Ihara Saikaku

 Notes on Ihara Saikaku's "Confessions of a Sensuous Woman"

                                                                                 

Ihara Saikaku is producing what we might call a form of literature for the merchant class or the bourgeoisie – this kind of art is interested in common culture and common people.  What drives most folks?  Love and money, and in some cases desire for more influence in some sphere of life.  I suppose this is a sort of literature that doesn't always aim to elevate so much as to entertain, to reflect the mores and manners of the people back to them in a realistic way.  Critic and translator Howard Hibbett calls such work "cheerfully indecent," which sounds about right.

The Genróku Era (1675-1725, hard g as in "Gary") within the Edo or Tokyo Period, as Hibbett explains, occurs during the long Tokugawa Samurai Shogunate (1603-1867), and I'd say Genroku's ukiyo-zoshi (tales of the Floating World) have something of the Regency flavor about them, retailing for ordinary people the pleasures of the ukiyo (you-kée-oh), or floating world of transitory pleasures: courtesans, actors, red-light-district panderers, rakes, dandies, shopkeepers and their brats and vain spouses are the stars of this kind of literature.  The merchant classes or Chonin were pretty low on the scale of things in the feudal Shogunate, but of course that ranking affords one a kind of freedom due to the contempt of the beautiful people.  But the Shogun edicts couldn't really deal with the mercantilist wealth that people like Saikaku were building up in places like Osaka, Edo, and the capital Kyoto.  Japan's Shogunate had become rather insular, not really threatened by the outside world: stasis led to luxury for certain classes.  Refined hedonism, in other words, carpe diem but not stupidly so.  These were fashionable people: parvenus showing a creative mixture of aristocratic and plebeian tastes.  Hibbett describes the glittery nostalgia for this period as something of an illusion since the political culture was actually repressive, but the illusion was a powerful one with a lot of resonance even today.  To me, the society of the floating world seems rather like modern-day hipsterism.

Well, this is popular literature of a sort we are probably all familiar with -- enjoyable but not to be taken as high culture.  There's really nothing new about the phenomenon of racy popular literature -- they had that stuff in ancient Greece and Rome.  Ever read an early romance novel like the Roman author Apuleius' The Golden Ass, or The Satyricon of Petronius?  Then there was racy drama like the comedies of Aristophanes, which was topical and bawdy.  I suppose every age is modern to itself -- we like to think the things we do, the things we read, and so forth, are entirely new, but often that isn't the case.  Except maybe for those fancy phones everybody has nowadays -- until we discover some early version of an iPhone buried with a mummy in an Egyptian tomb, we're safe on that front.

Anyhow, the novel by Apuleius is a decent example because somehow, the book's crazy plot in which a man is transformed into an ass ends up taking a religious turn, and the rehumanized protagonist takes holy vows to the mystic Egyptian goddess Isis.  So he's first transformed into an animal, and then undergoes a spiritual transformation.  Point is, what seemed silly or ephemeral can end on a higher, more spiritual note, and that's what the present Saikaku story does.  The female protagonist has lived her life as one erotic adventure or scenario after another -- frankly, she has been taken advantage of quite a lot, aside from having what sound like reciprocal affairs -- and finally, at the point of suicide, a former lover leads her to take up Buddhist meditation in a secluded place, and that practice has endowed her with serenity as she nears the end of her life.

As for her being taken advantage of, that leads me to another main observation: our protagonist has apparently always been something of an outsider even when she was an insider.  The story portrays various walks of life, from the royal court to life as a mistress to a domain lord, to Buddhist temple life, and there's a seamy, steamy side to all of it.  She is different, quirky -- that gets her thrown out of her original situation.  And to an extent, I think, she remains an outsider to her surroundings and situations even as she takes part in the life of the places she inhabits.  One gets that sense that she could never find a permanent home in any role, in any place -- the circumstances would always change, she would change, something would impel her on her way again, whether to better or worse fortune.  That's probably what makes her a sympathetic figure -- the sense of wistfulness, of not fitting in and yet being driven by desires of her own.  But it's a Buddhist lesson, too -- are we really supposed to fall in love with the pleasures of this world?  No, of course not. 

Furthermore, it's worth making a point about identity as represented in literary texts.  We like to say that earlier authors treat the individual and individual desire differently than we children of the romantics do, and it's fair enough to point out that the kind of thing Saikaku is describing is relegated to fairly lowbrow status.  But there's a broader inference to be drawn.  I was just teaching Chaucer yesterday, and as usual, I pointed out that the medieval western self was represented as something like the sum total of one's social-rank-based obligations and relations -- identity was talked about as emerging from a web of such collective or corporate obligations and relations.  Yes, true enough, but that probably doesn't mean each individual felt this way about who they were -- so call me an essentialist, but I suspect that individualism is just part of humanity's basic set of drives.  And I also suspect that literary makers of representations -- writers of drama, poetry, fiction, whatever -- have always known as much and have carried that insight into their representations of life, at least to the extent allowed by the conventions and expectations of the day.  I've read ancient Egyptian love and slice-of-life poems at least in translation, and they come across as thoroughly modern in the way that I'm talking about.  Who knew that to "walk like an Egyptian" wasn't so different from walking like a modern?  But leaving that aside, let's go on to make some limited observations about the text….

An Old Woman's Hermitage (593-94)

593-94.  Our selection starts with the comment that sounds cut from misogynist tradition: "A beautiful woman, many ages have agreed, is an ax that cuts down a man's life." That may be a ruse to generate sympathy for the eventual female narrator, but I can't be certain.  Anyhow, it is spring sometime during the reign of Emperor Gohanazono (1419-71), and the initial frame narrator is out and about.  He sees a couple of well-dressed young men and hears them talking about love matters.  One of them is sickly and pale, and the other looks healthier.  But the one who is sickly can't get enough of love and wants to keep right on going, while the other would like to retreat and take better care of himself so he can live to a ripe old age.  These two men take remarkably different approaches to life -- one is all about "sensual pleasure," while the other wants to live as a hermit.  Neither goal seems realistic, as the narrator says. 

The business of young folk wearing themselves out in erotic adventures sounds preposterous, a matter of pure convention.  In Shakespeare's comedy As You Like it, Orlando says he'll die if he doesn't get his Rosalind's love, and Rosalind (disguised as the boy page Ganymede) says, "Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love" (4.1.429).  But then, silly notions about this stuff abound.  Consider the Seinfeld episode in which the supposed gender-effects of not "getting any" are registered in Jerry's pals Elaine Benes and George Costanza.  George goes without for a while and gains about fifty IQ points -- he's even doing scientific experiments -- while Lanie turns into a mushy, blithering fool until she finds a man.  She can't concentrate, can't think.  I don't know if either assumption has any truth in it, but the episode was funny.

From curiosity, the male narrator follows the two young blades on their travels and ends up eavesdropping on them at the woodsy home of an old woman who still retains some of her former beauty.

594.  This old woman lives in a rustic hut and, from this point on, she speaks in her own voice.  The young men explain to her that they would appreciate some advice about love, seeing that she is so experienced.  A little bit of alcohol and music, and she is ready to tell her long, wistful story.  Her parentage was mixed between commoner and aristocrat, and she was blessed with more than common beauty.  While serving a courtly lady in Kyoto, she learned the elegant ways of the aristocratic class, and even, she tells us, invented a fine hairstyle that became all the rage in Kyoto, first amongst the upper classes and then with ordinary women as well.

595.  Still as a young girl at court, she began to become aroused by all the lovemaking around her and desired to do the same herself.  Men began to pay attention to her, and a young samurai in the employ of the aristocracy caught her heart with his writing skills.  But they were discovered, and she was dumped at the roadside while he was executed.  So that is the first disaster in her long life, thanks to an erotic adventure.

595-96.  At the end of 595, the narrator says, "I was very young when I learned about love.  I was still a flower in bud, you could say.  And after that I had so many experiences that the pure water of my mind turned completely the color of sensuous love…."  And she says further, "I just followed my desires wherever they went – and I ruined myself.  The water will never be clear again."  Well, a question that arises here, and in the story more generally, is the extent to which people can assert any control over their sexuality, whether they can at least use their desires to shape their destiny, or whether they have little or no control over the affairs of the heart.  I believe we will find at least a partial answer towards the tale's end.

Mistress of a Domain Lord (596-99)

596-99.  Now our female narrator meets the expectations of a domain lord – which is no small order because his expectations are ridiculous (597 2/3).  So she goes to Edo/Tokyo and lives happily and luxuriously for a while at this point, but at the chapter's end she says, "women, you know, are very basic creatures.  They just can't forget about physical love, even though warriors have very strict rules for keeping women and men apart" (599).  The man she has become attached to is unable to satisfy her or get her pregnant, but continues to have relations with her.  Unfortunately, but predictably, she is blamed for his deteriorating physical condition and is then dismissed back to her parents. 

A Monk's Wife in a Worldly Temple (599-602)

601.  Our narrator next plays the part of a very young girl and ends up becoming something like a cross-dressing page to satisfy the lusts of the Buddhist monks in a particular temple.  In time, the head priest of one of the temples takes a liking to her and she becomes his "temporary wife" for three years in exchange for much silver, but soon enough, things take a bad turn.  The temple is becoming rich and the monks, she says, are "losing all restraint."  They're doing everything Buddhist monks are not supposed to be doing.  As for her, she ends up having to satisfy this "disgusting priest" constantly, but finally gets used to this routine and even supposedly comes to enjoy it.  So this is part of the portrait we are given – a corrupt Buddhist temple.

602.  The old priest gradually stops locking his temporary bride in at night, and she meets an elderly woman who had also been the lover of this priest.  He has mistreated the woman very badly, so our gal can see her fate in this old woman's eyes.  She feigns pregnancy, and that alone gets the priest to dump her.  Free at last!

A Teacher of Calligraphy and Manners (603-05) 

603-05.  Some nice people help the young woman open up a calligraphy school for girls.  At last, she seems happy with her lot.  That is, until a young man shows up asking her to write a passionate series of letters to a woman who won't pay any attention to him.  Our narrator falls in love with this man and makes a direct play for his affection, but soon enough he reveals his true self, and it isn't pretty.  He goes for her proposition to love her instead of this coldhearted woman he's pursuing, but rudely tells her that he has no money; she must expect nothing from him.  This man forces himself on her, but she wins: her revenge against this "idiot" is to have sex with him until she wears him out.

A Stylish Woman Who Brought Disaster (605-08) 

605-08.  The young lady is now working as a messenger for the wife of a domain lord in Tokyo.  She sees aristocratic women playing a game of kickball, which she considers striking, but it's an old tradition that comes from China.  As usual we notice just how allusive a lot of Eastern literature is – it's very aware of historical and literary precedent.  This section is about the power of jealousy to ruin a person's life, and it tells the story of a "jealousy party" in which a number of aristocratic women vent their frustrations and anger about various people.  As for a lady-in-waiting named Sodegaki, her ruling passion is none other than jealousy.  She is unattractive and becomes infuriated with one of her husband's lovers.  So she takes out this frustration on a life-sized doll, but the doll magically seems to come to life (608).  The episode drives Sodegaki to distraction, and the whole thing ends up estranging the woman from her husband.  The lesson: "Jealousy is something you must never, never give in to.  Women should be very careful to resist it" (608).

Five Hundred Disciples of the Buddha -- I'd Known Them All (609-11) 

609-11.  There are moments in this story when you may wonder if this and other Floating World literature is a bit like those ridiculous porno flicks from the 1970s -- you know, films that dressed up their smut-peddling core with a veil of supposedly redemptive emplotment.  ("But Your Honor, our orgy-themed film is a public service: we're just exploring a fascinating aspect of ancient Roman life -- See? our actors wore togas for the first three minutes of the film!")  But seriously, what might seem like a thin cover for matters lewd and lurid turns out, I believe, to be spiritually redemptive.  As the old woman beholds the statues of 500 Buddhist devotees, she recognizes in them many of her old lovers.  Perhaps her present recollection of this moment for the young men who have come to visit her is the lady's way of turning her past erotic affairs (miserable and pleasurable alike) into a tender recognition that everything she's done thus far has led her to the righteous path she now treads.  Upon reflection, I found this part of the story touching.  The same goes for the event following the recognition she describes: she determined, she says, to commit suicide and thereby leave all the bad memories behind: "I made up my mind to pray, enter the water, and be reborn in the Pure Land" (611).  But another former intimate stops her, and tells her to take a better course: "Meditate and enter the way of the Buddha."  We are to understand that she has done so, and Saikaku ends the story with the emblem of the lotus flower of the heart, signifying the hope, as the notes say, that a person can remain pure of spirit in the midst of corruption and sin.  The attractions of the Floating World pass, but the heart abides.  And the answer to the "control" question I had raised?  Well, I think the implied answer is that something was guiding the lady even when she didn't know it -- she sought pleasure and sometimes security, but in her search for what is transitory and ultimately impossible, she found something else, something that is neither transitory nor impossible.  I think this "something else" is enlightenment.  The world may have its way with you, but it cannot destroy your spirit, and redemption is always possible.  As in any variety of Buddhism, "letting go" and "letting happen" are the way:  she cannot change her past, but she doesn't have to, and now she knows that.  Do the young fellows who sought her advice in matters of the heart understand?  We don't know.