Bødy

Title: Bødy
Japanese Title: 躯 (Karada)
Author: Nonami Asa (乃波アサ)
Translator: Takami Nieda
Publication Year: 2012 (America); 1999 (Japan)
Publisher: Vertical
Pages: 192

If body horror makes you squeamish, you probably shouldn’t read this book.

If body horror fascinates you, you have come to the right place. Surgery, needles, public bathing, erectile dysfunction, heart attacks, concussions – Nonami Asa’s Bødy has it all.

Bødy collects five short stories, which are all about forty pages long. Each of these stories centers around the body-related neurosis of its protagonist. The short stories in Bødy remind me of the short stories of Patricia Highsmith (particularly those in The Animal-Lover’s Book of Beastly Murder and Little Tales of Misogyny) in that they feature tongue-in-cheek accounts of terrible things happening to people who probably deserve them. In “Blood,” a man who gets off on injuring others learns that he can also get off on injuring himself. In “Whorl,” a man planning on dumping his girlfriend is dumped by her after some mishaps involving an experimental treatment for baldness. In “Jaw,” a man consumed by his training to become a boxer is ultimately defeated by his own physical regimen. The opening story, “Navel,” is about a mother and her two daughters who blow through their savings in order to undergo a series of cosmetic surgical procedures. The last laugh, however, is on the husband and father who doesn’t notice that they look any different until it’s too late.

Although the tone of Bødy is far from jovial, it never takes its subject matter too seriously. With an escalating series of bad things happening to weak-willed and pathetic people, the humor in Bødy is as black as it gets. As soon as the reader thinks that things can’t get any worse for the characters, things get worse in the worst possible way. As a result, these stories are horrifying and fascinating at the same time.

Humor usually works best when the butt of the joke is in a position of power or otherwise represents the status quo, and an element of discomfort tends to creep in when the character being ridiculed truly is a victim. For this reason, the story “Buttocks” stands out for me as the most disturbing story in the collection.

Hiroe, the former queen bee teenage protagonist of “Buttocks,” suffers severe culture shock after she leaves her home in the country to attend a high school in Tokyo. She lives in a dorm, where she has trouble physically and mentally adjusting to a communal lifestyle. She didn’t want to leave home in the first place, her friends from middle school won’t talk to her anymore, and she learns that the only reason she’s able to live in Tokyo is because her father made a large donation to her school. When one of the other girls living in the dorm calls her fat, Hiroe develops an eating disorder. The reader, who is given intimate knowledge of Hiroe’s mindset and methods, sympathizes with the bulimic Hiroe’s improved self-image and sense of renewed control over her life. It actually seems as if the story will have a happy ending before Hiroe collapses and is revealed to be terrifyingly unhealthy. As her parents carry her out of the dorm, Hiroe overhears the same girl who had mocked her for having hips like a duck whispering how creepy she is now that she looks like a skeleton.

Hiroe may have bullied another girl in middle school, but she didn’t deserve this, and the punch line of “Buttocks” is chilling. In this story, the narrative pattern that characterizes the stories in Bødy is less tragicomic and more genuinely upsetting. It’s easy to laugh at the chauvinist pigs of the first three stories in the collection, but the teenage protagonists of the last two stories are genuine victims of forces beyond their control who receive no sympathy from other characters and turn to desperate measures in an attempt to exert some small measure control over their lives. The emotional range Nonami achieves within these stories is remarkable, as is the skill with which she treads the line between amusement and discomfort.

Nonami Asa is a fantastic writer, and I’m happy that more of her work is appearing in translation. She’s primarily known for her detective fiction in Japan, and Juliet Winters Carpenter’s translation of The Hunter is an good example of her gritty hardboiled style. Nonami’s other novel in translation, Now You’re One of Us, is creepy gothic horror that features the black humor and body horror of Bødy without the blunt, cringe-inducing needle-in-your-eye imagery. If you can handle literature with genuinely dark themes, it’s hard to go wrong with Nonami Asa, and Bødy is an excellent introduction to the writer’s work.

Masks

Title: Masks
Japanese Title: 女面
Author: Enchi Fumiko (円地文子)
Translator: Juliet Winters Carpenter
Publication Year: 1983 (America); 1958 (Japan)
Pages: 141

If there is such a thing as the perfect Japanese novel, Masks is it. First of all, it has been translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter, one of the most prolific and eloquent translators of Japanese literature alive today. Carpenter has translated everything from Tawara Machi’s groundbreaking collection of tanka poetry, Salad Anniversary (Sarada Kinenbi 1987) to Asa Nonami’s hard-boiled police thriller The Hunter (Kohoeru Kiba 1996). My advice to all lovers of Japanese literature would be: if Juliet Winters Carpenter has translated it, you need to read it!

As for the author herself, Enchi Fumiko is a well-regarded writer of literary fiction in Japan. Her father was a scholar of classical Japanese literature, and she grew up reading the books in his library. In fact, her given name, Fumiko, means “child of letters” or “child of literature.” When she grew up, she undertook the translation of many of the Japanese classics, including the monumental Heian period romance novel The Tale of Genji. She is famous for incorporating her classical background into her own fiction, which was highly praised by writers like Tanizaki Junichirō and Mishima Yukio.

I myself am a big fan of Enchi’s work because of her tightly-woven yet highly allusive plots and masterful use of symbolism. An Enchi novel is like a structuralist literary critic’s dream come true. There is so much, so much packed within each of her novels and stories, and no single interpretation that can be given to any of them. Enchi is an intellectual author of the highest magnitude, yet also possesses the ability to imbue her fiction with great emotional weight. Not only will Enchi’s novels make you think, but they will also make you laugh in desperation and pump your fist with a sense of well-deserved victory.

Although Enchi is primarily known in Japan for her 1971 novel Onnazaka, for which she won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize (this novel has been translated into English by John Bester under the title “The Waiting Years”), I tend to prefer Masks. Although its title refers to the masks of Noh drama, particularly the “madwoman” masks, which lend their names to the novel’s chapter titles, the novel draws the majority of its themes and allusions from the aforementioned Tale of Genji. The parallels Enchi draws between The Tale of Genji and the world of her novel are numerous and quite interesting. Not only does she draw distinct parallels between her characters and the characters of the Heian romance, but she also makes use of such classic “Genji” themes as spirit possession and substitution to subvert the patriarchal and misogynistic society that holds sway in the worlds of both novels.

Although Masks is primarily narrated from the point of view of a male college professor named Ibuki, who is cast in the role of Genji, its true hero is an older woman named Mieko, a powerful Lady Rokujō-like figure with a painful past and mysterious intentions. As Mieko’s protégée, Yasuko, explains to Ibuki,

“Believe me, she is a woman of far greater complexity than you – or anyone – realize. The secrets inside her mind are like flowers in a garden at nighttime, filling the darkness with perfume. Oh, she has extraordinary charm. Next to that secret charm of hers, her talent as a poet is really only a sort of costume.”

The novel centers around Mieko’s attempt to use this “secret charm” of hers in order to set into motion a deep and complex scheme of revenge, creation, and rebirth. I don’t want to give away the ending, but everything about Mieko and her plan is beautiful, terrible, and thought-provoking. I would say that this novel is perhaps the best introduction to Japanese literature, and more specifically Japanese women’s literature, ever published. If you can find a copy of this novel, buy it! No matter where your literary interests lie, this is a novel you need to read.