The beauty of Kokoro isn’t in what Souseki writes, it’s what he leaves out.
Botchan, Souseki’s second novel, a story about a teacher in the countryside, was full of rhetorical flourish, funny dialects and rakugo vocabulary that is completely unused today. In contrast, the prose of Kokoro is clear and simple. The trademark denseness of Souseki’s prose is all but gone, the mark of a young, skilled, intelligent writer who had the knack for describing things with his monstrous vocabulary.
Despite the big words, the themes of his novels remain relatively simple. I Am A Cat (1905) is a satire on Meiji-era Japanese and humans; Botchan (1905), an entertaining adventure with relatable characters; Sanshirou (1908) a Bildungsroman set in Meiji Japan.
What sets Souseki apart from other writers is his ability to create compelling, lifelike, human characters. Every character I’ve met from a Souseki novel, I’ve met in real life as well. The pretentious art snob who secretly has base obsessions. The coy, modern girl who leads you on on purpose. The cynical, yet strangely captivating teacher who has a magnificent study full of books, local and foreign. All of it resulting in the tour de force, Kokoro (1912). dsc04755 Souseki looking dapper with his beloved books
Most writers get better as they progress with their career. Some write more concisely. Some learn how to describe scenes better. But Souseki’s writing evolves in a different way. In the latter half of his career, his writing became simpler. No, not the stories he was telling, but his writing style. He dropped the classical Chinese. He dropped the rakugo references completely. He doesn’t shy from short sentences. The mini-chapters in Kokoro are all less than 5 pages long. sosekidogs Souseki with his homies
Kokoro is divided into three parts:
The first, Sensei and I, gives the reader the setting and introduces the characters. It’s here that Souseki works his magic to make the reader sympathetic to their plights. He maintains the reader’s interest by revealing facts about the characters bit by bit. It’s not like any of the works mentioned above where you have a sense of what the story about or where it’s going – you have to stick along for the ride. After re-reading some pages for the sake of writing this essay, I noticed how little exposition is used. Almost all the important details are conveyed through dialogue that is realistic and interesting, revealing a bit about each character with every word. The reader is encouraged to infer meaning from many ambiguous or vague actions by the characters, leading to radically different interpretations of his novels.
The second – My Parents and I. The protagonist is obliged to leave Tokyo where he is a boarding student (書生) for his hometown. It isn’t his first time going back, and he isn’t pleased about it. Unlike his Russian counterpart Turgenev, after experiencing the big city and being exposed to literature from around the world, he finds the attitudes of the villagers – his parents included – narrow-minded and unpleasant, ‘typical’ of country bumpkins.
Two issues are discussed. The first, Japan’s struggle from the Meiji Restoration: Rapid modernisation to catch up with the Western powers caused many to be left behind. The protagonist, Souseki’s alter ego, was sent to Britain to study English literature. He represents the “new”, the modern, well-read university graduate. His parents, on the other hand, retain the mentality of the “old” – their primary concern is for the protagonist to find a job with a decent salary. When they hear that Sensei is just a shut-in, jobless ‘intellectual’, they’re appalled. And how do they react? They ask the protagonist to get a job through Sensei’s connections, which, of course, don’t exist. Had they been more educated, or more curious, they might have asked what he was like or guessed at what type of philosophy a man like that would have. This is the conundrum presented to us.
The second issue is the Souseki’s favourite theme: gaining independence. The protagonist, heavily implied to be a literature student, is implied to have lofty dreams about literature. He doesn’t care about finding a job, or having a salary. He has bigger aspirations than that. Yet an impending occurrence traps him in his hometown and distracts him from his work. Before going home, the protagonist sets out a schedule with books he has to read, and when he goes back to Tokyo he hasn’t even finished a third of them.
Without giving away too much, the latter half of My Parents and I read like Leo Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych (1886), but written from the POV of one of Ivan’s family members. Souseki almost certainly read Tolstoy during his study of literature and perhaps drew inspiration. Both deal with the unpleasant topic of how a slow, torturous dying brings annoyance to not the deceased, but their family.
Even when Father was still alive, we were already discussing how to handle matters after his death.
兄弟はまだ父の死なない前から、父の死んだ後に就いて、こんな風に語り合った。
Both authors lay bare a very ugly side of humans that we don’t want to admit exists. In The Death, Ivan Ilych’s family members tolerate his needs at first, understanding his mental and physical anguish. But that patience runs dry quickly and they openly show disgust and irritation towards him, because his dying is getting in the way of their lives. While Tolstoy brings the message to the reader better, Souseki renders it in a form that’s prettier, yet understandable by a Japanese audience (in contrast, Ivan Ilych screams for two days straight from physical pain and his fear of death). He does this through our protagonist, where a loved one’s dying is an obstacle to his aspirations.
The third and final part, Sensei and His Testament, is narrated by the enigmatic Sensei. I confess, I haven’t read it in full yet. As of now, I’m at Page 212, but I was compelled to put the book down and write this at three in the morning.
In this final section, Sensei lays bare his entire past and soul – his Kokoro, so to speak – to the protagonist, and through him, us. It’s a story about losing one’s innocence, a story that every adult knows. And it’s a story about the paranoia and depression that follows, the gnawing pain in your gut that tells you never to trust anyone again.
When Sensei is betrayed and loses everything, he has no one to depend on. He is truly alone, echoing the young prince Hamlet, finding himself betrayed by his everyone he knows. Hamlet was utterly alone – except for his one confidant, Horatio, who trusts him with his heart of heart, as if he would a brother.
Hamlet: ‘Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee’
-Hamlet Act 3, Scene 2, 71–74
Horatio never betrays that trust. In the tragic ending to Hamlet, Horatio tries to follow Hamlet to the gates of Hades.
Horatio: ‘Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane…’
-Hamlet Act 5, Scene 2, 336-337
But Sensei has no Horatio. Betrayed by a loved one, he becomes paranoid and suspicious of everyone. Are they trying to trick him? Or are they just acting normally? What does she actually want? In his desperation and isolation, he begins to trust no one but himself, so that he will never suffer the shame and humiliation of being deceived again.
I don’t even trust myself. Because I can’t even trust myself, I can’t come to trust people either. I have no choice but to put this curse on myself.
私は自分さえ信用していないのです。つまり自分で自分が信用出来ないから、人も信用出来ないようになっているのです。自分を呪うより外に仕方がないのです。
Souseki says everything he has to say about the human condition in the final act. While it might be unpleasant to look at, it’s only unpleasant because we recognise the failings of the characters within ourselves. Everyone should read Kokoro, because it’s a story about us.