The Thousand Autumns…

Irish Writer David Mitchell is well-known for the narrative and stylistic gymnastics of his first four novels. His recently published book, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet breaks that mold, and in what may be a surprise to many of his readers, dives headfirst into historical fiction, with a moderate helping of romance thrown in. Unlike the earlier books, particularly the Man Booker Prize finalist, Cloud Atlas, the new book unrolls its story in a linear and chronological framework bristling with fascinating history and little known cultural oddities of Shogunate Japan during the late 18th, early 19th centuries. This new book bypasses all the earlier symbolism and coincidence for straightforward narrative and strong storytelling.

The setting of Mitchell’s book is the small fan-shaped island of Dejima artificially built in the bay of Nagasaki in 1634. For 212 years, between 1641 and 1853, the island was a Dutch trading post, the doorway through which all foreign trade and exchange entered Japan. Foreigners were not allowed off the island by government decree.

In 1799, Jacob de Zoet, a young clerk for the Dutch East Indies Company arrives in Dejima to take up a post that is to last five years and earn him his fortune. He is saddled with the job of unraveling accounts in a company riddled with corruption. Unfortunately for him, his unbending honesty is at once challenged from all sides. Adding to these challenges is his infatuation with a young Japanese woman, a midwife who is studying with the famous Dutch doctor, Lucas Marinus. The young Dutchman learns quickly enough that his love for this woman is forbidden by not only law, but by tradition, culture and politics as well.

Mitchell’s main character is modeled upon Dutchman Hendrik Doeff who worked for the Dutch East Indies Company on Dejima from 1803 to 1818. But there might also be small measure of autobiography in the character, as Mitchell himself spent eight years in Japan, and has a Japanese wife.

The story shifts from one character to another in its unfolding, a method that opens windows for both reader and author to enter the particular world and mind of its Dutch, Japanese and English characters. Language is a doorway into the culture and thought of these characters, and to each speaker the writer applies an identifying flow, or non-flow of speech. You would almost have to say that language is huge in The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. In large part characters are built upon the language they speak. Comprehension and incomprehension are always at issue, whether it be about trade, medicine, laws, or the procedure of battle. A book that has been very deeply researched, it is crammed with detail and description of court intrigue, medical procedures, sailing ships, herbal remedies, and historical facts, as well as arcane tidbits about life in 18th century Japan.

Like Japan of the period from 1600 to 1867, Mitchell’s story is also wrapped inside the walls and concerns of a small corner of the world. There is nothing in its 479 pages that speaks of a wider world, nothing particularly symbolic of bigger issues, unless we put the honesty and bravery of its main character into that realm. In this light, the book might be described as narrow in an allegorical sense. But don’t let that deficiency put you off of reading a story of history, romance, betrayal, samurai raids, medicine, sailing ships, and every page exquisitely written.

Ink or Drink: It’s Good

In my childhood, along with the bottles of Coca Cola we all swigged through peanuts poured into the bottle neck, there were the dark brown bottles of Orange Crush. Of the two, the latter was always my favorite, but the growing popularity of Coke had already begun to nudge Orange Crush from the cold drink machines. Fact was, the Coca Cola company had already taken over those machines, all painted red with the white Coca Cola lettering. Still, the old Orange Crush soda pop in the dark brown ridged bottles was No. 1 with me.

Back in March of 2006, while browsing in Tokyo’s pen boutique Shosaikan, I came upon an ink from Private Reserve named Orange Crush. It had been years since those words had come to mind, and before even picking up the bottle of ink, I experienced a flood of Orange Crush memories that momentarily overrode any thoughts of ink and fountain pens. My head was quickly filled with images of a time before soft drinks thunked out of change-making vending machines, of the days when you reached an arm down into the icy water of a big, boxy, red cooler full of things like RC Cola, Nehi Strawberry and Orange Crush.

But back to the ink, I’m sure I would have bought it for the name alone, even if the color had not been to my liking. Stores in Japan allow customers to sample inks and fountain pens, and pretty soon I had a page filled with Orange Crush squiggles, doodles and lines of gibberish. True enough, the color did ring true to the old Orange Crush memories, and I bought a bottle.

It turned out to be a disappointing experience for me, and very likely for many other customers as well. The Private Reserve ink held true for about one month, and then the color became corrupted through some quirk in the chemistry. I returned to Shosaikan and learned that the store’s entire stock of Orange Crush had suffered the same horrible fate of alchemy. The ink turned an ugly, dirty yellow, and was consigned to a back corner of the ink cupboard.

Fast forward four and a half years and a package of autumn Inkdrop samples arrive in the mail. Among the six sample inks is that old, and hopefully improved Orange Crush from Private Reserve.

That same nostalgic thrill was missing this time around, and it’s only a couple of weeks later that I’ve gotten around to giving the ‘new’ ink a look-see.

Best thing about this ink, apart from the evocative name and richness of burnt orange color, is the shading. I just might have a hard time finding another ink that shades as BEAUTIFULLY as this Private Reserve Orange Crush. A similar color is available from Noodler’s called Cayenne, but the shading of that ink doesn't even approach this Private Reserve orange.

For those who want a more detailed description and comparison, I recommend the recent review of Orange Crush at Ink Nouveau.

Something in the Air

Can’t describe myself as doing much of anything today, most of it along the lines of what I imagine as the life of Riley. But don’t misunderstand that to mean sleeping until noon and idling away the remaining hours flipping through movie magazines and munching chocolate bonbons. No, after the usual early morning walk on the beach, I passed a couple of hours reading to my golden girls in the retirement home down the street, then came home to laze way the afternoon marveling at the change of season underway here on the watery edge.

The doors and windows are all open here and autumn breezes are blowing through and unclogging these stale rooms. Surprising how insensitive one becomes to a daily electric climate, dulled and accepting of the ‘perfect’ air-conditioned temperature. Though it seems a little early to me (my first autumn in Florida) I am experiencing a change now that involves much more than mere changing temperatures. Something is in the air. A shift is in progress on every front. The color of the ocean has darkened, the light has gradually become more sympathetic, less intimidating. New birds have come from other climates to winter at the seaside. Ocean water is colder, the beard of seaweed tracing the surf line redder now. I doubt there is ever a time in this setting when the air is anything less than fresh, but at this time of year you notice a clear difference in the air, a difference that enlivens the senses.

In the late afternoon I walked down to the water’s edge with the idea of filling my vision with nothing but ocean and sky, wanting to stand with feet in the surf, seeing a hundred and eighty degrees of only those elements, divided by the razor sharp horizon. But in fact, nothing about it surprised me; colder water, deeper blue ocean, and perfect clarity to the horizon three miles out. Walking back up to the beach stairs, I came upon the lady in sand, an image that made me think of Picasso for some reason. The photo of the stairs? Nothing special, except as a look at the climbing sand bolstered by October tides.

Is it Halloween Yet?

I love this ink. Orange ink has always been a shade I enjoy using, and it has been a long time in finding the one that prompts a sudden, “That’s it!” with the first stroke of color on the page. Diamine Pumpkin, the perfect orange, with the perfect timing (two weeks before Halloween), and all the right qualities.

With only a small Inkdrop sample from Brian Goulet, I wasn’t able to try the Pumpkin ink in more than one fountain pen. That proved to be something of a drawback because the pen I chose has what I call a stingy nib, laying down a line drier than I prefer. Shading looks great; no disappointment in the saturation. With the right pen, or wetter nib, this Diamine Pumpkin is going to be a star in my weekly ink rotation. Kudos to Diamine and thanks to Brian Goulet.

The second photo here shows a comparison of six different ‘orange’ inks. A quick look and anyone uninterested in ink will say that they are all the same. The subtleties of digital reproduction also complicate the differences, but hopefully some of my ink-mad readers will distinguish some difference in the six colors.

From top to bottom:

Sailor Jentle Ink • Persimmon (a custom mix)

Iroshizuku • Yu-yake

Iroshizuku • Fuyu-gaki

Caran d’Ache • Saffron

Edelstein • Mandarin

Diamine • Pumpkin

Memories of Manzanar

It’s a long stretch back to 1990, and that’s where today’s musings have led me. From the shelves of movie DVDs available at the library, the other day I picked up an old chestnut from twenty years ago, an Alan Parker film called, Come See the Paradise. It stars a mix of American and Japanese actors, but the headliner is Dennis Quaid. I have seen only one other film treat the question of the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II, possibly because it is a rather shameful chapter in modern American history. A much more recent movie, one made in 2007 and titled American Pastime covered much the same ground as Alan Parker’s earlier film.

Such potent issues as interracial marriage and the wholesale internment of 110,000 Japanese-Americans are drama enough and should provide enough to work with. But for reasons hard to understand, Alan Parker chose to cloud the story of Come See the Paradise by adding a third ingredient of labor union protest to his already bursting screenplay.

The time is 1936 and Jack McGurn (Quaid) is on the run after his union activities in New York result in an unintended fire in a crowded movie theater. He winds up in Los Angeles, where he gets a job as a movie projectionist in a Little Tokyo movie theater. It’s no great shock that he soon falls in love with the beautiful Japanese-American daughter of the theater owner. But in the California atmosphere of 1936 interracial romance is a no-no. Jack is fired and told he can no longer see the daughter, Lily Kawamura. Jack and Lily run away to Portland, Oregon where Americans are allowed to marry Japanese-Americans. Jack finds work in a fish cannery, and in due time he and Lily have a daughter. But then the past suddenly returns to Jack when union organizers picket the cannery, and Jack jumps into the fray, getting himself arrested and hauled off to jail. Lily returns to Los Angeles with their daughter.

Then comes Pearl Harbor and Executive Order 9066 sending all Japanese-Americans to internment camps. The remainder of the movie focuses for the most part upon the Kawamura family’s time in the camp. Jack meanwhile, is given a choice of joining the army or being sent back to New York to answer for his past sins. Choosing the first alternative, he obtains leave in order to see the Kawamura family off to the internment camp.

In an unfortunate choice, director Parker retreats from the heart of his story to follow Jack in his struggle to see wife and child. The real story is with the Kawamuras as their lives are dismantled by fear, alienation and injustice. Too much of this tragedy is seen through the eyes of Jack, who as an American is an outsider to the humiliation of his wife and family. True to the Hollywood formula, Jack, Lily and their daughter are reunited in a superficially happy ending. Too late for Lily’s father who dies a broken man, and her brother who renounces America and ships off for Japan, a place he has never been. The story of Japanese-American internment has potential rich enough for powerful filmmaking, but one is led to think that Alan Parker allowed himself to be sidetracked by secondary themes, and the desire perhaps to make a ‘feel good’ movie.

On the plus side…

Tamlyn Tomita as Lily Kawamura is both gorgeous and wholly believable. Her only difficulty is in dealing with the director-screenwriter’s shallow choices. The music, the songs, the soundtrack are all achingly beautiful. Admittedly, I have a fondness for music (both Japanese and American) of the 30s and 40s, so I was pretty much carried away by the complete soundtrack. The production design too is exceptional and the many scenes in Little Tokyo have a convincing ring of truth. Actor Stan Egi as Lily’s brother Charlie, also deserves mention. His transition from loyal American to anti-American Japanese nationalist is impressive. I only wish his change from one to the other had been better supported by the script.

For those who know little about this dark episode in America’s history, Come See the Paradise will fill in some of the blanks. I would also point out the more recent American Pastime by Japanese-American writer-director Desmond Nakano.

Herbivorous Boys

Once in a while a story or feature article about Japan will appear from one of the new services, that while probably stirring some interest about the society or culture, more than anything else propagates yet another myth about the Land of the Rising Sun. This morning I came across another of those features on CNN, a piece written by a Japanese university student; the article is clearly enough well-written in terms of the student’s English skill. The problem lies in the whitewashing of a sleazy business, the painting of a picture that is somewhere south of reality.

It is a piece focusing on young Japanese men who work in bars as hosts providing companionship to ladies. These men are the other side of a coin, counterparts to the young ladies who do the same work as hostesses in nightclubs. The CNN article focuses only on the men and paints a picture of them that is not altogether accurate. The writer has mixed up his types and gotten bar boy hosts mixed up with ‘scouts’ who accost pretty girls on the street with an offer of work hosting in a club. Bottom line is, the scout is hoping to lure girls into work a lot less tame than providing a pretty presence for men having a few drinks after work. The ultimate hook in this business is eventual participation in pornographic films.

The young men who work as hosts in this or that club are not—as the CNN article suggests—the ones who stand on the street calling out to passing girls. True, they may at times stand in front of the club as attractive bait for the ladies, but consistent with the soft unmanly appearance of these hosts, they don’t badger women as the more aggressive scouts do.

There is in this article an overall reshaping of facts to present what non-Japanese can interpret as something more wholesome than the truth, as a line of work any mother’s son could be proud of. By and large, the host or hostess business is one acted out in shadowy rooms with questionable motives. The writer for CNN has given an accurate picture of the heavy drinking and late hours that define this type of work. He is also on target in his description of customers picking their host from a photo menu. But the picture gets a little too rosy when the talk comes to ‘pursuing a long-term career in this profession’ and the great gift of being able to meet many people. The writer continues, explaining that ‘…the host’s dedication in flirting with women is solely motivated by their pure kindness to help them escape from their tedious realities and let them have some special fun. It’s like a gift in return to the large contribution these women have given to their store sales.’ This must be a joke. The talk of a host’s struggle, his endurance, might be more believable if everyone involved didn’t label these hosts as here today, gone tomorrow boy-toys.

The most interesting part of this CNN CityPulse feature is the brief mention of what has come to be called sôshokukei, or ‘herbivorous boys.’ This is a growing phenomenon in Japanese society, and one that is interesting, if nothing else. The term, sôshokukei refers to men who cultivate soft, feminine qualities, and have backed off from active pursuit of women. One shouldn’t automatically label these men as gay, though it no doubt includes a number who are, and thankful that the sôshokukei tag provides a pseudo camouflage in a country where ‘coming out’ is still frowned upon.

Japan has in recent years seen an increase in the sale of male cosmetics, sundries and sweets, and a decrease in the sale of more ‘macho’ things like cigarettes, alcohol and flashy cars. The word sôshokukei was coined in 2007 by writer Maki Fukasawa. A 2008 book by another writer, having the humorous title, Herbivorous Ladylike Men are Changing Japan caught on, and splashed the ‘herbivorous’ term all over the media. Here are some characteristics listed by the writer: These men are fashion conscious and eat lightly in order to wear skintight clothes; they are close to their mothers and enjoy shopping together; not interested in dating girls, in relationships, or even sex, choosing self-help sex toys instead; many cannot go out without perfect hair and nails.

The writer of this book, Megumi Ushikubo, estimates that sixty percent of Japanese men today, aged 20-34 fall into this herbivorous ladylike category of men. It is no secret that a surprising number of Japanese women are attracted to this type of man, and that surely has a lot to do with why so many of the club hosts have the soft, girlish look associated with the sôshokukei boys.

If you have an idea of going to Japan to meet a Japanese Marlboro Man, your search could be a long one.

Click here to read the CNN article.

Desktop Demise

This past Monday my old iMac began showing some ominous symptoms, signs which in my experience didn’t bode well. Despite its decrepitude (a seven year-old hard run machine) I wasn’t too eager to add my contribution to the Apple coffers, figuring there were other things the price of a new computer could be channeled into. So, I called up my meager technical skills in a last ditch effort to staunch the drain of life from my old, dependable standby. But those skills were not enough, and I watched late Monday as the final curtain literally came down on the iMac screen. A slowly descending curtain of transparent gray scrolled down the screen, and a message window struggled through to suggest restarting the computer. But I knew the life blood was running thin and at last ebb, that a restart would raise no heartbeat. Sayônara old friend.

On Tuesday morning I put up a post on this blog using the MacBook Pro laptop, then got out my thinning wallet and called the Apple Store. I considered it a good sign that the store rep I spoke to had the same name as Apple co-founder, Steve Wozniak. The guy (unrelated to the Apple “Woz”) has probably sold a hundred or more Apple computers, still I felt a little bit special buying a new iMac from someone with a name so meaningful in Apple history.

Whether the Apple rep’s name had any significance or not, no one short of Steve Jobs could ask for better service than I got. My order for a new iMac was processed after 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday; the computer was delivered to my door at 11:30 Thursday morning. In other words, it took forty-one hours for my order to be processed, shipped and delivered to my door. In this case, I believe the computer shipped from Pennsylvania. Mr Wozniak, the Apple Store sales rep is in Austin, Texas. Pretty good service by anyone’s standards.

With this iMac I didn’t exactly experience the ‘plug and play’ claim Apple has long made, but that was the fault of no one. I spent an hour running around looking for a new connector cable for my external backup drive. It was essential to copy the files from the deceased iMac onto its successor, and that’s easy enough provided your Firewire plug fits into the slot on the new computer. But standards have changed, so I had to drive to Daytona for an adapter cable.

Once the new iMac was up and running with all the transferred files and system settings—thanks to Apple’s terrific Time Machine software—I ran into problems with the Photoshop Essentials software and spent two hours on the phone with Adobe tech support in New Delhi.

But there is now new, vibrant and lightning fast widescreen life on my work table and I feel the exhilaration. Especially thrilled with the HD resolution of the iMac screen. What a huge difference in the screen resolution of then and now.