Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Livros. Mostrar todas as mensagens
Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Livros. Mostrar todas as mensagens

quinta-feira, 22 de dezembro de 2011

Onde a realidade excede a ficção














"How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT be true that the average human being was better off now than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but simply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging through dreary jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a saccharine tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party was something huge, terrible, and glittering--a world of steel and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying weapons--a nation of warriors and fanatics, marching forward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, triumphing, persecuting(...)"*














"After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been realized that the only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The so-called 'abolition of private property' which took place in the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the concentration of property in far fewer hands than before: but with this difference, that the new owners were a group instead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of the Party owns anything, except petty personal belongings. Collectively, the Party owns everything (...)"










"But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the destruction— indeed, in some sense was the destruction— of a hierarchical society. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most important form of inequality would already have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while POWER remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. But in practice such a society could not long remain stable. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of poverty and ignorance."*









"But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper than this. There are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall from power. Either it is conquered from without, or it governs so inefficiently that the masses are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own self-confidence and willingness to govern. These causes do not operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in some degree. A ruling class which could guard against all of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately the determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling class itself.


 "(...) The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison, they never even become aware that they are oppressed. (...) From the point of view of our present rulers, therefore, the only genuine dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able, under-employed, power-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and scepticism in their own ranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a problem of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the directing group and of the larger executive group that lies immediately below it. The consciousness of the masses needs only to be influenced in a negative way."*





"(...)'And now let us get back to the question of "how" and "why". You understand well enough HOW the Party maintains itself in power. Now tell me WHY we cling to power? What is our motive? Why should we want power?
'Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?'"*













*Todos os excertos, seleccionados de "NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR", 
George Orwell (1948)
(destaques e sublinhados do autor deste blogue  )









★ ★ ★













segunda-feira, 19 de dezembro de 2011

Em frente

勅使河原 宏, Teshigahara Hiroshi「砂の女」"The Woman In The Dunes" ,
filme 
(1964)




「しかし、おびえてはいけない。漂流者が、飢えや渇きで倒れるのは、生理的な欠乏そのものよりも、むしろ欠乏にたいする恐怖のせいだという。負けたと思ったときから、敗北がはじまるのだ。」




"(...) Mas não há que ceder ao medo. Quando um náufrago desfalece pela fome e pela sêde, é pelo efeito do medo da necessidade física que tal acontece, e não por efeito de uma necessidade real, em si, dizem eles. A derrota principia pelo medo de já se ter perdido."






                                                                                    
安部公房, Abe Kōbō, 「砂の女」"A Mulher das Dunas ", novela (1962)






















Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool





▥ ▦ ▩





domingo, 13 de novembro de 2011

A Secreta Visita de um Anjo





     Parece impossível que até há bem pouco tempo eu nem o suspeitasse sequer: Mishima Yukio um dia passou por Portugal, e ao encanto e magia da nossa atlântica Pátria, um dia se rendeu.

   Sabia, testemunho do meu saudoso Professor Hakamada, que o irmão mais novo, Hiraoka Chiyuki, fora em tempos Embaixador do Japão no nosso país, mas quanto ao périplo do autor desse grandiloquente "Mar da Fertilidade" (「豊饒の海」— "Hōjō no Umi") pelo nosso Extremo Ocidente, é dado biográfico mil vezes omitido.

     A história pela voz e olhar da bela Tokiwa Takako (常盤貴子), para meu contentamento, ao serão deste Domingo (21h de cá) no canal BS-Asahi.










Liszt:  Consolo Nº 3










弌  弍  弎



sexta-feira, 28 de outubro de 2011

Ao Fim E Ao Cabo...





「砂の女」  [Suna No Onna] — Woman In The Dunes — 1964
dir.  Teshigahara Hiroshi [勅使河原 宏]



「孤独とは、幻を求めて満されない、渇きのことなのである。」

"...a solidão não era mais que uma sede insatisfeita de ilusão."





Abe Kōbō, "A Mulher das Dunas", 1962












"Avalanche"





◇⃟⃟◇⃟⃟◇⃟⃟




domingo, 12 de junho de 2011

Reencontro com a Memória










        Redescoberto entre as estantes da Família, "Nanban-Jin — Os Portugueses No Japão/The Portuguese In Japan" (1993), obra da autoria de Luís Filipe Thomaz, edição filatélica, bilingue, a cargo dos CTT, limitada a 15.000 cópias numeradas e autenticadas pelo editor. 
         Indispensável para qualquer amante da temática em causa.
















































❖❖❖


quarta-feira, 12 de janeiro de 2011

Ainda dos dias quentes...



Rakusui'en [楽水園], Hakata, 24.10.2010



   "Furtar um beijo como quem tira um coelho da cartola, meter o braço recordando a habilidade dos manipuladores de lustro, quase engraxates, ou admirar o religioso dos grandes monumentos de intensidade, era um tudo que bastava à minha alma."



Ruben A., in "O Outro Que Era Eu"  (1966)











sexta-feira, 26 de novembro de 2010

terça-feira, 23 de novembro de 2010

A Casa Misteriosa






       Não. 

       Não vos venho hoje falar de qualquer mansão assombrada, ou por outra... de uma qualquer estrutura hoje ou ontem destinada a habitação física de seja quem for, e sobre a qual pendam rumores de almas penadas a deambular-lhe os corredores noite fora ou meras memórias de mau agoiro.


       Venho antes falar-vos de um livro.  Um livro em particular...

     Um livro, estranhamente (ou nem por isso) resvalado, faz tempo, e assim me quer parecer, para a vala comum de um certo oblívio colectivo. Obra que, aliás, e não serei eu o único a notá-lo, permanece envolta num peculiar mistério: porque permanece "A Casa de Kyoko" [「鏡子の家」— Kyōko No Ie], até aos dias de hoje, ignorado, por traduzir e por editar onde quer que seja fora do Japão? 

(escusado será dizer que a minha demanda já me levou a todos os mercados livreiros, editoras de referência, em todos os idiomas que domino ou arranho, sem que encontrasse explicação plausível para tamanho 'buraco negro' na galáxia de Mishima Yukio...)
       
        



           "An unsettling, even a terrifying book", assim  John Nathan se lhe refere na sua notável biografia do autor de "O Mar da Fertilidade" [豊穣の海 — Hōjō No Umi], a monumental tetralogia com que encerra a sua prodigiosa carreira literária e artística nesse 45º Ano de Shōwa (昭和 45年 [1970]), aos 45 anos de idade, sublime e trágica epopeia em quatro tomos, uma pintura prosaica de dimensões oceânicas enquanto retrato do seu país, largando de 1912 — conclusão do Período Meiji que conduzira, ao longo de pouco mais de quatro galopantes décadas, um Japão tardo-medievo de Samurai e Daimyo montados a cavalo, de armadura e sabre em riste, à condição de grande e temida potência industrial-militar do início do Século XX — aos anos do apogeu do milagre económico do Pós-Guerra, os anos dessa louca e cega ganância, como o próprio a desdenhava amargamente e da qual preferiu não participar — a década de 70... — e coincidentemente, assim parece, "Kyoko No Ie — A Casa de Kyoko" manifesta, também ela, a sua ordem de intenções num idêntico movimento circular por quatro partidas, num processo comparável ao de um "Quarteto de Alexandria" de Durrell, mas aventurando-se, de sua feita, por territórios bem mais inóspitos e pantanosos que esses percorridos pelo autor dess'outro "Livro Negro" ("The Black Book", 1938).

           
           "A Casa de Kyoko" poderá ser, de um certo prisma, observada como uma espécie de "ficção-hermenêutica", a par de "Confissões de uma Máscara" [仮面の告白 — Kamen No Kokuhaku] de 1949, uma obra essencialmente 'confessional' e auto-interpretativa, uma "novela-espelho" por assim dizer, e aquando da sua prolongada redacção, empreendida entre Março de 1958 e Junho de '59, ao longo de quinze frenéticos meses de ansiedade extrema e penoso esforço criativo — Nathan, transcreve na referida biografia, diversas e elucidativas passagens do diário mantido por Mishima ao longo desse período, as quais reflectem como nenhum outro testemunho, a determinação, a inquietude e as enormes expectativas acalentadas pelo escritor a respeito desta ambiciosa obra —, Mishima depositaria, nesta empreitada, o absoluto máximo de si, optando inclusive por levar a respectiva escrita até à última página, eximindo-se de a fazer publicar em formato 'serializado' (i.e. em fascículos)  conforme era voga no Japão literário dessa época e cuja 'conveniência' editorial havia privilegiado aquando da publicação da vasta maioria das suas obras anteriores — estrondosos 'best-sellers' na generalidade dos casos...


           A tépida recepção por parte quer do público, quer da crítica — que qualificaria secamente "Kyoko No Ie" como sofrível —, terá actuado como o infligir de um rude golpe no ego e enfatuada auto-estima de Mishima — Henry Scott Stokes, o outro seu biógrafo, interpreta mesmo na sua opção de, no ano seguinte (1960), aceitar o improvável papel do irrecomendável rufia de "Karakkaze Yarō" como uma pueril vingança dirigida contra estas duas frentes de inconsolados...—, e o fracasso da obra que tanto tempo lhe consumira e na qual havia depositado tão grandes antecipações, como Nathan a esse respeito salienta, terá desempenhado um papel de crucial importância no desenlace dos eventos que marcariam a vida de Mishima pela década seguinte adentro e até aos seus últimos dias entre os seus...  
           



          

             "Kyoko No Ie" segue a par e passo as vidas entrecruzadas de quatro personalidades:

  1.     Shunkichi, um pugilista "isento de pensamento". Numa rixa de rua entre meliantes, Shunkichi é duramente atingido no braço direito pelo impacto de um taco de baseball e vê-se subitamente incapacitado para a prática do boxe, seu modo de vida, e para o resto dos seus dias. Na senda de um novo propósito que lhe ofereça uma chance de viver à medida da sua moldura de homem de acção, junta-se a uma formação de Uyoku dantai.   
  2.      Natsuo, um prestigiado pintor que se vê a si mesmo como a "encarnação de um anjo" cuja existência é velada por uma entidade transcendental. A sua vida flui isenta de preocupações mundanas, porém, aquando de uma subida ao Monte Fuji, Natsuo é assaltado por uma visão do Apocalipse. Reflectindo sobre a sua posição no Mundo, e ciente do sucesso e bem-estar material e espiritual que o bafejam, receia, contudo, a inveja e as intrigas dos seus pares. Natsuo contempla o suicídio no zénite da sua carreira como uma possibilidade de escape, mas no momento de se decidir o seu destino é visitado por uma nova visão que lhe transmite que "aquilo que vê e o 'ele-que-vê' são um só em uníssono"
  3.     Osamu, um actor. Consumido pelo mais concupiscente narcisismo, o ocioso Osamu é um cínico entediado. Descrente da arte e vida de palco que lhe dá sustento, intriga-se sobre o valor da sua própria existência e sobre o enfado que lhe consome os dias. Envolvendo-se com uma poderosa proprietária, credora de sua mãe, Osamu descobre o prazer na dor carnal e a luxúria própria de uma relação sado-masoquista com a amante que o 'comprou' (a troco de um perdão das dívidas que pesam sobre o negócio da mãe), processo que o arrasta a uma perigosa obcecação com a ideia de ambos se unirem eternamente no acto final e grandiloquente de um duplo suicídio...
  4.      Seiichirō, um negociante de sucesso. Seiichirō é um típico e respeitável 'shōsha'in' (商社員), um executivo de negócios de uma grande corporação, tipo social emergente do Japão do Pós-Guerra. Na sua juventude, Seiichirō viveu intensamente os brutais dias dos 'Daikūshū'a impiedosa e devastadora campanha de bombardeamentos levada a cabo pela aviação Americana sobre Tóquio e demais cidades do Japão desde os primeiros meses de 1945, com 'especial' recurso a bombas incendiárias de elevado poder destrutivo que reduziriam a capital imperial a um desolado deserto de cinzas entre Fevereiro e Agosto do último ano de guerra —, e cuja memória lhe assola a existência. Na verdade, Seiichirō recorda os dantescos incêndios que consumiriam a sua Tóquio natal nesses derradeiros dias da Guerra com o inconfesso sentimentalismo de uma lânguida nostalgia com a qual embriaga o espírito, saudando essas distantes noites de titânicas labaredas devorando o Ginza da sua mocidade, como o único tempo da sua vida que o fez sentir verdadeiramente vivo! O Mundo, através dos seus olhos fixos no horizonte toldado pelos novos edifícios dos anos da reconstrução, acha-se condenado à hecatombe, mas Seiichirō conduz a sua vida e tarefário com exemplar diligência e escrúpulo, seguindo lealmente o lema de 'viver a vida de outrém como a mais convencional das vidas'. Vem a casar-se com a filha do patrão e posteriormente é enviado para Nova Iorque como representante cimeiro dos negócios da sua empresa na América. Seiichirō 'sofre de uma doença incurável: a Saúde'...   


            "A Casa de Kyoko" será certamente e também um retrato do Japão do seu tempo — a década de 50, pouco mais de um decénio adentro sobre o término da Guerra que tanto marcara Mishima e a sua geração —, mas sobressai desde o primeiro instante como um retrato do artista enquanto homem na meia-idade, dissecação minuciosa de um universo privado que a década seguinte revelaria mais detalhado e em toda a sua dimensão: todos e cada um dos personagens de "Kyoko No Ie" representam, inequivocamente — e todos os leitores da dita logo assim o compreenderam desde a primeira hora —, uma e várias das muitas facetas do escritor. Não causarão, pois, espanto de maior a perplexidade e angústia que se abateram sobre Mishima ao tomar conhecimento de que estava perante o seu "primeiro grande fracasso", como um certo sector da crítica logo tratou de rotular este ambicioso edifício literário de mais de novecentas páginas de manuscrito original...

           Mishima procuraria, ele mesmo, apresentar justificativo para o (relativo) fiasco da sua obra de quase mil páginas de extensão: "O pintor representa a persistência da sensibilidade, o pugilista, o ímpeto da 'acção', o actor, a consciência de si-mesmo, e o executivo, um estado de compromisso com o Mundo e a Vida tal como ambos se (lhe/nos) apresentam. É natural que, sobre as personalidades dos quatro, recaia a expectativa de que todos e cada um se convertam em abstracções purificadas. " 


             Não.
          Não irei maçar-vos mais alongando-me na exposição da minha interpretação pessoal do conteúdo e significado profundos desta obra. Prefiro antes acicatar o vosso interesse recorrendo à aludida 'natureza profética' da mesma, nas palavras de John Nathan:


      "Kyoko's House was to Mishima's thirties what Confessions of a Mask was to his twenties. Both works are an accounting testimony to an astounding degree of self-knowledge; both works constituted in themselves a process of self-discovery. There is no knowing wether Mishima knew he was predicting his own fate when he wrote Kyoko's House. But one thing is certain; the developments of the sixties, the shift to the politics of the Right which culminated in Mishima's "patriotic" suicide, did not suddenly appear. Surely all the elements were there by 1958 and just as certainly Mishima was sensible to them."



        Só continuo sem entender porque motivo permanece esta obra por traduzir e editar entre nós. 
           Indecifrável enigma (aparentemente).

         Mas se nos próximos tempos ninguém se chegar à frente, quem se lhe atira de garras afiadas sou eu!...

          Nem que seja só para consumo privado.









Theme: "Orson Welles' Great Mysteries" [1973 - '74] by John Barry 



Bibliografia:




  • Mishima, Yukio: 「鏡子の家」, 新潮文庫 [Shinchō Bunko], Tokyo, 1959.
  • Nathan, John: "Mishima, A Biography", Tuttle Publishing, Tokyo, 1975. 
  • Stokes, Henry Scott: "The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima", Tuttle Publishing, Tokyo, 1975.

sexta-feira, 15 de outubro de 2010

Japão De Bolso


        Havia, na Faculdade de Direito de Lisboa, por onde passei nos idos da década de noventa do século passado, um emérito Professor de Direito das Obrigações que nos ensinava que devíamos andar sempre com um Código Civil à mão "quanto mais não fosse, (para usar) como 'arma de arremesso'" (!)


        Para quem esteja de passagem por esta terra distante que me abriga, por cá se conserve uns tempos e/ou haja de ficar, este não será necessariamente um "canivete-suíço" didáctico de primeira escolha, mas ainda assim a sua patente utilidade e interesse não serão de todo de negligenciar. 



     "Japan — Profile of a Nation — 日本小事典 [Nippon Shojiten]" da Kodansha, edição periodicamente revista e aumentada (a minha é já de 1999, mas pouco ou nada tenho a assinalar como fora-de-época), Geografia, História, Organização e Instituições Políticas, Economia, Relações Internacionais, Sociedade, Cultura e Lazer e, ainda, diversos textos de particular relevância para uma compreensão sucinta do Japão hodierno — Constituição de 1947 (texto integral), principais documentos históricos produzidos entre 1941 e '45 afectando o Japão (Declarações do Cairo e Potsdam), Tratados de Paz, Segurança e Cooperação celebrados com os E.U.A. (1952 e 1960) e outras potências, tudo isto em pouco mais de 900 páginas, levezinho e transportável, para ler na esplanada ou no metro, à falta de melhor. 
         Um Japão de Bolso, para quem do mesmo não possa ou não queira prescindir.


terça-feira, 12 de outubro de 2010

Fantasmas De Um Outro Outouno/ "Seventeen" [セバンティーン] / "Patriotismo" [憂国 — Yūkoku]




...E já lá vão precisamente cinquenta anos que o impensável, num país (que nem sempre foi) de brandíssimos costumes, teve lugar e a célebre foto acima reproduzida foi captada num fulminante click pela mão de Nagao Yasushi, à época um jovem fotógrafo de trinta anos ao serviço do Mainichi Shimbun — 毎日新聞 —, valendo-lhe um precoce Pulitzer Prize no ano seguinte (confesso que continuo sem entender de onde provém esse apetite mórbido, quasi-pornófilo [ainda que admitindo que nem sempre assim exclusivamente seja] por parte da Associated Press/A.P., LIFE magazine, de quem mais tem por incumbência retratar o mundo em toda a sua dimensão, e bem assim de sucessivos júris do Pulitzer, por imagens que na melhor das hipóteses se limitam a celebrar o pior da espécie humana... mas enfim... ora, dizia eu?... Ah pois!... adiante...), e a história do assassinato do Secretário-Geral do Partido Socialista do Japão, Asanuma Inejiro, em 12 de Outubro de 1960, pouco mais teria que se lhe diga que não podeis, numa breve pesquisa via Google, apurar por vós próprios, de sumário interesse, não fosse a mesma ter suscitado, à época, a par de outras mais emotivas reacções, um inesperado desenlace no domínio das Artes e Letras de então, e tanto por intermédio do génio de duas personalidades opostas nesse peculiar tempo de muitas incertezas.

É uma história pouco conhecida e boa demais para ficar por contar.
Dei com a mesma, há uns anos poucos entre as páginas de uma das melhores biografias de Mishima Yukio, essa lavrada da pena de John Nathan que já aqui, outrora, neste TLNBJ, ousei citar extensivamente, e que hoje, por imperativo do tempo que é escasso, torno a trazer à baila, desta feita no respectivo Inglês original e porque assim mais convém.

Trata-se da génese de duas obras marcantes de uma certa literatura fortemente polarizada (e politizada) da década de 60, uma sobejamente conhecida da maioria de nós (assim me quer parecer), e que daria ainda lugar a uma película de particular interesse, em especial para esses 'coleccionistas' como eu que nunca se cansam de esgravatar nos terrenos e entre as relíquias dess'outra 'arqueologia do presente' e em particular no que ao Japão respeita, e uma outra um tanto mais obscura mas de não menor valor, sobretudo se e quando tomada como retrato mordaz de um outro universo privado, feito de inconfessáveis inclinações, tão japonês a seu modo, tão torturado e tão tortuoso, um que de tempos a tempos se ergue de entre outras sombras e lugares de má memória.
Mishima e a esposa, Yoko, durante as filmagens de
"Yūkoku [憂国] — Patriotismo", Abril de 1965




   Haveria, certamente, que lançar mão a um sem-número de antecedentes e detalhes de superior interesse para esta história, e para que a mesma pudesse ser contada na íntegra, em todo o seu esplendor, e a ponto de não ficarem quaisquer dúvidas a pairar no ar...

     Lamento, mas assim não poderá ser — lá temos mesmo que passar à narrativa e sem ceder a mais compassos de espera, porque esta história, em si, é longa e esta é, sem sombra de dúvida, a melhor síntese da mesma que até hoje me coube em mãos, e pela qual este artigo se propôs publicar.

    E assim e acerca das origens de "Patriotismo", conto de Yukio Mishima, assim como das de "Seventeen", conto de Kenzaburō Ōe, conta-nos John Nathan:

«"Patriotism" [憂国 — "Yūkoku"], is the earliest indication that Mishima's quest for death was leading him to Shinto mysticism and emperor worship. Before long his newly found faith in the emperor would become the basis of a nationalism, and a politicized Mishima would emerge. But just beneath the surface of the politics was the old desire for death. There is nothing unusual about a man who has never required faith abruptly embracing religion when he learns that he must die. But surely the reverse is quite extraordinary: the "patriotism" Mishima began to formulate in the summer of 1960 was in essence his attempt to acquire faith in order to die.
«"Patriotism" appeared in the January 1961 issue of the Shōsetsu Chūōkōron [小説中央公論].
That same month, the twenty-five-year-old novelist Kenzaburō Ōe published in another magazine a portrait of a fascist as a young man called "Seventeen" [セヴンティーン], which was every bit as sardonic as "Patriotism" was solemn. In fact "Seventeen" was a brilliant and vicious attack on precisely the values that "Patriotism" exalted. The seventeen-year-old hero is a paranoid, convinced that people need only see "the pallor of his face and the cloudiness of his eyes" to perceive that he is a "chronic masturbator". The thought fills him with homicidal rage; he wants to "kill them, everyone of them, with a machine gun." But he cannot stop masturbating, because he needs the "sense of power" he experiences on ejaculation. The rest of the time he feels impotent in the face of "others" and of "eternity." When he hears for the first time in physics class about "infinity" and a "world of nothingness" he loses consciousness, soiling himself as he crumples to the floor. And he is sickened with fear at the thought of death, of having to endure nothingness "eternally a zero." One day a friend takes him to hear a rightist ranting from a soapbox. Until then he has always wanted to be on the Left, "because it felt better." But as he listens he understands suddenly that the "enmity and hatred he required to hold his own against the world" can come only from the Right. He joins the Imperial Way Party. When he puts on the party uniform he feels "armored in the Right" and knows that "[his] mushy, weak, easily injured and unsightly insides" are no longer being observed by others. Now he begins to study the Imperial Institution, and in a book called "The Emperor As An Absolute" he finds the clue that he's been searching for: "In fealty there can be no individuality." The young fascist understands at once: the Emperor has "commanded [him] to cast away his individuality." He does so, and knows "bliss." Vanished entirely is his sense of himself as powerless, ludicrous, contradictory, and out of place. He exults, masturbating: "Even if I do die, I will never perish. Because I am nothing more than a young leaf on a branch of a giant eternal tree called His Majesty the Emperor. I will not perish eternally! My fear of death has been conquered. Ah, Your Majesty, you are my god, my sun, my eternity. In you, by you, oh, I have truly begun to live!"



«The shocking coincidence of "Patriotism" and "Seventeen" was very likely a coincidence with an explanation. On October 12, 1960, the chairman of the Socialist Party, Inejiro Asanuma [浅沼稲次郎], was assassinated by a young rightist named Yamaguchi. Asanuma was delivering a speech when Yamaguchi charged headlong down the aisle of the auditorium, leaped up onto the speaker's platform, and ran him through with a short sword, the traditional weapon of the Japanese terrorist. A news cameraman happened to record the assassination on film (very much like the Zapruder film of President Kennedy's assassination in it's impact on the Japanese) and subsequently it was witnessed by the whole world. There is little question that Ōe had Asanuma's assassin in mind when he wrote "Seventeen". And it is not unlikely that Mishima was "inspired" by the same incident. Certainly terrorism was beginning to exert a special fascination over him at just this time. And this incident in particular was exciting to him because the assassin conformed to his idea of the hero by hanging himself in jail , thus demonstrating his "sincerity." In 1968, when asked at a teach-in for his opinion of Yamaguchi, Mishima replied: "He was splendid. As you know, he took his own life afterward. In dying that way he was being faithful to the letter of Japanese tradition."


The Asanuma assassination was not the only indication that leftist opposition to the security treaty had reinvigorated the extreme Right. Kenzaburō Ōe, for example, paid for "Seventeen" with nearly a year of isolation: the threats against his life kept him in his house and his friends away. And just one month after "Patriotism" and "Seventeen" had appeared there was yet another instance of rightist terrorism, an attempted assassination of the president of Chūōkōron Publishers. This time, perhaps ironically, it was Mishima's turn to suffer.
The Shimanaka Incident, as it came to be known, was provoked by a twelve-page story called "An Account of an Elegant Dream", which was published in the December 1960 issue of Chūōkōron magazine. The author, a singular man named Shichiro Fukazawa, was principally a guitarist and only incidentally a writer. In 1955, with encouragement from the director of a musical review in which he was appearing, Fukazawa had written a beautiful "folk tale" about the mountain to which young peasants carried their aging mothers to die and had won the first Chūōkōron Literary Prize for New Writers, hence his special relationship to that publisher. In the ensuing years he had maintained his double career as musician and novelist, and by 1960 he had a considerable reputation. In the story that caused so much trouble, the dreamer-narrator is transported to the Imperial Palace where he enthusiastically witnesses the execution of the Crown Prince [Akihito] and Princess Michiko at the hands of an angry populace (a revolution in progress) and then in an inner courtyard comes upon the "decapitated bodies" of the emperor and empress. There is no question that Fukazawa was radical in his sympathies. But considering the hysterical fury it elicited, his story was astonishingly benign, even childlike. The single line on which outrage was focused, quoted repeatedly, was "the severed head of the Crown Prince left his body and rolled along the ground bumpety-bump-bump."
«Shortly after the story appeared, the publisher was visited by seven representatives of rightist organizations [Uyoku Dantai — 右翼団体] who demanded that he apologize in the three major newspapers and that Fukazawa be "expelled" from Japan. Threats continued during December and January; the Great Japan Patriotic Party hired helicopters to scatter leaflets demanding that the Chūōkōron be "tried by the people and sentenced to death." On January 31, the party held a hate rally which was attended by over a thousand young fascists. Then, on the night of February 1, 1961, the inevitable happened. A young man named Komori — he was seventeen! — broke into the home of Chūōkōron's president Shimanaka, found him not at home, stabbed the family maid to death, and seriously wounded Shimanaka's wife*. [*Mishima condemned Komori for his attack on women. In 1968 he told a student audience: "Komori of the Chūōkōron Incident was bad business. The worst thing is attacking women and children. One of the splendid things about the young officers in the February 26 Rebellion was that they didn't harm any women or children."]      The incident was particularly terrifying because the Asanuma assassination was still so vivid in memory. Shimanaka immediately announced at a press conference that Chūōkōron had been wrong to publish Fukazawa's story and added that he had "reprimanded" the editor of the magazine and removed him from his post. The police, responding to demands from the Opposition that the police commissioner resign and that emergency measures be taken to quell rightist violence, began an immediate crackdown: arrests were made, rightist groups placed under surveillance, and bodyguards assigned to public figures considered likely targets.

On November 1, Mishima had left the country with Yoko on a trip around the world, the "real honeymoon" he had promised her as soon as [his latest novel] "Kyōko's House" [鏡子の家 — "Kyōko No Ie"] should be finished. When he returned to Japan on January 20, he learned of a widespread rumor that he was responsible for Fukazawa's story appearing in Chūōkōron because he had strongly recommended it to the editor. He denied this vehemently in print, declaring it was ridiculous to suppose that an established writer like Fukazawa, who was, moreover, the winner of the Chūōkōron Literary Prize, would require anyone to recommend his story to that publisher's magazine. He ended the brief disclaimer saying that "certain people" — meaning Shimanaka — were allowing the rumor to persist in hopes of saddling him with responsibility properly their own; it is a fact that Chūōkōron never publicly stated that Mishima had not recommended the Fukazawa story. Whatever the truth may have been — and it is not inconceivable that Mishima could have appreciated the story despite its irreverence — there was ample basis for the rumor, given the fanatics who spread it, in his association with the Chūōkōron and his well-publicized friendship with Fukazawa himself. Beginning in 1956, the year after Fukazawa had won it, Mishima had served annually as one of the three judges awarding the Chūōkōron Prize. (...)
«The rumor persisted, and beginning in the last week of January, Mishima received repeated threats against his life and his family. Then came the Shimanaka Incident. For several nights afterward Mishima patrolled his garden himself, Japanese sword in hand. Then the police assigned him a "bodyguard", who lived in the house and accompanied him wherever he went for the rest of February and half of March. (...)
«But, however frightening this encounter with reality may have been, terrorism — more properly, Mishima's notion of terrorism — retained its excitement in his imagination. The most immediate evidence of this was his major [theatre] play for 1961, written in the summer and performed in November on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Bungaku-Za. "One Day Too Late" takes place sixteen years after the February Rebellion. The hero, then the Minister of Finance, has narrowly escaped assassination on that snowy dawn, and in escaping has lost an opportunity which will not present itself ever again ( the very opportunity the lieutenant in "Patriotism" seized). Ever since, the minister has survived in the "desolation of his spirit," a "living corpse" continuously rehearsing in memory that "moment of supreme glory". Every year on the anniversary of his escape, he his visited by his former chief maid and head butler, who join him in toasting the incident (...). The action of the play is essentially an attempt by the minister and his former maid to recreate the tension of that night and its glorious possibilities without the aid of the young rebels and their blazing guns. Inevitably, they fail. And the play implies that their failure is due to the engulfing and apparently unassailable peace of the postwar age. In a private, undramatic sense, peace is the villain of the play. It was no accident that Mishima specified the time in his stage directions as "1952, in other words, the year the Japan-U.S. Peace Treaty went into effect."
«"Kyōko's House" is evidence that Mishima was holding the postwar peace responsible for his difficulty in feeling alive as early as 1958. In "Patriotism" and "One Day Too Late" he represented terrorism as a "blissful" or a "glorious" alternative to peace. It was only a matter of time before he began to complain of peace in person instead of through a character in a novel. He first sounded the lament that was to be a leitmotif of his final years in August 1962, on the seventeenth anniversary of the surrender. His one-page article was called "These Seventeen Years of Warlessness" (the coinage is Mishima's):

«I can remember watching a movie during the war that had been made in peacetime and sighing at the sight of the Ginza all lit up with neon lights. But when I later found myself in an age of more neon than had ever been dreamed of, all I could think of was how easy it had been to live in a wartorn world and how painfully difficult it was to live in a world of peace. How arbitrary we are!
«When I imagine the three hundred years of Tokugawa peace and how tedious that must have been I am embarrassed as a Japanese to complain of boredom after a mere seventeen years.... But during that three hundred years the samurai [warrior] class, for all its corruption and overindulgence in sexual pleasure, maintained an artificial consciousness of peril which it seems to have employed as spiritual hygiene. But today, Bushido is 'passé'....»*


No demais, remeto-vos para a(s) obra(s) citada(s).

Boa Noite!








* In "Mishima, A Biography", John Nathan, Tuttle Publishing, Tokyo, 1975.











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