Usurper of the Sun
Usurper of the Sun
Nojiri Housuke
I am slowly working my way through the Haikasoru catalog, as quickly as the library here adds titles. Their most recent acquisition is Nojiri Housuke’s Usurper of the Sun, an expansion of three earlier short stories. The original short story won a Seiun Award in 2000, the book won a second Seiun in 2002. It is one of the first novels that Haikasoru published, and more to my taste than some of their other titles. Why? Because Usurper is the first full-on Hard SF I have read from Japan. No anime, no otaku, no giant robots, no tentacles, just a bunch of scientists and a big mysterious object. It’s probably not the only Hard SF out from Haikasoru, but it’s the only one I’ve found so far.
Nojiri mixes and matches his science throughout. His BMO is a thin ring that blooms out of Mercury, blocking an increasing amount of Earthbound sunlight on its eventual way to becoming a Dyson sphere. Earth is plunged into a catastrophic freeze as scientists worldwide struggle to figure out why the ring is there, who put it on Mercury on the first place, what it is supposed to do, and how humanity is to survive the seeming assault from the stars. The book touches on astronomy (of course), the nature of AI and consciousness, nanotech, first contact and alien communications, climatology, and a bit of the softer sciences as we watch Earth dismantle itself in panic. I have to confess that some of the discussion of introverted and extroverted consciousness sailed above my head, but I caught just enough for the conclusion to make sense. This is Hard SF, so the science is the focus as much as, or more than, the characters, but that’s kind of a subgenre given at this point.
Usurper differs a bit from other Japanese SF I have read in the general exclusion of Japan. The main character, Aki Shiraishi, is Japanese, but she spends most of her time in California, in Texas, or in space. Her interactions are also primarily with Westerners, so thematically there is very little to differentiate Usurper from any other science fiction. This is not a critique of course, just an observation. In the real world, any large scale space effort would be based in the United States as a matter of economic course, so it is entirely natural that Nojiri’s book would also spend most of its time dealing with the US, the EU, and the UN. There are however two points that stand out, though whether they are intentional or just a product of cultural background noise is not a question I am prepared to answer.
There are two responses to the aliens trying to, er, usurp the sun. Many see it as a preemptive attack on humanity, or at the very least blithely ignorant genocide, and agitate to fight back. Others frame it as a big misunderstanding and push for a peaceful first contact. Even if this is a misunderstanding in the same way that, say, the Great Leap Forward was a multi-million fatality economic misunderstanding, it is obvious that the aliens are so technologically superior that “war” would probably be more like “swatting gnats.” “Not so!” argue the militants. “We could probably get a good lick or two in. Besides, we might as well go down fighting.” The pacifists are not convinced by any of this reasoning and take their own steps towards talking with the aliens. Considering the nationality of the writer, I will give readers exactly one guess as to which countries take each position. Give up? Here’s a hint: George W. Bush had just taken over the White House when Usurper was published. (To be fair, this was pre-9/11, so the Invade Iraq drumbeat had yet to begin. Still, we Americans had been seen as warmongers for many, many years before toppling Saddam.)
The second point could be entirely of my own imagining. Midst the discussion of consciousness, there is a lot about minds focused entirely inward, uncommunicative because they either don’t notice or don’t care about anything outside. I don’t think it spoils anything too much to say that the aliens blocking out the sun’s light are doing so because they feel this way about Earth and its inhabitants (or don’t feel, as the case may be). I wonder if Nojiri isn’t offering subtle commentary about Japan, a nation often accused of being uninterested in the outside world and overly focused on itself. I could be making this up, especially in light of recent domestic media hysteria about Japan’s insularity. Still, this is hardly a new topic and I think there are certainly comparisons that can be made. Japan isn’t actively harming anyone else right now (that I know of), but how much more good could the Japanese be doing if they turned outward a little more and engaged the rest of the world? This was the message that lingered for me after I turned the last page; I probably owe it to myself to dig into some Japanese reviews of the book to see if anyone else thought so. Perhaps this is a project for later.
Beyond these messages, Usurper is pretty typical Hard SF. Lots of science, lots of talking about science, a mix of respect for and distrust of the military, awkward romance, and partially developed characters, usually engaged in science. The reader’s reaction to this book will depend almost entirely on preconceived notions of Hard SF; non-fans will probably want to skip it. Anime fans may come away disappointed unless their minds are open to a little more science than giant robots provide. Those who prefer Clarke, Benford, or Niven will likely enjoy Nojiri’s book more than other, squishier Haikasoru titles. I’m a huge fan of both first contact and big mysterious objects, so I hope that more of this sort makes it into English. I’ll be the first to read and review it when it does.
Rating: The Kashima Antlers. Clinical and efficient, they are Japan’s most successful club team.
10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights
10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights
Mitsuse Ryu
Just for fun, I went to the SF community on Mixi (Japan’s largest social network) and asked, “Is this book really the greatest Japanese SF novel ever? Because the publisher here says it is.” I failed to kick up a hornet’s nest, but did get a general admission that, “Greatest” or not, it’s certainly one of the most revered and influential SF books to come out of the country. (The ensuing discussion also inexplicably prompted someone to call me, roughly, an “ill-mannered poser.”) In that sense, 10 Billion Days is rather like Japan’s Dune or Foundation, which makes reviewing it slightly intimidating. It also means that, as a self appointed ambassador of Japanese fiction, I’m under that much more pressure to deliver a profound and life-altering review.
The basis of any claim that 10 Billion Days is the greatest anything is this poll from 2006, where the readers of SF Magazine (a Japanese publication) voted on the best stuff. My Japanese sources countered with the 1998 poll, which swapped numbers one and two. This is an annual poll, but our assumption is that 10 Billion Days is going to feature in the top five or so every year, much the way there is a general consensus here on the “best” five or ten SFF novels. It’s also one of only a few in the top twenty that have been translated into English, other high ranking books including Japan Sinks and Yukikaze.
10 Billion Days defies easy description. It begins with the emergence of life on Earth and sprints in 250 pages to the end of the universe, with a cast consisting almost entirely of prophets and deities. Plato and Pilate are the main exceptions here, but mostly we’re dealing with Jesus, Siddhartha, Maitreya, and Asura. (The latter two are Buddhist and Hindu divinities, respectively.) One should not expect a strict historical reconstruction of any of these, nor any sort of reverence toward the religions they are associated with. I can’t say anything about Hindus or Buddhists, but I’m pretty sure a large number of Christians would be angry about Mitsuse’s Jesus. This is not to accuse Mitsuse of writing an atheist hatchet piece, because I don’t think that’s his purpose. His story requires giants striding across the landscape, so these are the characters he chooses. That they are also cyborgs is entirely beside the point.
To summarize the plot would basically spoil the book. Suffice it to say that it involves the above mentioned characters, something called The Planetary Development Committee, Atlantis, Andromeda and the Milky Way crashing into each other, extinct civilizations, warring Hindu gods, Jesus as a killer cyborg, and the end of the universe. After finishing the book, I had to just sit there for awhile, trying to make sense of it all. 10 Billion Days demands reflection and leisurely consumption, rather than frantic page turning. It reminds me somewhat of reading the Old Testament, with its cold and distant narrative voice, the sudden and jarring leaps through time and space, and the patchy sense of history and myth. Likewise it is dense prose, with each sentence crafted for maximum economy and impact, and multiple meanings packed into each phrase. I’m going to have to read this again someday, because I am certain that I missed plenty the first time through.
Reading early on, I thought that 10 Billion Days didn’t feel much like a Japanese book, or at least not compared to a lot of the contemporary stuff that Haikasoru publishes. It lacks the distinct character interaction that immediately identifies Japanese human relations and gives no nod to anime culture. (To be fair, there wasn’t anime culture as we know it when this was originally published.) By the end though, it was very clear that this is not a book that could have been written in the West. Without rampant spoilage (I hope), I want to point out the differences. I periodically refer here to the David Brin theory of SF and Fantasy, which is that they are basically extensions of the Enlightenment and the Romantic Movement, respectively. The first looks to a brighter future, brought about through Science, while the second looks toward an idealized past, which we must return to for redemption. (That’s a bit oversimplified.) The key to both of these is our effort, which brings about one or another form of salvation.
What we don’t see here in the West is a third way of looking at things, an idea that comes from, among others, Buddhism and the Yoga Sutra. These philosophies stress the lack of action, of finding peace through acceptance of things as they are. “Desire is the root of unhappiness” is the most often seen aphorism in these Eastern traditions, so the focus is not on improving things through one’s own efforts, but on sidestepping unhappiness through the elimination of the appetites that bring dissatisfaction. Max Weber’s striving Protestants would find this incomprehensible. 10 Billion Days is suffused with this ethic, especially as the book ends. [Some spoilers to follow, in as vague a way as I can.]
I don’t think that a Western author, especially an American, could write the end of 10 Billion Days. An American would most likely set up one side as Evil, or at least as a clear antagonist, and provide the viewpoint character some way to overcome that Evil. There would be a resolution, there would be an improvement of the character’s situation, and there would be effort expended in some way for people to help themselves. Mitsuse thinks not. There is a Japanese term, shikata ga nai, that poorly translates to “it can’t be helped.” We don’t have good words for it in English, because it is a mindset with which we are unfamiliar. To say shikata ga nai means to accept that something can’t be changed and to move forward by mutual agreement, with the understanding that whatever unchanging thing it is will be accepted as a given. This is not just things like gravity, or the Earth’s rotation, or other such inevitability, but it extends to places that we Americans might say, “Wait, let’s not accept that, let’s improve it!” The end of 10 Billion Days is an end-of-the-universe-sized shikata ga nai. It is the ultimate expression of acceptance and resignation, of denying desire in an attempt to find peace. I suspect that it would be wildly unsatisfying for a reader who can’t wrap his head around this way of seeing the world.
What about those of us who are somewhat accustomed to this worldview? I almost feel like I won’t be qualified to pass judgment on this one until I’ve read it a couple more times, pondered deeply its truths, and emerged a much older, wiser man. Still, there are a few things I can say. The book’s narrative tone is somewhat standoffish, as though Mitsuse is keeping us at bay while he recites his tale. He gives us hints of the characters and their worlds, occasional flashes of intense action or vivid description, and stretches of frigid mystery. The outlines are sharp, but scarce, leaving fleeting impressions of forces and personalities beyond our comprehension. Even the viewpoint characters are finally unknowable, to say nothing of grander forces manipulating them. With some authors, this would be a flaw, a mark of poorly thought out or executed writing, but with Mitsuse, this seems to be exactly what he intended. We are left at the end with a sense of mystery and wonder intact, knowing that something amazing is happening, but not grasping it completely.
This may be because Mitsuse understands that the payoff in these things rarely matches our expectations. This is a wise dodge, but the overall effect leaves 10 Billion Days similar to The Book of Judges, or perhaps 1st Samuel. For a final, pithy summation of the book, I’m torn between the mystery and philosophy on one hand, and the lack of engagement on the other. It was a haunting read, one that will no doubt hover in the darker corners of my mind, but it wasn’t very much fun while I read it. One can’t go wrong though, with a book that contains the line, “Siddhartha was acutely aware that as long as Jesus of Nazareth was alive, this could be a trap.”
Rating: This is a massive reach, but perhaps Leeds United? The universe ends in 10 Billion Days, Leeds taking their top ranked form and nosediving into League One was pretty much like the end of the universe for them. Not that 10 Billion Days has anything in common with a despicable club like Leeds.
Jali.net
Jali.net
Today’s post is more informational than critical. A mysterious Frenchman in Kyoto clued me in to Jali.net (Japan Literature) a couple of weeks ago, so I have been reading the stories. The website features English short stories by four authors, two of whom write science fiction. It is a good way to give Japanese SF a try, especially for those who don’t want to take a gamble buying a book and lack the massive library system that I have at my disposal.
The website itself appears to be run by Hori Akira, a well-regarded Japanese SF author. His partner in crime is none other than Tsutsui Yasutaka, whom we have already met here and here. (The link to Tsutsui’s page doesn’t work off the English home page and requires digging through the Japanese pages. For the sake of simplicity, it is here.) Kobayashi Kyoji and Usui Yuji contribute non-genre stories. It looks rather like Hori created the page in the late 1990s and hasn’t paid much attention to the English side. There is a certain, shall we say, retro look to it all, but at least the broken links aren’t accompanied by blinking text, frames, or self-playing MIDI files. (Wasn’t the Internet great back in the day?) I haven’t spent too much time with the Japanese pages, but people seem to be updating their blogs, so it isn’t a complete ghost town.
As for the stories, Hori contributes one, which I believe to be his only available translation. I have searched for others, but nothing has turned up – if anyone knows better, please tell me. Tsutsui has posted several, some of which have appeared in the books linked to above. Several are new to me, but all of the stories are typical Tsutsui. He is a strange man with a strange view of the world. “The Last of the Smokers” or “How to Sleep” might be the best introductions, the latter offering a particularly demented payoff for those who keep with what seems like a needlessly bizarre and OCD narrative. It would be nice if there were more stories and authors available, but considering that this is all a volunteer effort, I can’t complain.
So despite the straight outta Internet Compton feel of the site, there’s no good reason not to click on the link above and try out a story or two. It may pique the reader’s curiosity or may turn him off completely. Regardless, it is an easy way to try something new.
Dragon Sword and Wind Child
Dragon Sword and Wind Child
Ogiwara Noriko
I am not the target demographic for this book. I checked it out because it’s a Haikasoru book, it’s fantasy based in ancient Japan rather than ancient Europe, and I rationalized that maybe my daughter would enjoy it if I read it aloud to her. My daughter never made it past the first chapter, but I gave it a shot on my own despite my general reluctance to mess with YA fantasy. The bad news is that this is definitely YA and pretty clearly the author’s first book. The good news is that Dragon Sword and Wind Child (DSWC) is not nearly as targeted towards adolescent girls as it initially seems, and that the author manages to be rather inventive with the material at hand.
The big draw here is of course the setting. DSWC is built around Japanese legends, most strongly the story of the Goddess Ameterasu as recorded in the Kojiki, one of Japan’s core historical/ legendary volumes. Ogiwara has naturally changed it around a bit, but the foundation for whole tale lies in a well-known ancient myth. Er, well-known to the Japanese, that is. This isn’t the Japan of Kurosawa samurai movies, nor is it even the time traveling historical fantasy of The Lord of the Sands of Time. In fact, Ogiwara is vague through most of the book as to whether or not the characters are romping through ancient Japan, or just some fantasy world where everybody just looks like they’re from Japan. (Rather like how much high fantasy is in a world named, to pull something out of my behind, Ereboran and all the inhabitants are named Sir Brian of Helmslee and just happen to act like Europeans circa 1257 AD. Ho there churlish knave, and all that.) I think at the end though, she commits herself to Japan’s actual geography, though this raises questions of just who exactly is in danger. Will the whole world be destroyed? Or just a relatively small island part of it? These quibbles aside, Ogiwara’s Japan reminded me most of Princess Mononoke.
DSWC came first, however, so I wonder if Miyazaki isn’t influenced by it (and its sequels). After all, the authors share many common themes: strong young women as protagonists, a deep connection to nature and the environment, backdrops formed from disparate elements of ancient Japan, and complicated views of good and evil. This actually occurred to me just five minutes ago, almost two weeks after finishing the novel, and has just changed the status of Ogiwara’s sequels from “Maybe check out some time” to “I’d better look into this further.”
The next bits are somewhat spoilerific, as I want to dig into the best parts of the story. The heart of the plot is, of course, the eternal struggle between Light and Dark. Light is represented by Prince Tsukishiro and Princess Teruhi, immortal warriors of the God of Light, forever young and beautiful, and tireless generals in the Army of Light. Dark is a ragtag bunch of rebels, hold-outs, frontiersmen, and other followers of Earth Goddess. Light is pure, clean, white, and disconnected from the grubby reality of ancient life. Dark moves with the rhythm of the earth, lives in the forests and fields, and is alright with a little bit of mud. The world is sundered between the two because of the split that came between the God of Light and the Earth Goddess long ago, part of the Ameterasu myth that forms the foundation of the story.
DSWC stands out from the crowd of YA fantasy because Ogiwara doesn’t just flip the identity of good and evil, she detaches these two adjectives from the battling sides. Dark is clearly the sympathetic faction; they are indeed “right,” but neither side is entirely “wrong.” This paves the way for a resolution that is more of a reconciliation than a triumph, since what the two sides need is communication and understanding, rather than subjugation. This, I would argue, is a very Japanese way of approaching a problem, in contrast to a more Western tendency to overcome evil, not negotiate with it. (Which is itself a reflection of the Christian affinity for Manichean conflict, rather than a more nuanced view of clashing ideas which are ultimately connected in ways not readily apparent.)
Looking over what I’ve written, it occurs to me that, while I may not be giving Ogiwara too much credit per se, I am certainly reading more into the story than its intended audience would. This is still YA, there’s still a lot of fluttery hearts and the discovery of true love, a gaggle of youth bearing some grave destiny that they can’t run away from, and teens learning to be happy with who they are, even if that identity happens to include a homicidal dragon or the power to quell angry nature gods. I have long since learned to love me for me, so large portions of The Message induced eye rolling rather than productive introspection. To the author’s credit, though, every time I started to cringe at the teen girl conversations, Ogiwara pulled back from the precipice of cattiness and returned the story to more respectable topics, like war or angry gods.
DSWC shows many of the signs of a first novel. There are some questionable pacing decisions, visible seams between parts of the plot, and an ending that feels a bit too pat. In fact, I am starting to realize just how difficult a solid ending is to write. Rhythmic irregularity and coherent plot strand connections are challenging for a veritable plethora of more experienced authors, so I don’t fault Ogiwara too heavily here. Still, everything seemed a little too happy for me, considering the violence and drama leading into the finale. I am also baffled somewhat at her reluctance to pull the trigger on certain characters that deserved worse, while others got the ax in jarring fashion, but that may just be a reflection of the injustice of real life. Technical issues aside, it’s probably just as well that I didn’t read this to my daughter – Wind in the Willows it is not. At least, not unless I missed some violent deaths, suicidal harem maidens, and a fleeting moment of icky incest on my last read that particular classic.
Trying to condense all of this into a recommendation paragraph is tricky. DSWC would be a good place for anime fans to first dig into Japanese writing, since that group is likely more forgiving of the technical flaws and general adolescent vibe, but would enjoy the Japanese-ness of it all. (Shrine maidens! Kimonos! Koi ponds!) Sci-fi and fantasy grognards like me will probably look askance at the emoting and Destiny, but appreciate the unconventional (by our standards) setting and mythical foundation, as well as Ogiwara’s willingness to toy with our expectations of Good and Evil. John Ringo fanboys should probably move on down the line; there’s nothing to see here.
Rating: A U-17 championship match. Some quality and a lot of potential on display, but ultimately limited by the players’ age and experience.
The Best Japanese Science Fiction Stories
The Best Japanese Science Fiction Stories
Ed. John Apostolou and Martin Greenberg
I probably should have started with this anthology. Anyone taking a methodical approach to foreign writing is well served by digging into broad overviews like the one Apostolu has put together, but my course has been anything but methodical. I am finally getting this Japan thing in gear though; hopefully it leads to more coherent and informative reviews. But enough about me, let’s talk about Japanese SF short stories. This post will be more descriptive than analytical, which is something I normally shy away from. In this case however, explaining a bit about what the stories are and who wrote them will lay the foundation for some later writing that digs more deeply.
First, the basics. The Best Japanese Science Fiction Stories, hereafter TBJSFS, is thirteen stories written by ten different authors that were originally published in between 1963 and 1989. (Six from the 1980s, five from the 1970s, one from the 1960s, and one unlisted.) The so-called Big Three of Japanese SF, Hanmura Ryo, Hoshi Shinichi, and Komatsu Sakyo, each get two stories. The godfather of Japanese SF, Yano Tetsuya, contributes the last story. Abe Kobo, an author perhaps familiar to some for books like Woman in the Dunes, presents the first story. Another major author, Tsutsui Yasutaka is also present, but there are several names I am surprised not to see, among them Mitsuse Ryu. (Mitsuse is the author of Ten Billion Days and One Hundred Billion Nights, which has been called the best Japanese SF novel ever. I will post a review here as soon as I can get my hands on the brand new English translation.) I was familiar with Abe’s literary output from university days, while reviews of Komatsu and Tsutsui are here and here, respectively. These are the first stories I’ve read by the other seven, even though I recognized several names. There is also a short reading list of Japanese SF included at the end. Unfortunately, most of the English titles available were published in Japan for English students and are hard to come by here.
Some things that aren’t included: No pulps, no Golden Age-style SF, and no otaku culture. Most of the staples of classic Western SF – square jawed heroes vanquishing dastardly aliens with laser beams, scientists and engineers logically solving problems through the scientific method, space wars – are completely absent from TBJSFS. Likewise, many of the characteristics of the Haikasoru releases are also missing. No gamer or anime aesthetic, nothing that relates to Japanese geek culture as it has developed in the last couple of decades. Instead, most of the stories are perhaps better described as fantastic literature. Only a couple are full-on science fiction, a couple more are science fiction trying to be contemporary literature. The rest have elements of SF or of the fantastic, but are firmly in the same literary space as, for example, Murakami Haruki. This is not said with disdain or irritation, but the reader should be forewarned not to expect epic space battles or cutting edge physics. The reader probably shouldn’t expect happy endings either. The tone of the collection ranges from darkly ironic to melancholy, then further into vague menace and warning. The stories aren’t really bleak or nihilistic, but there aren’t any heroes riding off into the sunset either.
Questions of why will come in later posts, so for now I want to introduce a few highlights. Abe Kobo starts out the collection with a tale of the ultimate in class warfare. I suppose the reader’s reaction will depend on his place in the tax bracket, but the story sets the tone for the rest of the book: bizarre, mildly horrifying, and darkly humorous with a touch of forewarning. Hanmura Ryo follows with a look at the life of a cardboard box and a horror-lite story about furniture. Former English teachers will be surprised to discover that Hoshi’s “He-y, Come On O-ut!” is a different translation of “The Hole,” a story that graces every 8th grade New Horizons textbook. (The English textbooks in Japan seem to feel that, in addition to teaching language skills, they have to depress their students.) Who knew that an SF grandmaster (or perhaps I should say an SF Black Belt?) would be fodder for JHS English courses. Komatsu follows later in the book with a full-on tale of someone who combines eating and burning societal hatred in inventive ways. “The Savage Mouth” is not easy reading.
The last stories are finally more recognizable as science fiction. Kono Tensei’s Triceratops starts out comparatively light-hearted, as dad and son see a dinosaur on their way home. It soon follows the the way of the other stories however, taking on a darker tone. (No, the dinosaur doesn’t eat or stomp on any of the characters.) “Fnifmum.” by Mayumura Taku is the most obvious SF and the only appearance made by aliens and spaceships. It is also my favorite story of the batch and most heartwarming. Well, as heartwarming as giant aliens and galactic fugitives can be. Tsutsuis “Standing Woman” is firmly in his idiom: off the wall near future speculation paired with a dim view of human nature in general and government in particular. This one is much more ominous that some of his other madcap writing however. Finally, Yano’s “The Legend of the Paper Spaceship” could be a real life recollection of a place he once visited, or a melancholy tale of a really weird Japanese village, or something about stranded aliens. He never really says, but it is a haunting tale just the same.
To repeat the first paragraph, this is just a look at the What of TBJSFS, saving the Why for later. As for recommendations, there isn’t any way to not approve of this book. Regardless of the quality or style of stories, this is the place to start for anyone who wants to know about Japanese SF. SF Anime is everywhere and the newest generation of Japanese writers is seeing some exposure in the West, but for the original, pioneering stuff, TBJSFS is the only place to start. While I would have enjoyed reading stories in a more conventional style, I am happy to have finally read authors like Hanmura and Hoshi. (Or realize that I was reading Hoshi, since New Horizons never tipped me off.)
Rating: The Guardian’s annual EPL preview. Necessarily light on analysis or in-depth reporting, it’s an essential overview to get the season started.
Harmony
Harmony
Project Itoh (Ito Keikaku)
When I was in 5th grade, my best friend loaned me a book that may have been called The Alliance. I can’t remember the author, save that he was Mormon. I suppose it was science fiction, set somewhere in a near future that may have been post-apocalyptic. (Memories are, of course, hazy.) Some heroic guy stumbles on a city where a scientist has implanted somethingerother in people’s brains so they can’t think of or do bad things. The hero opposes this and ultimately triumphs because 1) the author is American and 2) the author is Mormon. The former are huge on individualism and personal rights and whatnot, to an alarming degree. The latter are big into “Works,” which is why a lot of other Christians hate them. The point if this review is not to introduce everyone to an obscure bit of Mormon fiction, but this book was on my mind while I read Harmony, a similar retelling of the utilitarian vs. free will story that is utterly Japanese.
Harmony is a big deal. It won the Japan SF and Seiun Awards, the Japanese equivalent of a Hugo-Nebula sweep. It also won a Special Citation Award from the Philip K. Dick people for the English translation. There has been talk of adding Harmony to the Top 10 Japanese SF list. The author was battling cancer as he wrote the book and died shortly after its publication. If I have called out (mildly) Haikasoru in the past for publishing lightweight Japanese SF, this and Mardock Scramble more than make up for it.
Back to Japan and why it matters. The utopia in Harmony was constructed after a global political meltdown and is built on the premise that humanity is its own greatest natural resource. Thus, since everyone is dependent on everyone else, everyone has the obligation to be the best natural resource they can. Our bodies are not ours alone. In practical terms, each person’s personal health is of paramount concern to society; human health is maximized through a combination of technology and social pressure. Nanotechnology and pervasive internet infrastructure allow constant, expert monitoring of all facets of health, as well as unlimited care and advice. In Harmony, even colds and headaches are things of the past. Further, data overlays and an utter lack of privacy allow anyone to see anyone else’s health status, psychological ratings, body fat percentage, etc. While mortifying to people raised in a privacy-conscious society like we are, this is an effective means of social control: healthy lives through social shame. The main characters in Harmony are people on the fringe, those that cannot or will not fit into society or renounce their claims on their own bodies.
I don’t think this particular utopia could have come out of the United States, and not just because we have disturbingly high obesity rates and comparatively low life expectancy. The very foundation of Ito’s construction, people are the greatest resource, is not an idea with much traction here. This claim might seem exaggerated, but I submit our health care and education systems as Exhibits A and B. No country that treasures its people above all else would let these degenerate into a morass in the latter case, and a dumpster fire in the former. America views Freedom as its greatest resource, I suppose, since that is apparently what all the Muslims hate us for and is the primary reason we see fit to deny insurance to poor people. No, Harmony would have to come from somewhere else, probably somewhere that lacks vast geography and prodigious natural resources.
But why does it have to be Japan? Since Japan modernized, its leaders have known that, as a “small, island nation,” (their words) Japan has little arable land, no fossil fuels, and negligible natural resources beyond perhaps seaweed. This is a nation that is very aware that its place at the global table depends on an educated, healthy, placated, middle class. Japan’s modern social constructions explain the foundations of Harmony’s harmony, but what about the rest? Japan is a health obsessed country. For example, anyone who paid attention during the swine flu hurrah will remember that Japan sold out of protective face masks. Japan also pays far less attention to privacy than we claim to, frequent Facebook indiscretions aside. Things that are public record in Japan strike us as bizarrely invasive, like family registries or the police keeping track of who lives where on a block. Finally, the idea of social control through public shame is in full effect in Japan. The “eyes all around” (mawari no me) have great power to influence behavior. (Unless, of course, one is a foreign barbarian who is either oblivious or calculating enough to make the most of this.)
The most telling moment comes when the main character, Tuan, ruminates on how advances in nutrition and social pressure are narrowing the range of acceptable body types, making everyone look more and more alike as calorie usage and intake are normalized. Acceptable body types are already limited in Japan for these very reasons, though the control is analog rather than through nanobots. Indeed, Harmony is Japan taken to its logical extreme; Tuan’s battles with her society are fought over the same fault lines that Japan’s post-Bubble generations are battling over now. Ito’s final ambivalence with both sides reflects Japan’s current paralysis, as no faction has stepped forward with a convincing vision of Japan’s future, or the answer to how individuals fit into a supposedly homogeneous and unified society. Harmony‘s power comes from the questions it asks of the reader: what is peace worth to us? What about health? How do these relate to and define happiness? But I think it resonates even more in Japan, as the Japanese grapple with their place in a world so different from the one their society was built to conquer.
But in talking about the story, I have to come to terms with the end of the book. For 230 pages, Harmony is incandescent perfection. But suddenly, when the antagonist finally reveals her plans and motives, everything went sour for me. After everything up to that point, the resolution just rang false. It was jarring – reading along on the bus thinking what a great story I had, and one sentence later saying, “Ito has to be kidding here.” I had a full workday in between that moment and the final page on my commute home, but things never felt any better. Several days later, I still can’t reconcile the last 20 pages of the book. I am only speculating here, but I think the end has something to do with Ito’s impending death. As best I can tell, he knew he was about to die and Harmony, especially the end, is his attempt to make sense of it. I can’t explain why I think this, or how strands of the plot connect themselves to Ito’s life, but that is how I see it.
With out without the last 20 pages, and independent of what the book may say about contemporary Japan, Harmony is a major SF landmark that should not be missed.
Rating: Johann Cruyff. Though he failed at the last hurdle and couldn’t bring Holland the World Cup, his philosophy and style have made lasting and profound changes on world football.
Mardock Scramble
Mardock Scramble
Ubukata To
Why do Japan and cyberpunk go together like chocolate and peanut butter? It wasn’t random chance that the sky the color of a television tuned to a dead channel was first seen from a Tokyo suburb, though the magic of Neuromancer long obscured from me the fact that Chiba is basically Tokyo’s Connecticut. In spite of this natural affinity, Japan’ major contributions to the cyberpunk movement have primarily been visual. If anyone is writing novels in the subgenre, they aren’t being translated; this is why Mardock Scramble so groundbreaking. I’m sure that Ubukata isn’t the first to write cyberpunk in Japan, but if he gets even half of the recognition he deserves, 2011 will be a watershed.
If Bruce Sterling decided he needed to be even more outrageously grotesque and gave Iain Banks a call, who then recommended grabbing Neal Stephenson and his gratuitous infodumps, then the three of them decided to create a coming of age revenge anime, Mardock Scramble is what might result. This is not to imply that it is derivative, because nothing could be further from the truth, but one has to start somewhere in making sense of it all. Ubukata writes with remarkable confidence and self-assurance, enough that it is almost his undoing in Mardock. Still, he pulls it off. The premise of the story is simple enough: a young prostitute is almost killed by an unsavory character. She is rescued by two PI’s, who team up with her to track down and convict her would be killer. Along the way she grows up and learns Important Life Lessons. No surprises here.
Of course things are never this simple. The great thing about cyberpunk is that the author can pretty much take today, turn a dial labeled “Technology” up a couple notches, then turn a knob labeled “Weirdness” up several notches, and a setting magically appears. Mardock City is instantly recognizable as an archetypal future-noir metropolis, though Ubukata makes it his own. The characters too are staples of the noir/cyberpunk canon, but tweaked and refracted at all sorts of odd angles. Rune-Balot is a prostitute with an unenviable past but an incandescent future, who can sense electromagnetic currents. Her PI rescuers include a mad scientist with tie-dyed hair (Dr. Easter) and a small, cybernetic, shape-shifting golden mouse (Oeufcoque). The title of the book is taken from a law called “Scramble 09,” which empowers people like The Doctor and Oeufcoque to prove their usefulness to society by helping unfortunates like Rune-Balot. Balot’s killer is named Shell. He employs Oeufcoque’s former partner, Boiled, as a bodyguard and hitman. Yes, the egg analogy runs throughout the book, but I am far too impatient to sit down and analyze the whole thing.
Ubukata sets up the whole thing with great elan. He puts the plot in motion and practically dares the reader not to come along. Don’t like lengthy discussions of ethics? Too bad. Not interested in the intricacies of roulette? Tough. Prefer to avoid hard-boiled and grotesque characters? Wrong genre. He comes very close to losing his audience with a 300 page deconstruction and shakedown of a casino that I still can’t believe made it through editing. I will give the man credit: I kept reading, and it kept being interesting, but spending one third of the book on successive games of poker, roulette, and (mostly) blackjack is a quick way to reduce a book from “seminal” to “self-indulgent.” And yet, in spite of everything that should have derailed the story, Mardock hurtles ahead at unsafe speeds.
Changing course a bit, it is worth taking some time to compare Mardock with Western cyberpunk. The setting and plot are more or less standard for the genre. Mardock City is not readily identifiable as Earth, there is no indication that humanity has reached the stars or spread to other worlds. It is basically what one would expect from a cyberpunk city is almost every way – glossy, high tech cityscapes, desperate slums, political and corporate corruption, organized crime, glittering neon, wild future technology, and some really messed up people. Likewise, the plot is basically a hard boiled mystery and revenge tale, paired with strange cybertech and a young girl coming of age. Regular stuff, until Japan starts creeping in.
First off, things are infused with a pervasive anime vibe, offset with a delicate overlay of Goth-Loli aesthetic. (If the gentle reader is not acquainted with Goth-Loli, imagine a combination of pale faces, dark makeup, French maid costumes, brooding gloominess, and that wonderful Japanese Hello Kitty cuteness. Alternately, just stop while you’re ahead and don’t think about it at all, preventing a desire to scratch out eyes.) I’m having a hard time coming up with a good explanation of what exactly this vibe entails, but like pornography and a certain Supreme Court judge, I know it when I see it. The characters don’t have wild, blue hair, oversized eyes, or a habit of opening their mouths really wide when they talk, but something in the way Ubukata paints the scenes, moves the action, and conducts his dialogue suggests that everything should be animated. (And, of course, it is. A movie trailer for part one is here.) The author has been involved in a few anime series, so this comes as no surprise. Indeed, much like Western SFF is often tied into either gaming and fandom, or NASA, JPL & Co., Japanese SFF is deeply intertwined with the manga and anime industry.
The second aspect of Japanese influence is in the treatment of women. As a card carrying dude, the portrayal of women in SFF and other feminist topics are not things I’m normally comfortable talking about. Rather like the place of blacks in society, it’s just not something I have experienced first hand, so I don’t feel qualified to address it. That said, the women in Mardock are something that even usually oblivious me figured out. To be clear, Ubukata is not consciously misogynistic. Rune-Balot is a strong, competent, even heroic character. (Or at least she becomes so.) Men are overwhelmingly portrayed as barbarous, animalistic, and simplistic. Ubukata is very clear on how much, and in what ways, men hold women down. This is all to his credit, coming from a society as patriarchal and rigid as Japan is. But reading the book, I was reminded yet again of something. Women are degraded in one fashion or another in all societies, but Japan takes a special relish in all the myriad ways this occurs. We see Mardock City through eyes that condemn misogyny and brutality, but keep saying, “Wow! Look at all the terrible things that can happen to women! It’s awful, but wow!” I’m not necessarily criticizing the author for this, but I see a reflection of the culture that also produces the adult video series “Tremendous Incontinence.” (This actually exists. I haven’t seen it though and refuse to post links.)
Finally, and this is something I keep coming back to in my Japanese reviews, that strain of Japanese humanism pops up yet again. I will illustrate with a vague, and mostly spoiler-free, description of a pivotal scene. While reading this part, I was reminded of one of the most iconic set pieces in The Matrix (which no doubt influenced Mardock, but was itself influenced by Ghost in the Shell). When Neo and Trinity rescue Morpheus, they blow their way through a faceless horde of guards in spectacular, and oft-emulated, fashion. The guards and cops aren’t necessarily bad people, just doing their jobs, but they are mowed down quite mercilessly. Earlier in the movie, Morpheus explains things away in vague fashion, saying that it’s unavoidable to kill humans that are unknowingly helping the enemy. This was always troubling to me, when I wasn’t wrapped up in the special effects and awesomeness, as we would see this from the other side as a terrible calamity, complete with widows, fatherless children, caskets draped with flags, etc.
In Mardock, Rune-Balot is pursued by people who aren’t just unsavory or misguided, they are truly repulsive individuals. Even pacifist me would look on their deaths with a certain fondness. At one point, as some of them are hunting down our protagonist, she opens up a proverbial can. Rune-Balot is a child prostitute, she’s been blown up by a mobster, used in awful ways by countless men, raped on a number of occasions, is now hunted by disgusting people, and now is finally in a position of power. Her cybernetic skin lets her sense and control electromagnetic fields, enabling insane feats of self-defense. I don’t think anyone begrudges her a chance to vent her anger on people that plan to do some pretty unspeakable things; most readers are probably cheering as the bad guys get picked off in creative and hilarious fashion. However! Her partners take exception to the brutality and Rune-Balot learns an important lesson in not sinking to her enemy’s level. In fact, she ends up hurting people close to her when she lets fear and anger take control. This lesson is repeated throughout the book, rather like how Luke learns not to give in to his hate, thus preventing the completion of his journey to the Dark Side.
As the last comment implies, this sort of resistance to violence is not exclusive to Japan. I don’t claim that it is, nor do I claim that all Japanese books invoke it. On the other hand, most that I have read seem to resonate with the commitment to pacifism that one finds in nearly all aspects of contemporary Japan. This is a country where “Morals” is still a core class taught at school, where almost every teacher is on the left of the dove-hawk political spectrum, and the army isn’t called “The Army.” (It is “The Self Defense Force.”) Ubukata brilliantly, and perhaps unintentionally, highlights the contradictions in Japan between people’s natural tendency to, and enjoyment of violence, and the restraint and discipline required by a moral code that attempts to enable peace. Mardock is plenty violent, but there is an ambivalent tone toward the violence throughout, as though the characters are asking the reader if there isn’t a better way to handle the situation. Again, this sort of thing is not unheard of in Western SFF (think Terminator 2), but on the whole, we are pretty eager to blow away the bad guy.
Returning to the more review-oriented part of the review, I am tasked with summing up and passing judgment on Mardock Scramble. Yes, it slows down in the middle when Ubukata inexplicably takes the party on an all-night casino binge, there’s an awful lot of talking and pontificating for this sort of thing, and the characters spend more time in a courtroom than they, or the readers, might enjoy. But when the characters cut loose, Mardock delivers the goods. In particular, the first 250 pages or so are some of the best and most insane cyberpunk out there. Whatever its flaws, Mardock is a massive, important work. The images and characters are vivid, crazed, and impossible to evict once they have taken up residence in the mind. This is a must read for cyberpunk fans, anime junkies who want something heftier, and anyone who wants to see the state of the art in Japan.
Rating: Ono Shinji. One of the most sublime, joyful members of Japan’s Golden Generation, Ono could have been Japan’s Xavi. He was cut down from behind, however, during a meaningless qualifier in the Philippines and was never the same. Despite losing some of his transcendent brilliance to injury, he still had a Hall of Fame career.
Top 10 Japanese SFF
Top 10 Japanese SFF
SF Magazine
A new-ish post on SFWA has Nick Mamatas, Haikasoru’s editor-in-chief, talking about Japan’s best SFF. He admits that it’s a wee bit out of date, but presents a 2006 list voted on by readers of SF Magazine in Japan. Five years is long enough that one or maybe two books could sneak on to the list, but not really long enough for substantial turn over. Mamatas and Masumi Washington give a brief description and some commentary in their article, which I highly recommend. I read the list hoping to nod my head and say, “Yes, I agree.” Instead, my response was more like, “uh-oh, I’ve got a lot of reading to do.” First, the list. After that, some comments and recommendations.
1. Hyakuoku no hiru to senoku no yoru (Ten Billion Days and One Hundred Billion Nights) by Ryu Mitsuse (1967)
2. Hateshinaki nagare no hate ni (At the End of the Endless Stream) by Sakyo Komatsu (1966)
3. Yoseiden (Legend of an Enchanted Planet) by Ryo Hanmura (1975)
4. Minus Zero by Tadashi Hirose (1970)
5. Houseki dorobou (Jewelry Thief) by Masaki Yamada (1980)
6. Kami gari (God Hunting) by Masaki Yamada (1975)
7. Fukkatsu no hi (The Day of Resurrection) by Sakyo Komatsu (1964)
8. Musubi no yama hiroku (A Private Record of Mt. Musubi) by Ryo Hanmura (1973)
9. Yukikaze by Chohei Kambayashi (1984)
10. Nippon chinbotsu (Japan Sinks) by Sakyo Komatsu (1973)
First, the bad news. I have only read one book on this list, Japan Sinks. As far as I can tell, only Japan Sinks and Yukikaze are available in English. Haikasoru will release Ten Billion Days in November, so I’d better line up for a copy. (Maybe I should accept donations so I can afford the hardback?) Lest our readers think that he only writes insanity, Komatsu takes the prize with three books. I have Day of Resurrection here in the house, but I’m doubtful I can finish it before it needs to go back to the library. Yamada and Hanmura have two each, which means just three authors wrote seven of the Top 10.
The genres involved surprised me a bit. The list calls itself SF, but judging from the descriptions provided, only numbers 1, 2 and 9 are SF in the traditional sense. The Hanmura books are much more fantasy, as is Jewelry Thief. Komatsu’s other two are disaster novels, while numbers 4 and 6 are perhaps contemporary fantasy. Again, please read the source article for better descriptions than I can give. Reading recommendations are limited by language, of course, but even if everything was in English I would still recommend Yukikaze as a good place to start. (This despite not reading it myself. I may break down and buy a copy online.) It has the most typical SF plotline, with spaceships, aliens, galactic war, etc.
I was surprised not to see The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, by Tsutsui Yasutaka, on the list, or anything by Hoshi Shinichi. These two and Komatsu comprise Japan’s Big Three of SF and Tsutsui’s book has gained popularity far beyond the SF community. However, since I haven’t read any of these, I am in no way qualified to make judgments. Look for reviews and summaries in the coming months, as I dig further into Japanese classics.
Anime Philosophers
Anime Philosophers
I will be the first to say that rumors of my demise have been exaggerated. Here at Two Dudes, there are many important things that have to be done behind the scenes (such as making sure that the attic is clean, the Mountain Dew has been restocked, and neckbeards reach the proper level of dishevelment), and one could say that I have been fighting the good fight for some time to make sure that high quality posts come to all four of our readers.
That said, certain rumblings of discontent from Pep have forced me to come out of my cave and make a post. I’m under the impression that he thinks it’s quite important for continuing to grow our somewhat meager readership. To that end, I will admit here, freely, under the cloud of complete anonymity, that I occasionally watch anime. I will not point people towards the anime disclaimer, but rather simply state that I enjoy giant robots, explosions, and occasional bursts of “burning spirit.” Like all things, it vacillates rather exceptionally in the quality presented. [1]
However, occasionally I come upon something so utterly and completely ridiculous that it makes me writhe in agony, drop to my knees, and scream “Japaaaaaan” in much the same voice that Darth Vader takes at the end of Episode Three. In today’s case, it is the following:
http://aya.shii.org/2011/09/17/european-philosophers-become-magical-anime-girls/
To preface the following rant it must be noted that I was a philosophy major in college. I spent nights agonizing over things like “world” and “being” and “truth.” To this date, I’m unsure if this actually did anything for me other than give me a substance abuse problem, but there is something so utterly ridiculous about the philosophers being transposed into the bodies of magical teenage girls that it fills me with something vaguely between rage and agony.
I’m really rather annoyed at the way each of the philosophers are presented. The sort of twin like mentality of Hume and Berkeley seems to be indicating some sort coherent identity between their philosophies. In fact, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Berkeley struggles with the existence of reality that is not directly perceived [his ultimate answer is that things don't disappear because God is watching everything. QED], while Hume is much more concerned with direct assaults on the ivory tower of metaphysical thought. While Hume’s philosophy is extremely well done, most of it is done in the way we think of more Critical Philosophy now-a-days. He points out a foolish assumption [something like causation], identifies that we have no perception of it [i.e. we can't perceive cause and effect], and then asserts that some fundamental frame work of our everyday existence is actually just a habit of mind. While they’re both very concerned with the perception of existence, their interaction with the philosophy and the ultimate thrust of the empirical philosophy is completely different. [2]
Kant makes a certain amount of sense, but unless she’s got a weird sort of worship/hatred relationship with Hume, then it completely misses the point of what caused Kant to create the Critical Philosophy. [3] Kant was originally a Leibnizian rationalist, but after reading Hume, basically fell apart and slowly put himself back together intellectually. [This is a common occurrence after reading Hume for the first time.] Hegel appears to have a giant rack. I have no idea why. And the fact that Spinoza is having a panty shot raises feelings of extreme ire. [4] Nietzsche looks rather angry, which I suppose is sort of correct, but one needs to realize that Nietzsche was in no way actually a nihilist. He basically said it himself. Rather, Nietzsche should be thought of as the Anti-Plato.
Descartes looks completely boring and in this sense is probably the most accurate, but I’m sure Japan will find a way to screw this up too.
tl;dr: Keep your damn anime out of my intellectualism.
[1] Unfortunately, anime often feels the need to provide things like fan service (which I find awkward at best, and downright weird at worst) and very warped representations of human relationships. I’m sure Pep understands the reasoning behind all of it, but anime’s general idea of how people interact with one another often leaves me frothing and wanting to throw things.
[2] Berkeley is still very much in the tradition of the old metaphysicians– his primary concern has to do with God. It makes sense, he is an Archbishop at the time of his writing.
[3] The Critical Philosophy is best expressed through his magnum opus: The Critique of Pure Reason. Effectively, this is an attempt to save Metaphysical & Religious thought from what Kant thought was the damning thought of Hume. Whether or not he saves it is a matter of some debate, but the Critical Philosophy forms the basis for pretty much all philosophy that comes after it.
[4] For those of you unawares, Spinoza was a philosopher who was SO God-Drunken that both the Jewish Faith and the Catholic Church found him rather odd and summarily kicked him out. He basically lived as a lens grinder and wrote letters to various philosophers about how his geometric proofs, in fact, proved that we were all actual modal existences of God (don’t ask).
