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Justin Chen Displacement and Union in Fumiko Enchi’s Masks Fumiko Enchi’s Masks invokes the rich narrative tradition of its monogatari predecessor, The Tale of Genji, in a variety of ways. The most explicit example of this literary-historical awareness is the theme of spirit possession that so fascinates one of the novel’s central characters, Mieko Togano. Indeed, the extensive transcript of Mieko’s essay on the Rokujo lady that abruptly appears halfway through Masks serves to directly inform the reader that The Tale of Genji will be an important source of thematic undertones and allusions throughout the novel. Beyond such explicit invocations, however, Masks manages to subtly display its indebtedness to its literary predecessors through its resurrection of certain archetypal figures. Ultimately, Masks’ interpretation of what it means to belong within the literary tradition demonstrates the inescapable interconnectedness that binds together all of humanity. The image with which Enchi chooses to open her novel provides the first indication that Masks consciously concerns itself with the antique world of Genji-era Japan. We are informed that the story’s two primary male characters, Tsuneo Ibuki and Toyoki Mikamé, are seated in a coffee shop in Kyoto Station, and that “between them on the narrow imitation-wood tabletop were a vase holding a single white chrysanthemum and an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts” (Enchi 3)1. The oppositions established in this simple passage are striking. First of all, Enchi’s juxtaposition of the elegant white chrysanthemum, which somehow calls to mind the intricate and delicate social order of Heian society, with the cigarettes and imitation wood, symbolic of the human-centered modern era, presents an intriguing interplay between past and present. Second, the opposition between the white flower’s fresh beauty and the tabletop’s artificial veneer suggests the way in which old forms adapt to and coexist with a modernized society. Much as Mieko’s essay, An Account of the Shrine in the Fields, is inserted rather jarringly into the otherwise prosaic structure of the larger frame narrative, marking a conscious transplantation of Genji into the modern literary world, the chrysanthemum’s anachronistic appearance in the train station coffee-shop can be taken as an example of the way in which ancient legends can still be seen to exist within a modern environment. Enchi therefore chooses to begin the novel with a symbol suggesting that the rich Japanese literary tradition will find its way into Masks, and that the friction produced from the juxtaposition will be important for understanding the novel’s themes. The chrysanthemum is more than just a symbol of an older, more natural order. As Enchi, who is well-known for her 10-volume translation of The Tale of Genji into modern Japanese, would no doubt have been aware, the Rokujo lady sends Genji a condolence note “on dark blue-gray paper attached to a half-opened bud of chrysanthemum”—an arrangement that Genji deems to be “in the best of taste” (Murasaki 169)2. Thus, Enchi establishes a direct connection to Tale of Genji through the motif of the flower. Again, however, there is more involved here than the simple evocation of the older text. The Rokujo lady’s note reads, “I too am in tears, at the thought of her sad, short life. / Moist the sleeves of you whom she left behind. / These autumn skies make it impossible for me to be silent” (Murasaki 169). This touching poetic eulogy demonstrates the Rokujo lady’s heartfelt feelings of condolence over Genji’s loss of his wife, Aoi. Mieko picks up on the subtlety of this point in her essay when she writes, “And so, [the Rokujo lady] believes, her strongest imprecations can never be translated into deeds, until one day her inner obsession takes bold and unequivocal shape, descending on and abusing the object of her enmity with such ferocity that she is overcome by her own power” (Enchi 88). And as Ibuki puts it, “The Rokujo lady never intended to become a possessive spirit…try as she would to suppress it, her introverted psyche would turn outward and act on the object of her emotions in spite of her” (Enchi 53). The implication of Mieko’s reasoning, that the Rokujo lady’s actions are unconscious, and therefore in a certain sense blameless, accords well with the evidence available within the text of Genji. Indeed, in describing the Rokujo lady’s contemplation of the rumors circulating that she is somehow responsible for Aoi’s illness, the narrator states, “Though she had felt sorry enough for herself, she had not wished ill to anyone; and might it be that the soul of one so lost in sad thought went wandering off by itself?” (Murasaki 160). The passage in Genji invoked by the symbol of the chrysanthemum therefore establishes a crucial theme of powerlessness over one’s actions. Throughout the novel, the central female figures of Mieko and Yasuko are portrayed as manipulative, inscrutable, and even treacherous—yet the notion that they only act in this way because they possess no other alternative is somehow redeeming. Mieko thinks to herself, “A woman’s love is quick to turn into a passion for revenge—an obsession that becomes an endless river of blood, flowing on from generation to generation” (127). The stream of blood that links all of humanity is that of motherhood, and the destructive outlets that Mieko and the Rokujo lady find for their continual oppression at the hands of a male-centered society represent a deeply entrenched yet unconscious reflex that bears universal expression among women. Indeed, as Mieko herself puts it in her essay, the power of female shamanism “constitutes woman’s greatest burden and delusion—and ultimately her greatest sin. But the sin is inseparable from a woman’s being. It is a stream of blood flowing on and on, unbroken, from generation to generation” (Enchi 57). Mieko again deploys the image of a stream of blood to suggest a uniquely female inheritance. Thus, just within the novel’s opening image, Enchi manages to introduce a startlingly nuanced and instructive allusion to the rich literary tradition of The Tale of Genji. The white chrysanthemum in the train station symbolizes more than just the Japanese society of a bygone era. By invoking the Rokujo lady’s note to Genji, the flower also foreshadows the role that women and spirit possession will play throughout the story and encourages the reader to consider the extreme lengths to which the novel’s female characters are driven as a means of rebellion against an oppressive male-dominated society. As suggested above, the chrysanthemum takes on especial significance because of its transplantation into an unusual setting—that of Kyoto Station. Similarly, the insertion of Mieko’s entire essay about the Rokujo lady halfway through the novel becomes even more noteworthy due to its effect of breaking up the ordinary course of the narrative superstructure. This technique of inserting a foreign text into the regular flow of language represents a conscious adaptation of the important technique of literary quotation that is also strongly evident throughout The Tale of Genji. In fact, all of the educated characters in Genji pepper their conversations with allusions to both the Japanese and the Chinese poetic traditions—whether through invocation of particular images and motifs or through adaptations of certain especially graceful, almost idiomatic, phrases. The characters in Genji use this technique of quotation as a means of indirectly expressing their feelings, since alluding to poetic imagery adds an additional layer of distance between what is said and what is actually meant. Ibuki recognizes that Mieko uses the essay precisely in this way when he thinks to himself, “Perhaps she had even used the Rokujo lady as a pretext to write about her own psychic powers” (58). Writing is therefore a vehicle for genuine but indirect revelation. Because Mieko’s essay functions as a device for expressing her true inner feelings couched within the context of ancient literature, it can also be seen as a displacement of past legends into the modern world—a reworking of old themes into a contemporary context. Intriguingly, this reworking is somewhat parallel to Enchi’s own project, since both Mieko’s essay and Masks rely heavily upon the Japanese literary tradition—as exemplified by The Tale of Genji—to produce meaningful new material. Mieko’s essay therefore emblematizes the problem faced by all modern writers—that is, how to interpret and then reshape the literary past into something novel and interesting. Near the end of the novel, Ibuki reasserts his belief that “Mieko used the Rokujo lady as a device to talk about herself” (Enchi 131). He goes on to speculate, “I think she wrote that essay to satisfy a particular need and then regretted having done so almost immediately—regretted having exposed herself even in so indirect a way” (Enchi 131). The ponderous mass of literary tradition is therefore at once a burden and a source of inspiration. The archetypal figure of the Rokujo lady first described in The Tale of Genji is unavoidably present within Mieko’s mind, and indeed within the Japanese cultural consciousness in general. Because of this, the Rokujo lady and her attendant theme of unwilled but terrible vengeance cannot help but be reborn again and again within both Mieko’s and Enchi’s worlds. The notion that literary creation is constantly giving new expression to themes derived from textual precedent seems to be borne out by the refiguring of many familiar motifs from The Tale of Genji within Masks. An example of one of these reincarnations of antique themes within the modern-day world of Enchi’s creation is Genji’s all-consuming quest to find the perfect woman that defines so much of his life. Much like the never-satisfied Genji, who invariably manages to find some flaw in his latest love interest, Ibuki finds himself despondent “at the sight of his small daughter toddling about, and his slender, immaculate wife; he was neither sweetness in the one nor neatness in the other, aware only of the bonds they represented, holding him tightly in their grip” (Enchi 43). Within these lines, one can almost hear the resonances of Genji’s feelings of angst regarding his wife, Aoi, as well as his lack of success in his pursuit of feminine perfection. As Murasaki puts it, “Among his ladies there was none who could be dismissed as completely beneath consideration and none to whom he could give his whole love” (Murasaki 159). Harumé is another example of a character who appears to represent a modern reincarnation of some archetypal figure. In describing his memory of her appearance at Mieko’s firefly party many years ago, Ibuki says, “Yes, that was just how she seemed: like a typical young lady of Meiji who had drifted into our times without aging a day” (Enchi 41). The device of transplantation discussed earlier is again evident here. Just as the white chrysanthemum of the novel’s opening seems to represent the past when viewed alongside objects clearly symbolic of modern life, Harumé is described in the arbor setting almost as a phantasm brought back to life from an entirely different time period. The eerie manner in which she is spotted by both Ibuki and Mikamé, illuminated by the hazy light of a stone lantern, further emphasizes the ghostliness of her presence. One possible explanation for Enchi’s decision to resurrect or transplant these various familiar figures from the literary tradition into her own text is that she simply wants to add a layer of descriptive richness to the characters. The suggestion that Harumé has been directly transplanted from the Meiji era, for instance, could simply be intended to convey the sense that she is, in Yasuko’s words, “too privileged, like an old-fashioned princess” (Enchi 41). Yet a more compelling explanation is that the repeated displacements serve to obscure the narrative’s chronological features, thereby linking all of humanity together as manifestations of certain “types” of characters within a timeless, boundless narrative. In other words, perhaps Enchi means to suggest that there is no meaningful distinction between figures of the past and the present. Harumé may as well be a Meiji-era princess, or even a Heian-era courtesan, for those are essentially the roles that she takes on within the novel—she is a passive female figure defined in relation to the male who courts her (a part which in this case is played by an unwitting Ibuki). When viewed in this light, Harumé’s existence is almost mask-like in its interchangeability. This particular interpretation of the interrelatedness of all human characters within a greater narrative seems to accord well with the earlier suggestion that the actions of both Mieko and the Rokujo lady are unconsciously linked to some unstoppable overflow of energy. These two women, like Harumé, are merely vessels for fulfilling an inherited, inescapable legacy. This line of reasoning is rather bleak for the novel’s characters, for it suggests a form of literary predestination according to which every modern figure is simply a physically different expression of a more ancient prototype. Even the Rokujo lady is not the first of her kind—the vengeance that she wreaks on Genji is not of her unique design, but instead represents an unconscious spontaneous overflow of bitter emotion that manifests itself in psychokinetic powers and that necessarily suggests some prior source. But are all characters necessarily consigned to the sad fate of playing out their particular predetermined role? According to Mieko herself, the answer is no. She writes in her essay that “unlike the Rokujo lady, the Akashi lady is endowed with a sufficiently keen intellect and enough common sense to avoid squandering her mental energy in spirit possession, turning instead to literary creation as the ideal means of exercising her powers. We find her in the chapter entitled ‘The First Warbler’ writing ‘something like a novel’—a sign of the literary gifts which she shares with the Rokujo lady” (Enchi 55). Indeed, the Rokujo lady does possess extraordinary poetic prowess, and her handwriting “was the very best [Genji] knew” (Murasaki 159). Thus, it appears that one possible outlet for an overflow of energy and emotion is literature. The Tale of Genji’s discussion of the Akashi lady is also important to our understanding of Mieko’s character. In the letter that Mieko’s mysterious lover sends to her from the war at the Chinese front, he writes, “You said that you lacked the courage to take action in real life, and therein, you said, lay the explanation for your literary gifts as well as for the darkness of your fate as a woman” (Enchi 104). The suggestion here is that Mieko funnels her excess energy into her writing. Yet as Ibuki observes, Mieko’s literary works are nothing more than a sham: “Lately I’ve taken the time to sit through her poetry, and believe me, except for the narrative pieces, it’s all humbug” (Enchi 131). If Mieko has in fact rejected the Akashi lady’s path of literary creation, then the only possible conclusion is that she has instead adopted the route of spirit possession unconsciously established by the Rokujo lady. Mieko does ultimately choose to “take action in real life,” resulting in the manipulation of the novel’s men for her own purposes as well as an ancillary decline in her writing talents. This discussion again suggests that previous literary models can dictate the present—Mieko must necessarily adopt the character of one of the two ladies. But are these two possibilities completely incompatible, or are they linked at some deeper level? That is, could literature be seen as an alternative form of spirit possession? In Masks, writing is a genuine projection of one’s internal state. Just as the Rokujo lady had no real control over her soul’s vengeful wanderings, there is something uncontrolled about Mieko’s essay. She herself tells Yasuko regretfully, “What sinful things words are, coming to life again just when I’d forgotten them and unmasking me like that” (Enchi 68). The words of the past are inextricably linked to the events of the present, both in the sense that the Rokujo lady’s spirit is reincarnated in the character of Mieko as well as in the sense that Mieko’s own writing, which is a projection of her true inner nature, refuses to simply lay down and die. During a trip to the Togano household, Ibuki observes that “the layers of closely packed books overlapped darkly in the faint light, as if to press down on the lives of the living” (Enchi 107). This passage provides an interesting symbol for the oppressive quality of the literary past, which constantly weighs down on the present and, as Mieko discovers, can never truly be escaped. Mieko’s suggestion that her essay has an “unmasking” effect reminds us of the No masks that comprise the novel’s central motif. In a narrative that is so deeply concerned with feminine interiority and secrecy, masks perform a vital shielding function, able to stifle emotion and transform the wearer. Intriguingly, Yasuko compares her mother-in-law’s writing skills to a sort of mask when she observes, “Next to that secret charm of hers, her talent as a poet is really only a sort of costume” (Enchi 32). This statement mirrors Ibuki’s comment that most of Mieko’s poetry, with the exception of her narrative pieces, is “humbug.” Literature can therefore be used both as a means of outward deception, a theme also evident within Dai Sijie’s Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, and as a conduit for revealing one’s true inner thoughts. Like literature, masks also serve a dual function. While they can obscure the wearer’s features, they also have the power of giving fuller expression to certain emotions that would otherwise be difficult to directly convey. At the novel’s striking conclusion, Mieko is presented with the mask called Fukai, which Toé’s father described as “a metaphor comparing the heart of an older woman to the depths of a bottomless well—a well so deep that its water would seem totally without color” (Enchi 138). Fukai produces a profound effect on Mieko; Enchi writes, “The mask seemed to know all the intensity of her grief at the loss of Akio and Harumé—as well as the bitter woman’s vengeance that she had planned so long, hiding it deep within her” (Enchi 141). Giving silent voice to Mieko’s lifelong struggle for power within the oppressive male hierarchy, the mask becomes a conduit for emotions that would otherwise have no expression, a function that is also taken on by literature itself. Both Fukai and Mieko’s essay reveals that the overwhelming interiority of the feminine mind ultimately produces a deep well of pent-up emotion that has no bottom, precisely because it has no beginning. To paraphrase the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Fumiko Enchi, all women—from Genji’s Rokujo lady to Masks’ Mieko—are borne back together in a never-ending river of human blood that flows ceaselessly into the literary past.
1) Enchi, Fumiko. Masks (tr. Juliet Winters Carpenter). New York: Vintage Books. 1983. 2) Murasaki, Shikibu. The Tale of Genji (tr. Edward G. Seidensticker). New York: Vintage Books. 1990. |