Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata (Part Two) “He stood gazing at his own coldness, so to speak.”

 

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I learned about Chijimi linen in Part Two of Snow Country. Ojiya Chijimi is the art of turning plant fibers into fabric with the help of sun and snow. One of the last steps of making this special fabric is to lay it on the snow for ten to twenty days, where it is bleached by the elements. 

Why does Kawabata include this tradition in his novel? To be sure, he tells of one of the art forms in the country he is depicting. But, maybe, in the stretch of my imagination, it also points to the condition of Komako’s heart. For surely she loves Shimamura, just as surely, he cares very little that she does. Her heart seems to be bleached by the coldness of his heart just as the linen is bleached by the sun when it lies on the snow.

It makes me sad.

Kawabata won the Nobel Prize, for which Snow Country was one of the novels commended, in 1968. It is an incredibly spare, and often, to me, disjointed novel. As the characters speak, they don’t seem to be answering one another. It’s as if each is carrying on with his or her own thoughts, regardless of what the other has just said. I found myself reading, and rereading, certain passages for clarity. And maybe that is just the point: Shimamura and Komako are never truly communicating. Not in any meaningful, or lasting, way.

How can this be called a love story? To me, a love story involves two people who care about each other, and it is clear that Shimamura is able to care for little but himself. 

If a man had a tough, hairy hide like a bear, his world would be different indeed, Shimamura thought. It was through a thin, smooth skin that man loved. Looking out at the evening mountains, Shimamura felt a sentimental longing for the human skin. (p. 85)

This longing doesn’t mean it becomes actualized, however. Kawabata doesn’t give us a clear indication as to why Shimamura is so emotionally detached. Could it be, in part, because he comes to the snow country from Tokyo?

Tokyo people are complicated. They live in such noise and confusion that their feelings are broken to bits. Everything is broken to bits. (p. 90)

Maybe this accounts for some of his emotional aloofness. But, Komako attributes this distance to gender. 

It will be the same wherever I go. There’s nothing to be upset about…And I can’t complain. After all, only women are really able to love. (p. 98)

Even as they watch a fire destroy a cocoon-warehouse, and a woman’s body fall from the balcony, it is Komako who is screaming and Shimamura who is passive. 

If Shimamura felt even a flicker of uneasiness, it was lest the head drop, or the knee or a hip end to disturb that perfectly horizontal line…Komako screamed and brought her hands to her eyes. Shimamura gazed at the still form. (p. 128)

I have no ability to comprehend such a cold and heartless person; whether a person comes from a city or a small mountain town, whether a person is male or female, whether a person has a tough hairy hide or a thin skin, we are meant to love one another. It is a sad story that Kawabata gives us, and the fact that Snow Country contributed to a Nobel Prize means it must have a lot to say to a lot of people who ponder the heart of mankind. 

Or, the coldness therein. 

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.

Snow Country Read-along, Anyone?

This masterpiece from the Nobel Prize-winning author and acclaimed writer of Thousand Cranes is a powerful tale of wasted love set amid the desolate beauty of western Japan. • “Kawabata’s novels are among the most affecting and original works of our time.” —The New York Times Book Review

When I saw that Karen, of Literary Excursions, posted Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata as one of her potential choices for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19, I got all happy inside. It seems the perfect choice for Japanese literature and Winter. When she suggested a buddy-read, I was even happier.

So now, we open up this reading experience to any of you who wish to join us. Here’s the plan: Snow Country is a 192 pages written in two parts. We will read, and post about Part One, on January 9. We will post about Part Two on January 16. 

Feel free to read and post about it with us, we’d love to have you.