Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata (Part One)

There were patches of snow on the roof, the rafters of which sagged to draw a wavy line at the eaves. (p.45) 

Winter is my favorite season. The pure air, the white snow, the very “newness” that I feel when it has just fallen eclipses every other season for me. And so I find myself highlighting descriptive passages such as the quote at the start of the post. Or, this one:

The sky was clouding over. Mountains still in the sunlight stood out against shadowed mountains. The play of light and shade changed from moment to moment, sketching a chilly landscape. Presently the ski grounds too were in shadow. Below the window Shimamura could see little needles of frost like ising-glass among the withered chrysanthemums, though water was still dripping from the snow on the roof. (p. 61) 

Of course Snow Country is about more than snow. In this chilly landscape we read of Shimamura, whose heart seems to be just as cold as his surroundings. He is taking the train to a hot spring in the snow country, observing those around him as we observe him. He sees a young girl taking care of an obviously sick man, and I am struck by this line: 

The man was clearly ill, however, and illness shortens the distance between a man and a woman. (p. 13)  

Illness shortens the distance between a man and a woman. This could happen in two different ways: are they clinging to each other out of fear of losing one another? Or, are they frustrated by the care one requires of the other? I’m pondering this distance that comes with illness, as I am living it in my own life these past few years. 

 

Another point of interest that strikes me is how the geisha, Komako, and Shimamura discuss the keeping of a diary, for that has long been a great passion of mine. 

“When did you begin?” (he asks her, and she replies,) “Just before I went to Tokyo as a geisha. I didn’t have any money and I bought a plain notebook for two or three sen and drew in lines. I must have had a very sharp pencil. The lines are all neat and close together, and every page is crammed from top to bottom..I write in my diary when I’m home from a party and ready for bed, and when I read it over I can see places where I’ve gone to sleep writing…But I don’t write every day. Some days I miss. Way off here in the mountains every party’s the same. This year I couldn’t find anything except a diary with a new day on each page. It was a mistake. When I start writing, I want to write on and on.” (p. 36)

I want to write on and on when I write, as well. It’s not so much that I have fascinating information to relate, as much as that I have a desire to put my thoughts down, to clear my head. 

I’m wondering what Komako has written about Shimamura. It seems, at the end of Part One, that she has fallen in love with him. Yet he returns to his home apparently indifferent to her affections. 

We leave Yukio, suffering due to intestinal tuberculosis,  in the care of Yoko, a young girl with “an extraordinarily pure and simple face.” We leave Komako in the train station, who has accompanied Shimamura as far as the platform, standing inside the closed window of the waiting-room. They are separated by this window, but perhaps there is much more than glass which sets them apart. We will find out in Part Two.