Japan and its personnel would be only too happy to serve you in any way in order to ensure the success of your literary project,” declared Mr. Mishima, vice-consul of the Land of the Rising Sun. He was a second away from calling it my “literary mission.” This was getting out of hand. If I surrendered the slightest authority over my work to them, even just a single comma, they would write the book for me. Behind their obsequious manners was an iron will. Whatever the reason, they wanted to control this book.
“We understand that artists hate it when governments want to involve themselves in their work,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Naturally, you are completely free to say whatever you wish about Japan. I have been reading your books. I went right to the bookstore after I heard your declaration.”
“What declaration?”
“I was truly touched when I heard you come out and say, in the middle of that North American shopping center, that you were a Japanese writer.”
“I am not a Japanese writer. I’m writing a book called ‘I Am a Japanese Writer.’ That doesn’t make me a Japanese writer.”
“Excuse me, I’m a bit lost. Mr. Tanizaki, who is a specialist in literature, will surely understand what you mean.”
“Absolutely! That’s when it becomes interesting. It opens every possible perspective ...”
“Unfortunately, I have to go—I have another appointment,” I said, getting to my feet.
The two of them stood up so abruptly they almost knocked over the table. There were endless expressions of regret. I left with my soup untouched. I watched them for a moment from the street. They were talking so adamantly I thought they would come to blows.
PLATO AND THE LANDLORD
I EXIT DOWN the fire escape to avoid the landlord, since I owe him two weeks’ rent. He’s Greek; hence my little jokes about the necessary relationship (even a philosopher has to eat) between Plato and souvlaki. He doesn’t know who Plato is. As a man of the sea, he’d likely be more interested in Ulysses. I couldn’t care less whether or not he knows who Plato is. I’m just trying to right the balance of power. He’s got me with money; I’ve got him with the mind. The fact that I know Plato doesn’t help me in any way whatsoever in our weekly confrontations. They come around much too fast. I’m supposed to pay the rent every Thursday, which I do at exactly ten minutes before midnight. That’s still Thursday, as far as I can tell. Then I settle in with Tolstoy in the bathtub. Only a guy on unemployment who’s paid his rent can read War and Peace without skipping any of the descriptions of the landscape. I’d add to this short list of marathon readers the secretaries who plough through Stephen King’s massive bricks with shawls around their shoulders because of the Arctic cold that reigns in the downtown office towers. Most people prefer slimmed-down books. “No more than two hundred pages or I won’t even crack the book,” a celebrated literary critic recently declared on German television. I belong to that group of people who don’t watch tv, but who can’t stop quoting it. It’s like a Chinese proverb: you can make it mean anything you want. You know that nobody can watch tv in every language, twentyfour hours a day. But let’s get back to the urgent business of me marshaling some resources this evening in order not to indispose my landlord. Sometimes I forget to pay the rent by avoiding my place on Thursday nights. I spend the evening in some crummy bar, watching the clock and imagining my landlord turning in circles like a caged beast. But when I do have the cash, I make a great show of my presence. I make a racket going up the stairs. I dance all by myself, making sure I’m right above his head, since I know he often stands by the window. On my seismograph, without even seeing him, I can trace his slightest movements. He always holds out for a while before knocking on my
“We understand that artists hate it when governments want to involve themselves in their work,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Naturally, you are completely free to say whatever you wish about Japan. I have been reading your books. I went right to the bookstore after I heard your declaration.”
“What declaration?”
“I was truly touched when I heard you come out and say, in the middle of that North American shopping center, that you were a Japanese writer.”
“I am not a Japanese writer. I’m writing a book called ‘I Am a Japanese Writer.’ That doesn’t make me a Japanese writer.”
“Excuse me, I’m a bit lost. Mr. Tanizaki, who is a specialist in literature, will surely understand what you mean.”
“Absolutely! That’s when it becomes interesting. It opens every possible perspective ...”
“Unfortunately, I have to go—I have another appointment,” I said, getting to my feet.
The two of them stood up so abruptly they almost knocked over the table. There were endless expressions of regret. I left with my soup untouched. I watched them for a moment from the street. They were talking so adamantly I thought they would come to blows.
PLATO AND THE LANDLORD
I EXIT DOWN the fire escape to avoid the landlord, since I owe him two weeks’ rent. He’s Greek; hence my little jokes about the necessary relationship (even a philosopher has to eat) between Plato and souvlaki. He doesn’t know who Plato is. As a man of the sea, he’d likely be more interested in Ulysses. I couldn’t care less whether or not he knows who Plato is. I’m just trying to right the balance of power. He’s got me with money; I’ve got him with the mind. The fact that I know Plato doesn’t help me in any way whatsoever in our weekly confrontations. They come around much too fast. I’m supposed to pay the rent every Thursday, which I do at exactly ten minutes before midnight. That’s still Thursday, as far as I can tell. Then I settle in with Tolstoy in the bathtub. Only a guy on unemployment who’s paid his rent can read War and Peace without skipping any of the descriptions of the landscape. I’d add to this short list of marathon readers the secretaries who plough through Stephen King’s massive bricks with shawls around their shoulders because of the Arctic cold that reigns in the downtown office towers. Most people prefer slimmed-down books. “No more than two hundred pages or I won’t even crack the book,” a celebrated literary critic recently declared on German television. I belong to that group of people who don’t watch tv, but who can’t stop quoting it. It’s like a Chinese proverb: you can make it mean anything you want. You know that nobody can watch tv in every language, twentyfour hours a day. But let’s get back to the urgent business of me marshaling some resources this evening in order not to indispose my landlord. Sometimes I forget to pay the rent by avoiding my place on Thursday nights. I spend the evening in some crummy bar, watching the clock and imagining my landlord turning in circles like a caged beast. But when I do have the cash, I make a great show of my presence. I make a racket going up the stairs. I dance all by myself, making sure I’m right above his head, since I know he often stands by the window. On my seismograph, without even seeing him, I can trace his slightest movements. He always holds out for a while before knocking on my
Similar Books
