Komako

Komako is the main character in the book Snow Country, by Yasunari Kawabata, first published in 1947 and translated by Eward Seidensticker. We see her only through the point of view of Shimamura, who has come from Tokyo to spend time at a hot springs resort in Komako’s village. Shimamura, a critic of the Western ballet though he has never seen one, is surprised by Komako’s freshness. “It seemed to Shimamura that she must be clean to the hollows under her toes.” She is not a geisha at this time, though she has trained as one. She is just 19.

Nozawa Mountain Shrine, Japan

Shimamura makes several visits to the hot spring resort at different seasons, drawn to Komako. She keeps a diary and studies the samisen, a guitar-like musical instrument having a long neck and three strings, from sheet music as there is no one to teach her. When Komako first plays for him, Shimamura is transported. “The notes went out crystalline into the clean winter morning, to sound on the far, snowy peaks.” He cannot believe she is as good as she sounds, that practicing alone has led her to take on this special power. He feels that her playing, indeed her life, is wasted in this remote mountain village.

Komako falls in love with Shimamura. He is someone who can see who she is. By his second visit, she has become a mountain geisha, making money by spending time with resort guests, serving and entertaining them. But she leaves her parties and comes to his room at the hotel again and again at odd hours of the night, often drunk. At first she tries to hide her attraction to this guest, but later gives up. She has her clothes, her samisen brought to the hotel. She and Shimamura bathe together, intimate and domesticated.

Shimamura is entranced by the “strange magical wildness” of this young woman. A sensualist, none of the beauty of the seasons is lost on him. But other than being a connoisseur, he has little life of his own. Komako takes him to her rooms, first a room in which silkworms have been kept, later a room over a candy shop. She explains her geisha contracts, tells him everything. She is connected to the village, to the music teacher and her son, who both die, and to Yoko, whom she feels is her burden. Shimamura falls into the habit of waiting for Komako’s frequent visits, but in the end it becomes clear to Shimamura that he must leave, that Komako belongs to her village, that she will go, as she says, “pleasantly to seed in the mountains.”

The utter strangeness of the world I first encountered in Snow Country has become for me now familiar. Having read it many times, I am always moved by the intimacy of these two very different people, as well as by the startling drama of the natural world Kawabata describes. “High up the mountain, the kaya grass spread out silver in the sun, like the autumn sunlight itself pouring over the face of the mountain. Ah, I am here, something in Shimamura called out as he looked up at it.”

Komako’s passion for Shimamura is expressed very delicately, but clearly. She is delighted to find someone with whom she can share the details of her life, which she has only been able to share with her diary. Komako is a gifted young woman who works for her living in a beautiful village along the west coast of Japan. “Her cheeks still carried the ruddiness of her north-country childhood. In the moonlight the fine geisha-like skin took on the luster of a sea shell.” Because he comes from the city, Shimamura sees Komako as entirely of her place, her home. It is how I see her too. I feel the utter honesty of Snow Country and love what I am able to see of Komako. It has enlarged my concept of who I can be, a woman for whom nature is enough.

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was Snow Country, by Yasunari Kawabata. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who would like to see it in a .pdf format. Email me at lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com to request it.

Abelone Brahe

Abelone Brahe, a character in The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, first published in 1910, is the youngest sister of Malte’s mother. Malte is in love with her, but he says that in his notebooks he will say nothing about her. “Only wrong would be done in the telling,” he says. “One cannot say anything about a woman.” But Malte finds himself writing about women a good deal.

Malte Laurids Brigge has lost the Danish ancestral home, the dogs, the inherited things around which he could have lived comfortably. He lives in Paris, a solitary. His dislocation is such that he believes he may be close to madness. He spends his time in the streets, the libraries and museums of Paris, recording the progress of the new individual he is becoming in his notebooks. He is very lonely and he endlessly writes down stories of his family, of the many deaths he has seen and the ghosts that remain.

But he is also certain that solitude is the price he must pay to see reality. “I marvel sometimes how readily I give up everything I expected for the reality, even when the reality is bad.” He notices many young girls drawing in museums, wondering why they too needed to leave home. “They have already begun to look about, to search; they, whose strength has always lain in being found.” But it comes of weariness, Malte thinks. Women have, for centuries, done the whole work of love. He wonders whether men might start to learn this work, now that so much is changing. The notebooks, which begin with the records of many deaths, turn to a meditation on love.

Abelone remains mysterious, seen only in an idyllic description of her in the garden in summer, stripping currants out of their clusters with a fork. She leads Malte to Bettina von Arnim, “whose love was equal to everything,” and whose collected letters to Goethe are among the few books from which Malte never parts. Goethe was not equal to her, Malte thinks. “Is not the whole world of your making? For how often you have set it afire with your love,” he says of Bettina.

Throughout The Notebooks Abelone links Malte to his home. She doesn’t marry. As a young person, her father finds that she too burns a candle early in the morning writing and requests her to take down his memoirs. These chronicle the aristocratic salons of his time, and particularly the German literary circle of Julie Reventlow, though he dies before he can tell Abelone much about this woman whom he considered a saint. Malte tells us no more about Abelone, though he sometimes talks to her. He describes a magnificent tapestry to her. “I think you would understand,” he writes. Hearing a singer in Venice, he thinks, “Abelone.”

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge speak to me of the painful inner process Jung called individuation. This understanding of one’s unique self and destiny, in Jung’s terms, allows one to forge an ego that “does not break down when incomprehensible things happen; an ego that endures, that endures the truth, and that is capable of coping with the world and with fate.” [Memories, Dreams and Reflections, C.G. Jung, 1961]

I was one of those young girls who had left home for the city. For me too, seeing reality was worth the price. I was less worried about love than Malte, steeped in the rich atmosphere of a loving family, Christian in the best sense of the word. But I was determined to become the one my inner self wished to be. The Notebooks celebrate the uniqueness of the individual on his lonely quest. Abelone remains the good angel hovering over Malte, not particularly knowable, but blessing his adventure in modernity with her spirit. Mine too.

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rilke. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who would like to see it in a .pdf format. Email me at at lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com to request it.

Karen Blixen

“I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills. … Up in this high air you breathed easily, drawing in a vital assurance and lightness of heart. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be.” Karen Blixen’s book Out of Africa is a true memoir in that she wrote it after the coffee farm she managed in Kenya for 17 years had failed. In the dark atmosphere hanging over Europe in 1936, she wrote from her family home at Rungsted, Denmark, looking back and distilling her love for the life she had lived in the high country in Kenya.

Isak Dinesen, is the pen name of Karen Dinesen von Blixen-Finecke, who lived and wrote from 1885 to 1962. She went to Africa with her husband, Bror, described by Beryl Markham as “six feet of amiable Swede and, to my knowledge, the toughest, most durable White Hunter ever to snicker at the fanfare of safari or to shoot a charging buffalo between the eyes while debating whether his sundown drink will be gin or whiskey.” When Karen and Bror separated, Karen was left to manage the farm, which was really too high up for growing coffee. There was little rain and coffee prices fell. Karen Blixen could not imagine leaving and fought it as long as she could.

Out of Africa is filled with vivid descriptions of the things that happened on the coffee farm and the people who worked there: her manager the Somali Farah, her Kikuyu cook Kamante, and Pooran Singh who worked the forge. She writes of her friends Denys Finch-Hatton and Berkeley Cole who came out to dine and listen to music. Though many assume Blixen was in love with Denys, she does not make much of this in the book. When they have a hunting adventure together she writes, “we were too wet, and too dirty with mud and blood to sit down to it, but stood up before a flaming fire in the dining room and drank our live, singing wine up quickly. We did not speak one word. In our hunt we had been a unity and we had nothing to say to one another.”

Blixen wrote in English, the language she used in her years in Kenya. It was her second language and even now, when I read Out of Africa, the slightly unfamiliar use of English, as if she were rolling the words over on her tongue, tasting and smelling them, makes me want to read them aloud. I first read the incantatory sentences at the beginning of this essay when I was 16. I had always been a reader, but these unforgettable words convinced me that real people, writing in our day could create of their own lives sentences which lifted those who heard them into a profound acceptance of the real.

Blixen saw herself as a story teller. She sat writing in the silence at the end of the day, far from home, writing stories to keep herself from anxiety, to regale her friends when they arrived. I am not as interested in the many stories she wrote, in which artifice rules. She let some of them get away from her, stories of romance and illusion. In Out of Africa Blixen restrained her writing to what she was sure of, to what she saw and heard and felt. The combination of a romantic nature steeling itself to realism is profound and makes for greatness.

Blixen lived during a time when imperialism in Africa was still very much alive. I was interested to find this critique of her by a young British woman, Esther Poyer, a raw food enthusiast and life coach. Esther visits Karen Blixen’s house, now a museum in the suburbs of Nairobi. She asks why anyone should be interested in Blixen. I can understand this. But allowing for her historical period, I find Karen Blixen a woman who loved deeply and did the best she could with her circumstances, spilling out her passion in shimmering sentences which live long after her.

Antonia

In My Antonia, published in 1918, Willa Cather tells the story of Antonia, based on Annie Pavelka, a friend she grew up with in Nebraska. As a child, Antonia comes from Bohemia to Nebraska with her family, the favorite of her cultured father. Before he dies, Antonia’s father asks Jim in broken English to “teach my Antonia.” Jim watches Antonia’s hard life as she works in the fields on land which has never been broken. But her brother’s abuse, her mother’s whining and her own disgrace do not dishearten Antonia or quench her spirit.

Jim finds Antonia and her Scandinavian immigrant friends much more lively than the young people in his town who go to the “correct” social club. The immigrant girls may be rougher, work hard in the fields, but they have a directness, joy and physicality denied the tamer, more cultured girls of his town.

Jim does as he is told, studies hard and goes east to become a lawyer. He prospers, but success in the great world doesn’t make him happy. He marries someone uncongenial and finds himself traveling a lot. On one of his trips he returns to Nebraska.

Pavelka Farmstead

Though Antonia still has a difficult life as her husband knows little about farming, she is surrounded by her children. Jim feels he has come home. He has found no one in the world of culture whose spirit surpasses that of Antonia. Whatever else has gone, she has not lost the “fire of life.” Her friend Lena, who also attracts Jim, retains the lazy sensuous manner she always had, parlaying it into a successful business in San Francisco.

Reading My Antonia is to go back to a refreshing discussion of values. It is what good literature offers. The book sifts pastoral values against more urban ones. These alternating values, according to Karen Armstrong, have contended with each other for centuries. Setting nature beside artifice, Jim chooses nature. Physicality is part of it. The town girls he knows aren’t allowed to move! But Jim also sees in Antonia the finer feelings shown by her European father, who could not survive on the rough prairie: delight in music and dancing, conversation and friendship.

I love the book because Cather’s values, represented by the narrator Jim, are my own. In this country, the whiff of commerce hangs around art, but walking out under the sky, under the trees and enjoying the sun give one freedom.

The immigrant girls described by Willa Cather were more my sisters than my mentors. One of my grandfathers lived in a sod house until he was ten. My great-grandmother had been a hired girl in Norway. That women can be independent and hardworking and still be attractive was not something I needed to learn. Growing up I saw many fine partnerships between married people, including that of my parents. Thus the pastoral values Cather celebrates in My Antonia were more a confirmation than anything new and strange. Many of the women I found to educate myself in the feminine were from other countries, exotic to me. Antonia feels like home.

Yin Power

The concept of yin (female) and yang (male) making up a whole is ancient. Karen Armstrong suggests that it may come from the way people lived thousands of years ago in China. Planting and harvest were conducted in the sun when men were most active, and winter was the yin period, when women spent time weaving, spinning and making wine.

The United States, as an immigrant, westward-moving, pioneer nation has valued the yang element in our natures so highly that I believe the yin element, particularly its power, has been little understood. In China, the “valley spirit,” water, with its gentle power to float an egg on its surface or huge container ships, is seen as yin.

“Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water.

Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it.”

The Tao Te Ching: Chapter 78 - 6th Century B.C.E.

As Peter Matthiessen relates in The Snow Leopard, the record of the trip he made into the Himalayas in 1973, he was often cheered in the bitter weather and difficult mountain conditions by the women he sees. The merry young Tende Samnug in a red woolen hat and small bells at her sash carries her baby, Chiring Lamo, on her back through the deep snows and secretly gives him a gift of potatoes. Glimpses of women lighted up this adventure story for me too. Knowing this mother and her baby were real people, I sometimes speculated as I read what they might be doing now.

In late November Matthiessen hiked out of the Dolpo region of Nepal into the village of Rohagaon. One of his guides makes a place for him at a family hearth where he watches “cooking rites so simple and certain in their movements that I sit marveling upon my goat skin, scarcely breathing … The cooking is done by the woman in black rags while [her husband] lies glowering against the wall; the slow deft handling of burning twigs as tsampa and dried pumpkin squash are cooked on a brazier, the breadmaking, the murmuring, the love and food extended to the children without waste words or motion, the tenderness toward the sick husband – all has the pace and dignity of sacrament.”

The picture Matthiessen paints mesmerized me. Few of us go about our household tasks thinking of them as sacrament, but of course they are. Repetition and habit make the food gathering, preparation and setting out of meals to be shared into ritual. We clean house, wash clothes and linens almost daily. The yin-oriented tasks of the private sphere are generally the responsibility of women. And the atmosphere of our homes is set by the cheerfulness, dignity and peace we bring to them.

The Western corporate world has seized upon home-making as an area to be despised, to be filled with labor-saving devices which conscript us into consuming. But when we lose the value for home-making, we lose contact with real life. We can reclaim this ritual for ourselves by conscious, mindful work, by using local food that has not been packaged for us, by choosing carefully the things that surround us, and setting standards of peacefulness and pride in the families we create.

Yin and yang are constantly and continually seeking equilibrium and right relationship. No one gets along without them both. One of our favorite tai chi practices is a series of movements in which, with a partner, we Listen to the other person’s body, Surrender to their advance, Transform or turn in relation to them and Push. This series works in many contexts!

Yin power is that of surrender, of the “valley spirit” which lies low, taking everything in to its capacious breast. It is the power of yielding, letting the water of life seek its own level. It is also the power of listening to our inner selves as well as to others. No one should underestimate it. I would like to see it more openly understood and valued. Progress, achievement, competition and dominance have their place, but so has the yin power of listening, patience, collaboration and respect.

Women and Language

The main difference between women and men, in my view, is simply that men are willing to put up with more abstraction than women. Men can work themselves into boundless philosophic, technological and scientific ecstasy, leaving their bodies behind. They compete and measure themselves and each other by abstract measurements women don’t use. They also accomplish and create things women didn’t know they wanted, such as Skype chats across continents!

Women hear the call of their bodies, not only on a monthly basis, but several times a day for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. Women are profoundly changed by the children they bear and their immediate and intimate needs. Their attention stretches across generations. The home they make for their family is real, friends are real and the ceremonies they create to celebrate life are real, each demanding time and thought.

Language is, of course, an abstraction, which may be one of the reasons we have heard less from women down through the ages. Claudine Herrmann writes in The Tongue Snatchers, originally published in French in 1976, that a “virile” culture pervades the public intellectual and artistic sphere, that women must use a language they have not developed and learn to restrict themselves in using. But all of us have experiences which are difficult to put into words.

Herrmann makes the point that “women’s vision could serve to shed light on the most varied of questions.” As a lover of language, I agree. Without the harmonic that women’s voices provide, abstraction becomes a thin veneer on the rich, inchoate life of culture. In addition, speaking or writing is one of the ways we seize our humanity, a way we “actualize the sheer passive givenness of our being,” as Hannah Arendt says.

I know of no better example of women shedding light on varied questions than the books the scholars Elaine Pagels, Karen Armstrong and Lesley Hazleton have recently produced. Having absorbed the manuscripts found at Nag Hammadi and other early texts, Elaine Pagels describes in Beyond Belief how the early church codified beliefs for the sake of unity. She insists however that suppressed gospels, such as the Gospel of Thomas, actually enrich and extend our understanding of Christ’s teachings and the early church, helping us get past rigid belief structures.

In The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our Religious Traditions, Karen Armstrong studies the ways four cultures contributed to the Axial Age, the name Karl Jaspers gave to the period between 900 B.C. and 200 B.C. Armstrong uses current archaeological, historical and textual scholarship to show the shift in the ways people thought of themselves, how the needs for liberation and redemption were awakened. Lesley Hazleton’s book entitled The First Muslim: The Story of Muhammad tells the dramatic story of how Muhammad, a young camel driver at the edges of society, received divine inspiration, came to power as a political leader and worked toward social justice. Helped greatly by his first wife, Khadija, I might add.

All three of these women write to help heal the fragmentation and divisiveness our closely-held religious beliefs have led to, the sticking points of abstract language. Karen Armstrong believes that at the heart of all religions, spiritual traditions and ethics lies compassion: Do unto others as you would have them do to you. Having recently read the three astonishing books noted, I am thrilled to find mainstream, accessible work being done in this area. By women!

Since we live in an information age, I am free to write in this casual way, pointing to what has moved me. And you are free to copy any of these cues into your favorite search engine and learn more about them.

The Afternoon Knows

In finding my path, I’ve promiscuously sought wisdom among both men’s and women’s writing. While the brain of humans is wired as dominantly male or female, part of it is clearly beyond sexual distinction. Wisdom literature, seeking to tame our unruly selfish instincts into patience, forbearance and generosity, addresses us at our most common humanity, equally shared by men and women.

I grew up in a homogenous community, of northern European origins, the Christian religion and a fairly cohesive post-war sense of country, the United States. Like others of my generation I set off early to see the world. Determined not to be held back from anything human, I allowed myself to be quite open, going into free fall more than once. Luckily, my family was there to pick me up. But crashing and burning didn’t stop me. Once healthy again, I proceeded outward, my internal steering mechanisms strengthened.

The fact that I was a young woman had a great deal of bearing on my adventures. No mountains were involved, except as a metaphor for aspiration. "Everyone has something to do from his or her essential nature," says Rumi (in Coleman Barks' translation). Seeking my place in an expanding and pluralistic world, my love of literature was my guide.

Though I read all over the map, an internal reality detector served me. Everyone has this. Even if we have been dominated and influenced by a decadent culture, each of us must accept responsibility for our thoughts and actions. Sometimes, for safety’s sake we go along with a prevailing situation. But we hold in our hearts the inner knowledge of what is good, true and beautiful, and the desire for it. The ground of reality shines through art, aligning with inner certainty. Literature thus serves, holding up stories which satisfy and feed the yearning heart. I was moved by many women characters.

This blog records the characters I have learned from. It’s a mixed group from all over the world, their stories told by both women and men. I’ve used translations freely as my interests range far afield. I want to give younger women the gift of these stories. Some women fear passion and certainly see around them cautionary tales. But there are also tales of luminous, intense love which lift the characters into the mythic realms which illuminate everyday life. Each of us should have such a tale of our own. They point us to our essential nature.

The blog allows me to speak from a feminine point of view. Claudine Herrmann in The Tongue Snatchers says: “I’ve thought it useful to show not only how the vision of a woman was different, but also that this vision could serve to shed light on the most varied of questions.” By most accounts I am in the afternoon of my life, which gives me the chance to look back, but also the freedom to speak to many questions. For the afternoons knows what the morning never suspected, as the Swedish proverb has it.

Since blog entries slide off the page, the intent of each here is to be synecdoche, the part representing the whole. A brief telling of the story, pointers for those who are interested in more, and the reason I loved it. They will be in no particular order.