An Artist of the Floating World

Kazuo Ishiguro published this book, to great acclaim, before his popular success The Remains of the Day. For a while it seemed to me that the narrator was going to be the same kind of character as the other book’s narrator, and that the story was going to be an equally painful look backwards at the life of a person who failed to do the proper thing at the crucial time.

This book is set in Japan in the years that followed the end of World War II. The narrator, Masuji Ono, is a successful retired artist, the mysterious nature of whose work is a problem for the reader to figure out throughout the book.

Like The Remains of the Day, this book is written in the first person, in a stilted and distant manner, as if the narrator is describing someone else. In one scene this style seems to be a way for Ono to detach himself from the strong emotions he is remembering, and it has the striking effect of heightening the drama for the reader. “I suppose I remained silent for some moments,” he writes. “I must have stood up at around this point, for when I next spoke, I recall I was standing across the room from him, over by the veranda screens.”

For all his scientific detachment, it appears that others do not see Ono the way he sees himself. Ishiguro is a genius of progressive disclosure; what you learn through circular digressions is continually surprising and never absolutely satisfying. What is said and what is not said are equally important.

One remarkable thing about the book is the multiple story lines that repeat and subtly echo each other. Ono is working through the problem of his past at the same time he is facing the problems of his adult daughters’ lives moving forward. And his reflections on his time both as a student and a teacher present a subtly contrasting recapitulation of themes. As he related to his teachers when he was young, so he realizes his students must have related to him when he taught. Some of the dialogues seemed fuguelike within themselves, in their repetition and elaboration of phrases.

The artistry of the writing is apt for the main problem that the narrator explores: the nature of art. Is it enough to flawlessly depict the “floating world” of momentary pleasure? In a crucial conversation Ono and one of his teachers debate the opinion of another artistic friend: “The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning,” says the teacher. Can art be good or bad morally, as well as technically and aesthetically good or bad? How does it serve society?

It was a sad book in many ways, but there was also happiness and humor. I enjoyed the story of a man’s interesting life, the fascinating interplay between the generations, the description of postwar Japan’s collective sorrow, and the philosophical debates about art.

Philosophy

Why do I write these incomplete, inconsequential little book reviews? Sometimes I wonder what the point is.

I can think of three reasons. First, I have such a bad memory that writing down my reactions after finishing a book is the only way of ensuring that I have any recollection at all of what I read.

Second, it is a discipline for me as a writer. Sometimes I have time to write a review that is a little more polished than the others, but usually they are simple and undistinguished. The act of sitting down to write at all is usually the hardest thing for writers, and I consider each book review a triumph in that respect.

Third, I would like to be someone who creates more than she consumes. I find myself going crazy with all the information I feel like I should take in, and taking stuff in always seems to take priority. Perhaps I feel like it is a preparation before I am equipped to say anything. But there is no way to consume everything! At some point we must stop. I hate feeling like I am just going from one book to the next without time to reflect and absorb it into my life. These book reviews are a response to what I have taken in, a minor creative endeavor. I submit that if we don’t have time to respond to the books we read, we don’t really have time to read.

In sum, these book reviews are simple, safe, and not too revealing; and perhaps they are somewhat interesting for the few people who read them. I can find nothing to say against the habit of writing them.

Three books

THE SPIES OF WARSAW

I had heard great things about Alan Furst, and I can see why many consider him one of the finest writers of spy novels. His tale unfolds elegantly, and his character Jean-François Mercier de Boutillon is enjoyable. He is as charming in his heroic spy exploits as he is in his powerful yearning for jelly doughnuts.

I appreciated the book enough to lose some sleep reading it, but it was never very suspenseful or mysterious. I would be interested in reading some of Furst’s other novels in order to see if this is an anomaly or just his style.

WHO’S AFRAID OF POSTMODERNISM?

This book by James Smith was a very approachable treatment of the church’s response to postmodernism. I cannot speak for the soundness of the author’s philosophy (I thought he treated some of the philosophers’ writings in an inexcusably general manner, although his embracement of these philosophers was refreshing in comparison to the usual fear you sense among evangelicals) but his critique of the American church over the last few decades was right on target, and his vision for the future was exciting and encouraging (until he starts describing the particulars of his ideal worship service). Incidentally, I was annoyed by how 50% of the footnotes referred to another of the author’s books. I’m not sure that was necessary, and it makes me mistrust him.

THE TALES OF BEEDLE THE BARD

I challenge anyone to read this all-too-brief collection of stories in more than one sitting. It takes a certain genius to write a successful fairy tale; after her previous voluminous tomes, J. K. Rowling indisputably proves her mettle by mastering this short form. And the commentary by Albert Dumbledore, along with scholarly footnotes, is exquisite.