Tag Archives: by Sophia Vale

Reimagining Comparative Literature with Karen Thornber

Interview and profile

As Professor Karen Thornber pours me a cup of tea, a maintenance worker appears at the door, requesting access to the bathroom, which had not been working for the past week. Thornber quickly offers her help before returning back to the little table in the corner of her office in the small Dana-Palmer building on the Harvard campus.

“Sorry about that,” Thornber says with a smile. “There’s always something in need of repair around here.”

Director of graduate studies in Comparative Literature, Thornber has expanded the boundaries of her field. Her target is the fact that non-Western literatures are the minority in comparative literature departments. “For most of its history,” Thornber says, “the field of comparative literature as practiced in much of the world has focused largely on certain privileged European literatures.” By putting marginalized Asian literatures closer to the core of world literature Thornber intends to challenge this model. Even when Eastern literatures are praised or studied, it is generally through a western lens, as if the works of Eastern writers need to seek approval from the dominant West. Even with modern Japanese writers, such as Haruki Murakami, their recognition is based on how well their works can be translated for Western—specifically American—readerships. Rather than accept this rule of approval, which furthers an already outdated imperialist standard, Thornber wants to bring comparative literature closer to the modern global consciousness, and, ideally, attract prospective students.

Karen Thornber has spent her career building a bridge between environmental studies and East Asian literature. While these two subjects seem unrelated, in her book Ecoambiguity: Environmental Crises and East Asian Literatures (Michigan, 2012) Thornber draws a connection between East Asian writers and their fictional characters’ interactions with nature.  In addition to her current responsibilities as director of graduate studies in comp lit, Thornber is director of graduate studies in Regional Studies East Asia (she’s also been chair of  both programs), and holds a professorship in the Department of East Asian Languages. Despite these many distinctions, however, Thornber is easy to talk to. Her office on the second floor of the Dana-Palmer House is a shrine to her passions, with Japanese ceramics, souvenirs from Africa and the Middle East and artwork from China and Southeast Asia all in evidence.

Thornber’s primary areas of research and teaching are world literature and East Asian literature, as well as the literatures of the Indian Ocean Rim; she focuses on literary criticism of trauma and medicine. She has a Bachelor’s degree from Princeton University and a Ph. D. from Harvard. Her dissertation—Cultures and Texts in Motion: Negotiating and Reconfiguring Japan and Japanese Literature in Polyintertextual East Asian Contact Zones—won a Harvard prize, one from the American Comparative Literature Association, and one from the International Convention of Asia Scholars for the best dissertation in Asian Studies. Thornber conducted most of her research for her dissertation by doing fieldwork abroad. “In Japan there were a lot of men who could not understand the idea of a female academic.” Thornber recalls her fieldwork experience with some disbelief. “I would walk into libraries… and they would give me this ‘look.’’

Thornber was undaunted, however, and pursued her research and writing.  Her first book, Empire of Texts in Motion: Chinese, Korean, and Taiwanese Transculturations of Japanese Literature (Harvard, 2009), explores interactions of Japan’s colonies’ literary worlds during the Japanese Empire (1895-1945), developing a new theory of textual influence, the “artistic contact nebula.” While this monograph was a testament to Thornber’s interest in postcolonial literature, it also challenged the conventional paradigm of literary interactions of unequal power.  Determined to revolutionize her academic field further, three years later Thornber published her second book, Ecoambiguity, which draws on her interest in ecocriticism and explores the ambiguous relationships between people and their biophysical environments.  Both books received major scholarly awards.

Thornber notes somewhat ruefully that just as research in comparative literature is becoming more dynamic, interest in the academic field has deteriorated.

As Comparative Literature departments at various universities and colleges in the United States face dwindling numbers of interested students—part of the national decline in the humanities—the outlook for the major seems grim. Yet as Thornber said, “it is a trend that is affecting all non-STEM majors.” Though students right now may be more interested in majors more apparently applicable to jobs, comparative literature at Harvard is introducing new courses that combine aspects of the psychology of medicine and environmental science with literary analysis. For the undergraduate program at Harvard Thornber has taught two courses, “Literature and Medicine” and “Case Studies in the Medical Humanities: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on the Experience of Illness and Healing ,” that pull in students with an interest in medical careers. That same interest carries over to many of the lectures and presentations Thornber has done both at Harvard and other universities.

Over the course of our interview, we finish every drop of the tea.  Thornber’s welcome and her account of her work and career have delighted and impressed an interviewer; it seems quite clear that students who make their way up the stairs to Thornber’s office and, drawn by the new vision she has brought to her fields, into her courses, will  be equally delighted and impressed.

Navigating Murakami’s “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle”

Book or movie review

There’s no author who occupies the same space in the literary universe that Haruki Murakami does. In every novel he writes Murakami constructs a fictional world that reflects his sympathy for humanity and his intricate imagination. Though his novels are uniquely challenging, readers keep returning to the bookstore for his latest creation. His works are so popular that this year Murakami was selected as one of the 100 most influential people in the world by TIME.

What launched this novelist into the global consciousness was The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, his magnum opus. The book is a challenge: at times it seems to lead the reader on a wild chase through the unknown. It addresses the trauma of WWII in Japan and abroad, loss of self in the modern age and the blurred lines between reality and fantasy—a mixture that can make any story feel convoluted. Yet, the labyrinth of Murakami’s fiction—through dream-like sequences, painful recollections, always with the sound of the ominous wind-up bird in the background—will leave readers connected to a much wider story—the global narrative of pain—in ways that may surprise them.

Toru Okada has recently quit his comfortable job as a “professional gofer,” an overly qualified errand boy, at a law firm. With no clear purpose of what he wants to do with his life, Toru is content to stay home and read novels while his wife Kumiko works for a lifestyle magazine. Toru is the embodiment of passivity. Even after strange things begin to happen around him, it is not until Kumiko vanishes that he finally takes action.

Toru’s mundane routine is reflected in Murakami’s clear and simple style. The tone and words lull the reader into a daze like a small boat on a quiet ocean. Then out of nowhere Murakami inserts something surreal. Juxtaposed with his concise writing is a phantasmagoria of absurd happenings. Surprisingly, the magical effortlessly melds with the mundane as these absurd events force Toru and the reader out of this daze. While making a plate of spaghetti, Toru receives a strange phone call from a woman who challenges his concept of reality. Although events like this seem unconnected at first, they force Toru to encounter colorful characters that are bonded through the cry of an ominous wind-up bird, which only they can hear, and memories of violence and World War II. Toru’s job much like the reader’s is to listen to all these accounts of pain and discover how they relate to Kumiko’s disappearance.

Yet that goal does not even appear on the horizon for a good 200 pages. Instead the reader must push through flashbacks and found documents for the first part of the book before any narrative action takes place. The original Japanese version of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle was serialized in the Shinchō literary magazine. Some of the chapters, including a scene where Chinese soldiers are beaten to death with baseball bats, were originally published as short stories in the New Yorker. The first chapter in Murakami’s anthology, The Elephant Vanishes is the origin of the first chapter of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. These chapters can stand alone, reflecting Murakami’s ability as a short story writer, but together they seem fragmented and frustrate the reader.

Just when the reader is ready to give up on this book, Murakami seamlessly brings all of these disjointed babblings, visions, and testimonies together with the thread of pain. Juxtaposed are disclosures of rape, torture and manslaughter as his characters each reveal their own unique connection to trauma and war. Mamiya reveals his role in World War II as a mapmaker during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1937. Another character’s father was a vet in Manchuria at the same time and witnessed a particularly haunting episode of the novel, the messy massacre of zoo animals in Manchuria. The image of the Japanese military slaughtering innocent animals reminds the reader of the innocent lives lost to the unnecessary violence of war.

Murakami explores how trauma in postwar Japan connects a generation. A web of alienation underpins each character and passage, chronicling nightmares of agony. The use of letters, computer conversations, newspaper articles and recounted dreams blurs the line between fantasy and reality in the novel. By the last chapter the reader is unsure how much actually transpired in the novel or in the protagonist’s head. However, at the end of the novel, as in a carefully crafted symphony every anecdote and symbol comes together in an opus of great beauty.

Though Murakami gradually untangles the network of characters in his novel, he never abandons the surreal quality of his style. In Mamiya’s long account of his war experiences—including a man being skinned alive—an epiphany he has in which he’s bathed in a magical light at the bottom of a well stands out in sharp relief. After the light passes over him, Mamiya feels empty and isolated in his own body, a carcass without a soul. Murakami seems to be saying here that light is not just light but is divine, the light of the universe. Once it is gone, Mamiya is no longer in a state of grace. This feeling of separation from nature and reality pervades every character’s narrative. The residue of violence has carved out the human part of each character, leaving them incomplete and searching for purpose in the modern world. This search leads Toru into the dream world where he must find a way to save Kumiko, and everybody else. But who will save Toru from getting trapped in his own dream?

Fans of James Patterson won’t like Murakami. This isn’t a novel to read while waiting to catch a flight. There’s no instant gratification. This novel takes work to get through. It starts off at a slow pace and doesn’t try to rush to get to the end. It makes even the most loyal Murakami fan want to put the novel back on the shelf. Press on. Read further, because in the final chapters it becomes a page-turner. The book is a marathon. But 600 pages won’t seem so long once you make it to the finish line.

By Haruki Murakami

Translated by Jay Rubin

607 pp. Vintage International 1997

Letter to the Editor

Letter to the editor

Re: “Down and out in upscale Japan” (10/26/14) by Tom Benner:

Benner addresses Japan’s precarious rate of unemployment. However he focuses too much on the economic decline to notice the real problem: the lack of government aid for the homeless. The Tokyo Metropolitan Government survey on the homeless population is incomplete, a poor reflection of recently elected Tokyo Governor Yoichi Masuzoe’s strong stance on social welfare issues. Hiroshi Ito cites the government’s investment into job training programs as the key to the decreased recorded population. However, what Ito ignores is that the majority of the homeless population face discrimination in the workplace for being older.

In fact the majority of Japan’s population is 60 and above. In contrast to the situation of the rising middle class, there is no long-term plan in place to provide security for the elderly population, who due to the economic decline may lose their jobs. Instead of pouring money into social security for the elderly, the government focuses on the welfare benefit tied to seikatsu hogo, the livelihood protection law. While the welfare benefit provides shelter, citizens are expected to find a job and leave after 3 months.

In a park in Osaka the number of homeless people has grown so big and self-sufficient that they’ve founded their own association. They put their once-paid skills to use as gardeners and scavengers. It looks more like a homeless commune than a government shelter. This community of blue tarps tied to nearby trees is not a permanent one, but until the government actually steps in, it’ll have to do.

The ABCs vs. the DFTs

Op-Ed

The ABCs of anorexia, body dysmorphia, and compulsive exercise comprise the alphabet soup of discourse on eating disorders in Western countries. What about countries in the East? Japan’s bowl is full of DFTs—danjonoyakuwari, fushoku-byo, and taijin kyōfushō. A true mouthful for anyone who’s not Japanese.

Though the West is considered the birthplace of eating disorders, Japan has had its own unique struggle. During the Edo era (1603 – 1868) doctors noted a small number of patients who refused to eat rice, and would vomit when forced to eat. They called this strange illness fushoku-byo, or not eating disease. However, it wasn’t until the 1980’s, after Western doctors solidified the study of eating disorders, that Japanese began to actively research and release medical reports on eating disorders, using the Western doctor’s rhetoric. From 1988 to 1992 the number of identified cases of anorexia alone quadrupled in Japan. And the rate continues to grow to this day, soon to surpass the number of reported cases in the United States. Though there is a concern in Japan that this epidemic of eating disorders threatens Japan’s spotless reputation, the government’s attempts at lowering this rate have little hope of reversing this rate.

The increase in reported cases of anorexia stems from the stringent danjonoyakiwai, or gender roles, in Japan. Japanese culture stresses traditional gender roles, women as shufu, housewife, and men as the prime breadwinners. Though women are involved in the working place in Japan, the expectation of strict gender roles endures. A 2014 poll found that 40% of both men and women 20 to 40 years old believe husbands should work full time while wives stay at home, and 71% of female respondents said women should concentrate on raising children. Japanese culture deems any form of self-praise or self-assertion bad manners, limiting the spaces that women have for communicating their feelings outside set gender roles. Disconnected from self-expression, these women develop low self-esteem and an inability to cope with social issues, factors that can result in self-deprecating behavior and eating disorders.

Complicating the already rigid gender roles is the societal pressure facing adolescents transitioning into adulthood. Social anxiety takes the top spot amongst the biggest fears of Japanese adolescents and young adults. This weight hangs over the youth of Japan, resulting in taijin kyōfushō, or interpersonal phobia, a fear of embarrassing those around you with your very presence. This anxiety contributes to the stress that women feel towards their bodies. The need to be like their peers, to not stand out in an already highly homogenous society, drives them towards developing eating disorders.

In 1997 the Japanese government recognized the prevalence of eating disorders amongst women ages 13-39 and issued policies to counter it. High school Physical Education and Health classes now systematically present information about healthy eating habits and nutrition. However, these classes are purely informational, designed to promote healthy attitudes towards eating. They don’t deal at all with the psychological undercurrents at work. Since 1997 the Japanese government hasn’t passed any more policies that focus on the growing number of eating disorders. The current government under Prime Minster Shinzō Abe remains silent on issues regarding eating disorders.

The eating disorder intervention programs that Japan has in place don’t work because they are based on Western models. Though eating disorders are universal, the attitudes behind eating disorders are unique to each culture. Many women diagnosed with an eating disorder in the west relate their need to be thin to success. Attitudes perpetuated by the media in Western countries also help explain why women develop body dysmorphia, a belief that one’s appearance is defective, whereas in Japan it’s not so much the media that affects the development of eating disorders as it is social anxiety and peer evaluation.

So why does the Japanese government adopt the Western approach in dealing with eating disorders to Japan?

The West has experience dealing with eating disorders, and in the minds of the global community the Western way is the best way. Plus Western methods of intervention have been used in the past to help diagnose and treat eating disorders successfully. What the Japanese government fails to see is that Western methods succeed because they are Western. There is no equivalent of danjonoyakuwari, fushoku-byo, and taijin kyōfushō in a non-Japanese context. These terms and their impact are products of Japanese history and culture that require study to understand. Yet Japan has yet to fund research on mental health issues as Western medical groups have done. As a result the symptoms of many Japanese who suffer from eating disorders don’t correspond to clinical diagnostic markers set by Western medicine; these patients fall into subclinical categories where they can’t receive full treatment.

In the 80 medical schools in Japan there is only one professor specializing in eating disorders.

The answer for Japan isn’t to be more like the West. The answer is as a nation for Prime Minister Shinzō Abe with the Ministry of Health to update policies on mental health issues while defining symptoms of eating disorders and the prognosis for their care in a Japanese context. It’s time for the dialogue on eating disorders to be spoken in Japanese. ABC doesn’t work in the land of DST.

The Future of Japanese Culture at Wellesley College

Report on a cultural event

As two women and two young girls, done up in beautiful coiffures and wearing kimonos of rich pale silk, plucked their koto, a traditional Japanese instrument, a respectful hush settled over the crowd at Yuki Matsuri.

This year with fingers crossed, the Japan Club welcomed a very special performance for Yuki Matsuri, or Snow Festival. They had managed to book professional koto players. The koto is a traditional stringed instrument that looks like an enlarged bridge of a cello with an extra nine strings and is laid on the ground. It’s the national instrument of Japan and it’s difficult to learn and to play. It’s a repetition of single strums producing a single sound. Each pluck of a string sends a forlorn twang into the ether. Often used in nagauta, long songs that accompanied kabuki theatre. For me, the sounds evoke the traditional Japan we often see in samurai films with geisha in beautiful silk kimonos looking out across a lake, watching a sakura blossom’s descent. However, the traditional sound can be disconcerting –anachronistic even—for unsophisticated audiences unfamiliar with Eastern music and instruments.

I looked out at the audience from backstage as the koto players continued. Their eyes were fixated on the performers. With each pluck of the koto, a single note resonated in the air. After ten minutes the saga of sounds slowly faded into silence, and the audience applauded. The performers paused, and the audience prepared for the next act to come on stage, but instead the performers began their second song. Another ten minutes passed, and several students began to shift impatiently in their seats on the floor. Some even got up to get more food, talking loudly to their friends and turning their backs to the stage. Japan Club members turned to each other and frowned: “Everyone’s leaving.”

It was true. Half the audience was picking up their plates, throwing them in to the trash, and walking out the doors of the performance room. This was only the second act of Yuki Matsuri. Veteran Japan Club members explained to me that it’s not unusual at long events like Yuki Matsuri for audience members to get up and explore the booths lining the walls during intermission. The great offense came from the fact that they were leaving in the middle of a performance. Although the koto players continued to play for their full time allotment, when they left the stage, they brusquely bowed to the Japan Club e-board members, gathered their instruments and quickly left. Their refusal to stay for the rest of the festival was the Japanese way of saying, “We’ve been utterly insulted by our treatment.”

This was the eleventh time Wellesley Japan Club hosted Yuki Matsuri. Every year, over 200 students attend in order to see the various performances ranging from a traditional sōranbushi, a fisherman’s shanty, to a Japanese Pop music medley. Along the walls of the Tishman Commons are booths that feature games like origami and delicious Japanese food such as oden, wheat noodles in a soy broth. Yuki Matsuri is a great way to expose Wellesley students to Japanese culture without having to host a lecture. Unfortunately, this event doesn’t receive the appreciation it deserves.

There is a lot of work that goes into planning a cultural event of this large scale. Japan Club Executive Board members start planning all the way in September and don’t stop until February. Their job description sounds simple enough, except people outside of Japan Club E-board don’t realize the painstaking details involved. People who don’t speak English very well perform many of the traditional acts that are brought in for Yuki Matsuri. As a result, most of the communications received from outside participants are written in keigo, or the formal Japanese used when addressing elders or superiors. This profound politeness is a reflection of the complex social hierarchy embedded in Japanese culture. Disregarding the cultural significance of formal correspondence signals to the performers a lack of respect.

Although the preparations for Yuki Matsuri are intense, the hardest part is getting Wellesley students to actually attend. The joke on campus—even amongst professors—is that all one needs to attract Wellesley students is free food.It makes a lot of sense. What could poor college students want more than a stimulating lecture?

Okonomiyaki, Japanese catchall pancakes.

It’s no wonder that the Japan Club, which orders over a thousand dollars worth of sushi, soba, katsudon, and gyoza, gets 300 guests from on- and off-campus. They come for the food, and the Japan Club members hope the students stay to watch the acts that their fellow students have spent half a year perfecting. Yet by the end of the night, maybe 100 to as few as 50 students have actually stayed till the end.

Although many audience members left during the koto performance, the event was still a success. The rest of the acts, including Mount Holyoke’s OdotteMita, a J-pop dance group, were able to perform their pieces without any audience members leaving. In fact many of the students excitedly waited until after intermission for Wellesley’s Taiko, a Japanese drum club. The loud banging of the large drums contrasted with the subtle long notes of the koto. The traditional music of the koto, often associated with the courtly life of Japan, was perhaps not ideally suited for a college crowd; most of who are not used the sounds of Eastern music.

Personally, I was angry that many of my fellow students had left the performance room without really giving the koto players a chance. Blame bad timing or short attention spans, but the majority of the audience members that night missed not only great performances, but also the point of a cultural show, exposure to a unique culture. Discovery and adventure require some effort and persistence. The disinterested students may out number the interested, but the interested students are learning a lot about Japan’s culture from the minimal effort to eat good food and listen quietly to performances.

Mexican Coke and Pokémon, a Few of My Favorite Things

Blog post on a cultural experience

It felt like an eternity had passed on the McAllen-Hidalgo-Reynosa International Bridge before we even reached the Texas-Mexico border-checkpoint. Cars were bumper-to-bumper, vying to get access before sunset. The wait was excruciating. I was eight-years-old and stuck in a small car with my older cousin Victoria and her cousin Matt. Mom was trying to distract us with promises of the famous Mexican Coke from Los Tres Hermanos, but all I wanted to do was turn the car around, back to McAllen, so I could watch Pokémon.

After hours of searching, we approached a desolate and dilapidated building. With no visible markings or signs to indicate its existence you could have easily missed it. The only way we knew about the location of Los Tres Hermanos restaurant was by word-of-mouth, a secret shared between locals.

However, the exterior gave no clues to the interior; inside Los Tres Hermanos was a five star restaurant, with silk tablecloths and fancy candles. The restaurant was packed, but magically a table was already set for my family. Mustachioed waiters in black vests and white button down shirts asked for our order like the penguins in the Mary Poppins movie.

“Quequierestomar?” He asked all in one breath as if there were no spaces for pauses in this language. Victoria and I just looked at each other, then back at our waiter.

Luckily our parents ordered for us. “Coke.” A universal word no doubt known on Pluto.

In less than a second the waiter returned with a glass bottle of Mexican Coke the size of my face for Victoria, Matt and me. We couldn’t believe our eyes. One bottle contained the same amount of sugar I would consume on Halloween night. Five Mexican Cokes later, Victoria, Matt and I were in a sugar rush so wild we convinced ourselves we should reenact the Pokémon theme song for fun.

With our five empty bottles of Coke in front of us, we each grabbed a utensil and proceeded to bang on the bottles in the key of annoying sounds. We each sang our lungs out, trying to prove who knew the complete lyrics of the Pokémon theme song.

“I want to be the very best…that no one ever was…” I began and soon we hit the chorus, “Pokémon, gotta catch them all, its you and me I know it’s my destiny!”

As we sang our voices reached the ears of every guest present. We were on the third refrain when my mother tugged my sleeve and said, “Sophie, you guys are REALLY loud.”  My cousin and I stopped our performance and found the whole restaurant had gone quiet. Though the restaurant was silent, the patrons looked on in encouraging smiles in appreciation for our efforts. A waiter watching us from the bar picked up an empty coke bottle and tapped it with a spoon and smiled as if in agreement. Even though everyone was silent, I felt as if he and the whole restaurant were giving us a standing ovation.

Music needs no translation. Though Pokémon may not have been on the radar of our waiters and the other guests, they understood the need for music and revelry. In fact it’s not uncommon to walk into a Mexican restaurant and hear the sounds of a mariachi band serenading the guests with folk songs. I’ve even heard that in some Mexican restaurants patrons entertain other patrons through songs or limericks. Since that entertaining evening in Mexico, I’ve had time to reflect on that waiter’s smile and I’ve come to the conclusion that singing is considered an art in Mexico. From backyard cookouts to fancy restaurants, live, unrehearsed musical entertainment is an invaluable currency. Don’t be surprised when you visit a Mexican restaurant if they ask you to sing for your supper.

Of course at eight I had no idea how influential a Japanese TV-show like Pokémon would be. It wasn’t long before I was watching Sailor Moon and listening to Japanese Pop music like a regular otaku, nerd. One night, I was watching a Japanese anime, cartoon, and the main character was hosting a business meeting at a karaoke bar. These old and graying businessmen in designer suits were discussing matters of international trade as they sang—off key—popular Japanese music. That night I was reminded of my performance at Los Tres Hermanos. Though the food and customs of Japan and Mexico are vastly different, I realized that they shared one thing in common, a love of music. Here I was this Hispanic kid who was a third-generation American, singing the theme song to a show originally made in Japan in a Mexican restaurant. Here I am now, a Hispanic student in an American college, studying Japanese. When I ever I think about that waiter’s smile I don’t worry, I know it’s my destiny.