of morality represented in the literature of our keeping, but each author has held forth on his or her moral vision nonetheless. Even Tolkien’s so-called ‘cordial dislike’ of allegory in deference to the purity of history does not disclaim a moralistic interpretation of history, but merely the allegorical dictation to the reader of what that moral ought to be.

The common or vulgar functions of the body may therefore be taken for granted, and, according to this school of thought, holding little relevance to issues of reason, philosophy, or morals, ought not to be lingered over in works that hold forth on such things. I believe that much of the shift in modern times can be attributed to a shift toward a philosophical understanding grounded more in emotion than in reason, and this is something I will discuss at length later on. Primarily, however, it makes sense that while the presence of sexuality in a work may be necessary, the need to dwell at length upon that sexuality is unnecessary and therefore frivolous, unless the author feels that a lengthy exploration of the physical qualities of sex promotes the moral, and not simply the entertaining, qualities of his or her text.

But what, the reader may ask, about "The Canterbury Tales", or other such bawdy and vulgar works? There is a difference between serious literature and comedic literature that is vitally important to distinguish. The former, as I have indicated, excites the imagination to morality; the latter may also do so through irony and satire, but its primary focus is to reveal the vulgar and thus mock it. “The Canterbury Tales” may be a serious work of literature, but it is hardly serious literature. Sonnets, while they have a reputation today as being 'love poems', were often quite sexual in meaning, though skilled poets from Shakespeare to Wyatt hid such meaning behind puns and obscurities. Dryden, Pope, and Swift are three examples of more modern authors who used vulgarity to satirical effect.

Interestingly enough, the Japanese literary tradition does not discriminate so clearly against the vulgar; "Genji Monogatari", the most famous of early works of Japanese fiction, is as much a chronicle of young Genji's sexual conquests as it is of the moralistic feelings of love contained therein. The lover leaving at morning after a nighttime tryst is an ubiquitous trope in the literary and especially poetic canon, though in poetry, it is not until the last century or so, with the publication of Yosano Akiko's "Midaregami" (Tangled Hair), that overt sexuality gained a place.

Buddhism, foreign to Japan though it is, declares that 'Desire is the root of all evil', and while the meaning of that statement is broad indeed, it is easily understandable to be applicable to sexuality, among other things. Confucius likewise held forth on morality and propriety, and both of these philosophies were carried to Japan over time and grew, like two vines intertwined about the pillar of Shintoism upon which the nation's morals were founded. Thus, in "Saiyuki" (The Journey to the West), which while a Chinese work has had a deep impact on the Japanese literary tradition, Chu Wu-neng's porcine delight in gluttony and lewdness is well chronicled but generally frowned upon by the monk Hsüan-tsang's gentle but firm instruction.

In Yoshikawa Eiji's "Miyamoto Musashi", the young Takuan Soho freely urinates off a cliff whilst expressing his Buddhist delight; we are thus reminded that such quotidian or vulgar actions may indeed have a place in serious literature dependent upon the morality one is trying to express, in this case, the Zen dogma of mushin, or mindlessness.

Do you have an opinion on this? Next time, I will continue the discussion with an eye for how more modern works of literature, in both the English and Japanese canons, have changed the conversation about the vulgar in literature.