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INTRODUCTION

WHEN JAPAN was defeated in 1945, Taijun Takeda was still a comparatively unknown writer living in Shanghai. The thirty-three-year-old Takeda saw how Shanghai Japanese, proud and triumphant for almost a decade, were tumbled overnight into a world of fear, humiliation, and panic. In their desperation to survive in the postwar chaos, even at the barest level of existence, they abandoned whatever they believed had made them uniquely Japanese. Like the narrator in This Outcast Generation,^* they were surprised to discover how easy it was to put up with "loss of face," to "live shame down," though the process, like any therapeutic treatment, was slow and painful. There was no better place than Shanghai to give a Japanese the full realization of what it was like to be put to shame after the defeat of the homeland. With Taijun Takeda, however, the shock of recognition was particularly deep.

Yet his country's defeat should not have taken Takeda by surprise, much less bewilderment. As a student of Chinese literature he was much too familiar with the long history of China, with the idea of destruction through decline and fall of her states and leaders. In fact, Takeda's first major book, published only two years before the surrender, was a lengthy critical essay on the famous Chinese classic Shi Chi (Historical Memories) by Ssu-ma Chien (145-86 B.C.), castrated for displeasing his emperor in defending a personal friend, an army general who had surrendered to the Huns. Ssu-ma Chien had endured more than twenty years of disgrace and solitude in order to "review the world in [his] own terms." Takeda presented a detailed account of this 130-volume history of destruction and change, his eye always focused on the unique life of the chronicler. From the vast and confusing world of Shi Chi which recorded the conflicts and passions and destinies of individuals and states, Takeda summarized Ssu-ma Chien's world view with axiomatic assurance: all nations are doomed, though the doom itself allows mankind to survive.

As philosophy it was sufficiently pessimistic, but was there not some consolation in Takeda's discovery of a kind of "preordained harmony" in this cycle of destruction? When Japan surrendered, Takeda ought to have once more acknowledged this view of man and history and to have prepared himself for whatever lay ahead. But like the rest of his countrymen, he was totally dazed. At the moment of Japan's defeat he was to realize he was not as free or independent as he had led himself to believe. In spite of a vague though deep-rooted expectation that some day he would be able to separate himself from the militarism which had dominated Japan for so long, a militarism he loathed, he had actually been protected by his country's armies. Possibly this contradiction was typical of a youth brought up in a well-to-do family.

Born in Tokyo in 1912, Takeda was the second son in a temple family of high rank. He was raised as happily as any middle-class youngster. Of his parents he preferred his father, a man of simple tastes from the country, yet a scholar who taught Buddhistic philosophy. In middle school Takeda perhaps thought of himself as a future academician or scientist and showed no inclination for creative writing. The newspaper account of the suicide of the famous novelist Ryunosuke Akutagawa in 1927 made Takeda wonder why the death of a mere writer had caused such a sensation. Takeda's interest in Chinese literature after he entered high school in 1928 was merely part of one's training, but so intensely did he devote himself to reading classical and contemporary Chinese literature in books he suddenly discovered in the school library that he seldom attended classes. His joining an anti-imperialist leftist group, an activity typical of students at that time, further separated him from his formal studies.

Nevertheless, Takeda entered Tokyo University in 1931, where he was to major in Chinese literature, but in his first year he was arrested for distributing propaganda leaflets for his organization and was kept in confinement one month. When his father asked him to abandon this leftist movement, Takeda's acquiescence was typical of his obedience as a son. But the next year he also abandoned the university, having attended only a few lectures since matriculation. He had no need to worry about a livelihood: he was to succeed his father as temple priest. Yet the priesthood was not to his liking, especially at this time of religious decline. There was also the added stigma of living off contributions from others. Still, the obedient son proceeded to train for the priesthood and became a qualified bonze. Meanwhile, Takeda continued his study of Chinese language and literature, also participating in a circle of scholars with an anti-government bias as they devoted themselves to various studies on China. Among Takeda's friends were many Chinese students, and it was his association with a Chinese woman writer suspected of subversion that again led to his arrest and a month and a half confinement.

In October, 1937, Takeda was called to military duty and sent immediately to the battlefield of China. His experiences again caused him to think seriously about Ssuma Chien. Discharged from the army after two years, Takeda returned home, his first task being the subject of his long essay on Shi Chi, at the same time translating Chinese novels and trying his hand at original stories. After publishing Ssu-ma Chien in 1943, called The World of Shi Chi in later editions, he went the following year to Shanghai to work for the Japan-Chinese Cultural Association. It was in 1945 that he saw at first-hand what he had regarded as the inevitable fall of his own arrogant people, not that he considered himself freed from responsibility.

In the opening chapter of Ssu-ma Chien, Takeda had written: "Ssu-ma Chien was a man who remained alive in shame. Whereas any man of high rank would not have cared to survive, this man did... Completely driven to bay, fully aware of the base and disgusting impression he gave others, he brazenly went about the task of living. Even after his castration... Ssu-ma Chien continued to live, feeding and sleeping on a grief that day and night penetrated his entire body. He tenaciously persisted in writing Shi Chi, writing it to erase his shame, but the more he wrote, the more shame he felt." Takeda sounded elated in the discovery that a man so despised could evolve a philosophy which could turn the tables on the world that had so ruthlessly rejected him. But Takeda's voice was decidedly the voice of one who shared the same indignation, almost the identical shame of the castrated historian. For Takeda's own feelings to finally burst their bounds, he had to be a soldier in China, gun in hand as he stared at the mutilated bodies of Chinese peasants, their houses burned to ashes, their villages and towns destroyed.

Though Takeda had never been violently anti-imperialistic, he had nevertheless been part of the movement against Japanese imperialism in China, had loved the Chinese, had majored in their literature and formed lasting friendships among them. As the son of a Buddhist priest and as a priest himself, he was supposed to preach the absolute negation of violence and killing. The realization of these multiple betrayals must have been torturing him as he witnessed what his countrymen had done to the Chinese. So intense was his guilt that one can imagine how relieved he must have felt in identifying himself with Ssu-ma Chien. But Ssu-ma Chien's feelings were based on righteous indignation, while all Takeda could do was kick himself, and identification was easier than downright self-accusation. Perhaps the objectivity which resulted in Takeda's masterful unity in Ssu-ma Chien was due partly to whatever confidence was left him that separated him from the ancient Chinese chronicler—some small, secret zone of safety which kept Takeda from being as "bad" as the castrated man. One more final blow was needed to hurl Takeda outside this zone of safety where he could dissect his very soul and ask him self what he was, what man was. That final blow was Japan's unconditional surrender. The novelist Takeda confronted it in its fullest impact, in all its immediacy. It is not surprising that Shi Chi and "The Revelation of St. John" were the two books he read for support during his dangerous day-to-day life in postwar Shanghai.

Takeda returned to Japan in 1946. The following year Hokkaido National University offered him a position as associate professor of Chinese Literature. At the same time his energetic career as novelist, critic, and essayist was underway. He published "Trial" (1947), a short story in which a young Japanese soldier, an intellectual, kills an old Chinese couple, not in the line of duty but out of pure whim as if to test a mathematical formula. During this year of hunting for war criminals and extracting confessions for war crimes and, by extension, developing a hatred for war itself or the kind of social system that engenders war, Takeda's exposure of the dangerous potentiality in all of us to become senseless murderers was poignantly shocking. This Outcast Generation (1947), his first full-length story, which he saturated with his Shanghai experiences, placed him among the important postwar writers.

In 1948, he left teaching to devote his full energies to writing. Month after month he published stories and essays. In a time of hunger and black marketeering, Take-da seemed most alive, most sensitive, most hard-working. His glaringly colorful descriptions of human beings driven to bay under extremity perfectly corresponded to the postwar era, the Japanese nation's precarious survival in a world where the old values had apparently gone bankrupt. In one story after another Takeda posed radical questions that forced his readers to confront the meaning of human existence, whether he recorded his own experiences as a soldier in China or as a civilian in Shanghai or his bitter-funny apprenticeship as a Buddhist priest. The number of stories, novels, and essays he has written is astounding. Two decades after the war Takeda remains one of the most prolific writers in Japan. His materials, no longer limited to the autobiographical, represent bold forays into every area of human experience. "No phenomenon," said Takeda in a preface to a collection of his works, "escapes a novelist as uninteresting." As Japan has settled in the ways of peace, he has often been criticized for having an excessive interest in the dark side of human nature, but Takeda has retorted that in peace or war man is always faced with extremes, the chief of which is man himself. The mysterious complexity of man is Takeda's continual concern, especially so in This Outcast Generation and Luminous Moss.

This Outcast Generation is important not only because it is the starting point in Takeda's career as a novelist, but because it provides a key to his unique thought, presented in this story in easily recognizable novelistic form. It offers a sharp contrast to the formal "disarray" of Luminous Moss, whose theme, on the other hand, parallels and intensifies the serious considerations of the earlier story.

Against the background of defeated Japanese in Shanghai, This Outcast Generation deals with the conflict of thre Japanese men over the love of a Japanese woman. Compared to the gigantic military conflict that had just ended, the winning or losing of a woman seems almost petty, almost unworthy of comparison. Yet a parallel exists. War and love are intensely, peculiarly human affairs. The crucial point of the story is that human nature, submerged in the enormous mechanism of war, is re-examined in terms of individual human beings in their most private selves, in their most immediately felt experiences.

Without the impact of defeat, the narrator Sugi would never have been capable of murdering someone for love or for any other reason. In Sugi's attitude toward the woman's dying husband and the "powerful" man Karajima, we see what Sugi has learned by living in a place where, however unwillingly, he has been on the side of the strong. At the end of the war what has been brought home to him is not simply the grief or apathy of the defeated. What he realizes so starkly is the way war solved the conflict in such clear-cut, simple terms, so much so that it allowed no room for moral ambiguities. The victors in the war needed no justification or rationalization. Even the defeated felt willing to submit to the force of the "logic" of defeat. The narrator believes that justice of some supreme order has emerged. Perhaps such self-justification is part of the defense-mechanism of the subdued. Yet it is as if Sugi thinks himself freed from responsibility in life, as if some universal collapse, like apocalypse, has come true. But most of all his view borders on a naturalistic view of nature, applied in this situation to war and defeat. Sugi sincerely feels he may as well be killed. He has concluded that not many men do not deserve death. This sort of detachment or nihilism helps him to confront without compunction or guilt the dying husband, the man whose wife Sugi loves. The dying is part of the order of things and has nothing to do with what Sugi does or does not do with the man's wife. That the living are stronger than the dying is so obvious no justification whatever is needed.

The narrator is fully aware of the same reasoning in confronting Karajima, the man of power. While pursuing him, Sugi feels he is pursuing someone only to be killed. Sugi is prepared to say his own dying is also in the order of things. By a curious turn of events, however, the narrator becomes the victor. He ought to be overjoyed, yet finds himself totally despondent. Something he sees in the expression of the dying Karajima shocks him into another recognition. Sugi has always thought Karajima power incarnate, not a man, not a human being. At Karajima's death the narrator realizes for the first time that Karajima was also human, also mortal. What Sugi feels is not relief but something like compassion, an awareness of his solidarity with Karajima as human beings. The narrator's beliefs are jolted.

But already the very fact of Sugi's having gone out to "kill" in order to "protect" a woman has belied that belief. The dramatic moment of conversion occurs when Sugi becomes conscious that he is refusing to be a non-entity in the order of things, the logical force of which he had once accepted as if it were some divine decree. Once shaken in this belief, he finally becomes aware that his acquiescence to the order of things, that is, to his being a nonentity, is actually the reverse side of his unconscious desire to be the strong. He had suspected that to live was to survive but at the expense of other lives. Now, with the death of Karajima and the imminent death of the husband, Sugi comes to learn the meaning of being the strong, the survivor, or as he expresses it aboard ship, the meaning of everything that concerns being alive. As he has survived Karajima and the sick man, being alive is assuredly surviving, but the realization of the absurdity, as the sick husband says, of some staying alive while others are dying overwhelms the narrator and initiates him into a further recognition that the living owe the dying the fact of living, that the strong are strong because of the weak. This recognition of the link between survivor and survived may be called compassion or responsibility.

Thus This Outcast Generation considers man as a tension between individuals and history and as a contradiction in that tension. The theme is a far cry from the survival of the fittest; it is rather a hymn to humanitarianism, to the links in the great chain of existence.

But if to stay alive is to survive even if one has to mur der, it requires only a further step for Takeda to insist that the survivor must, at the same time, be prepared to be survived or even to be murdered to help others to survive. Luminous Moss [Hikarigoke, 1954) is the dramatic presentation of this further step.

Before being confronted with the most unusual of unusual events, the reader is introduced to scenes of quite ordinary human lives in a calm natural environment. These scenes may serve as effective contrast; but, more important, they reveal Takeda's conviction that human existence itself, however serene in appearance, contains a mysterious tension, a horrifying contradiction. In Takeda's apparently leisurely and relaxed travelogue style, the reader can notice many suggestions of conflict, movements against life to perpetuate life. In fact, Takeda's first reference to cannibalism is made immediately after the narrator has observed the humblest of plants, the luminous moss, which survives so precariously inside the cave. The implications behind the episode of cannibalism and the life of the plant are instantly fused in the narrator's mind: "... I was so fascinated by this 'incident of eating human flesh' that I could almost feel the 'creases of my mind' contract with a snap... I was conscious that the subject was turning from second to second into small black pellets in the depths of the 'Makkaushi Cave' of my mind, beginning to function furiously and to rave, urging and imploring for the earliest possible release." This peculiar mode of identification is based on a fundamental attitude that regards every living thing, human or plant, as equal in the continuation of life itself. The outlook is obviously religious, ascribable to the underlying spirit of Buddhism to which Takeda is so closely related by family and race.

The Captain, who has committed the gravest of sins, does not offer any legal or religious argument of self-justification. He does not try, through retaliation, to degrade the whole of humanity by marking it with the Sign of the Beast. He does not flaunt the courtroom spectators with the truth, a truth so horrible that mankind has been careful to avoid confronting it: that all life feeds upon itself to keep itself going. The Captain simply acknowledges the factual character of human existence, its tension and contradiction, under which he has learned to endure. Eventually the reader is forced to feel the full weight of the Captain's repetition of "bearing up." And the very acknowledgment of this "bearing up" points to Takeda's faith in man's peculiar capacity for transcendence in spite of the earth we are so mired in.

The profound questions raised by Takeda are difficult to present and answer in the conventional structure of the novel. Thus Takeda has sometimes been criticized for his narrative techniques. Yet the essay-in-story that is peculiarly Takeda's is pungently provocative. Takeda's existential-Buddhistic identity-of-all reveals him as a writer at once religious while equally committed to the brutality and illogicality of life itself. This Outcast Generation and Luminous Moss place Takeda at the very center of a compassionate view of troubled man and foreshadow the creation of the first serious religious novel in postwar Japanese literature, a task Takeda has recently indicated he wishes to make his lifework.

Yusaburo Shibuya

Meiji University, Tokyo

Sanford Goldstein

Purdue University, West Lafayette, Indiana