Crafting legacies in print: Natsume Sōseki, intellectual networking and the founding of the publisher Iwanami Shoten in prewar Japan

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Content CRAFTING LEGACIES IN PRINT: NATSUME SŌSEKI, INTELLECTUAL NETWORKING AND THE FOUNDING OF THE PUBLISHER IWANAMI SHOTEN IN PREWAR JAPAN by Andrew T. Kamei-Dyche A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (HISTORY) May 2020 Copyright 2020 Andrew T. Kamei-Dyche ii Table of Contents Acknowledgements v Preface: A Publisher Called to Judgment 1 Chapter I: Iwanami Shoten: Publishing and Intellectual Community in Modern Japan 7 Introduction 7 Iwanami Shoten: Proposing an Argument 12 Iwanami Shoten as an Approach to Intellectual History 15 Perspectives and Historiography 21 Approaching Publishers and the Intellectual Community 21 Assessing the Scholarship on the History of Books and Print Culture 26 Theoretical Orientations and Methodology 36 Orientation I: Approaching Networking 38 Orientation II: Commerce and Culture 41 Synthesizing Orientations 45 Sources and Outline of the Study 47 Chapter II: The Circuits of Intellectual Life, Part I: Natsume Sōseki and His Networks 49 Introduction 49 Intellectual Networking in the Late Meiji Era 50 Natsume Sōseki as an Individual and a Meiji Intellectual 55 Sōseki’s Early Networking 74 Sōseki’s Networking in the United Kingdom 84 Conclusion 101 Chapter III: The Circuits of Intellectual Life, Part II: The Mokuyōkai 103 Introduction 103 The Formation, Characteristics and Functions of the Mokuyōkai 104 Charting the Membership 129 Studying the Key Members 139 iii Sōseki’s Relations with Institutions and Other Networks 182 Conclusion 189 Chapter IV: The Birth of Iwanami Shoten: From Selling Books to Printing Them 191 Introduction 191 Setting Up Shop: Bookstores in the Late Meiji World 191 Situating Iwanami Shoten: Kanda Book Town, Business Practices, and Patronage 197 Iwanami Enters Publishing: Context and Motives 225 The Earliest Ventures in Publishing 239 Conclusion 252 Chapter V: The Iwanami Edition of Kokoro 254 Introduction 254 Planning the Edition 255 Funding the Edition 271 Designing the Edition (I): Sōseki, Art, and Wagahai wa Neko de aru 274 Designing the Edition (II): The Creation and Impact of the Iwanami Kokoro 293 Conclusion 304 Chapter VI: Drawing on the Network: From Kokoro to the Sōseki Zenshū 306 Introduction 306 Putting the Network to Work (I): Friends Bearing Manuscripts 307 Putting the Network to Work (II): Friends of Friends and Friendly Labor 319 The Sōseki Zenshū (I): Development and Overview of Editions 334 The First Edition (1917-1918, “Morita”) 341 The Second Edition (1935-1937, “Komiya”) 348 The Third Edition (1993-1999, “New”) 353 The Sōseki Zenshū (II): Editorial Practices 355 The Impact of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū 368 Conclusion 374 iv Postscript: Iwanami Shoten and Intellectual Authority in Modern Japan 376 Bibliography 380 v Acknowledgements This study is a result of research carried out over many years, during which I received invaluable assistance and support from many institutions and individuals. While I will do my best to list these, I cannot be exhaustive, and moreover must apologize in advance for the omissions that will no doubt occur due to my atrocious memory. I would like to thank Gordon Berger, whose innocent inquiry about what made some philosophy texts popular and not others started me down the path that eventually led to this project, and who oversaw its early stages. My other mentors, Joan Piggott, Shibata Shin’ichi, Myōjō Kiyoko, and Brett Sheehan all contributed to my development as a scholar and supported me at various stages of this project. Brett Sheehan also deserves special thanks for having stepped in to shepherd the project through its final stages; I am indebted to him and my other two committee members, Ben Uchiyama and Kerim Yasar, whose valuable advice helped me substantially improve the argument. Lori Rogers in the USC Department of History deserves thanks for helping me with the logistics of navigating the USC system. Funding was provided at various junctures by the Japan Foundation, the Social Science and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada, the Honor Society of Phi Kappa Phi, and at USC the Department of History, the East Asia Studies Center, and the College of Letters, Arts and Sciences. I am indebted to a great many libraries and collections, and their staff. These vi include especially the East Asia Library at USC, where Tomoko Bialock assisted me with tracking down numerous works in the early stages of the project; Meiji University Library, with its excellent collection of rare periodicals; and the National Diet Library, especially the staff of the Modern Japanese Political History Materials Room (Kensei Shiryō-shitsu). Other libraries include those at Saitama University, Hitotsubashi University, Tokyo University, Sophia University, and Kanda University of International Studies. I benefitted from examining the holdings at Shinshū Fūju Bunko in Suwa City, and the London Sōseki Museum (which has unfortunately now closed). I also want to thank Saitama University and Meiji University, where I was a visiting scholar, Tokyo University Historiographical Institute, and the Institute for Japan Studies at Kanda University of International Studies. I want to express my appreciation for all of the friends and colleagues who gave me suggestions, assisted me with something, pointed me towards sources, or just offered encouragement and a sympathetic ear when I got bogged down. They include, in entirely random order, Clinton Godart, Armadio Arboleda, Dylan Ellefson, David Rands, Phil Ethington, Bettina Gramlich-Oka, Herman Ooms, Sven Saaler, Patti Kameya, Anna Beerens, Gaye Rowley, Vanessa Ward, Jun Kajima, Masaya Kanzaki, and Kurozumi Makoto. I am no doubt forgetting many people, for which I again apologize. I am also indebted to my colleagues in SHARP (Society for the History of Authorship, Reading and Publishing), Shuppan Gakkai, and the Sophia University vii Network Studies Group for their feedback and support. While the best parts of this project are no doubt due to the kind assistance I received from others, I alone am responsible for any shortcomings that remain. I am also indebted to my senpai, Roger Brown, who gave me feedback at every stage of the project and never failed to remind me to finish it (!), and my family in Canada, Japan, and the UK for their patience and faith. My greatest debt is to my partner, Rieko, who shared the ups and downs of the project from start to finish, and was always ready to help and willing to listen as I worked through my half-baked ideas. She remains my dearest companion and fellow scholar, and without her so little would have meaning. viii Dedication To Rieko, with all my love 1 Preface A Publisher Called to Judgment In August 2005, the Japanese publisher Iwanami Shoten ( 岩波書店) was hit with a sudden, major lawsuit that shortly set off a politically explosive series of events. The leading writer and influential intellectual Ōe Kenzaburō ( 大江健三郎, 1935- ) was being sued in Osaka District Court by a former military commander and the family of another for defamation over several nonfiction works he had authored, notably Okinawa Nōto, which Iwanami was republishing (having first published it in 1970). 1 The work had reopened old wounds. Ōe claimed that during the 1945 Battle of Okinawa, with American victory all but assured, the Japanese military had induced Okinawans to commit suicide rather than be captured by the invaders. 2 This was not itself a new idea: Okinawans had long shared accounts of mass suicides, perhaps the most infamous being that the military had distributed grenades to civilians for this purpose. Such accounts had fueled postwar resentment of the military, as well as the Japanese national government, in Okinawa. While revisionists had not denied such suicides occurred, they had attempted to glorify them as heroic sacrifices chosen by individuals, rather than holding the 1 大江健三郎 Ōe Kenzaburō, 『沖縄ノート』 Okinawa Nōto (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1970). All Japanese names are given in accordance with Japanese name order unless cited in English order or referred to in a context where the English order is employed by, or in relation to, the person in question. 2 Ibid. Ōe defended his position and re-stated his argument in court on November 9 2007. See, for instance, “Oe testifies military behind Okinawa mass suicides,” The Japan Times, Nov. 10, 2007. 2 military responsible. Taking issue with Ōe’s claim that a military order was the cause, Umezawa Yutaka (former garrison commander on the island of Zamami) and the family of Akamatsu Yoshitsugi (former garrison commander on the island of Tokashiki) proclaimed that Ōe’s account represented a distortion of the truth and a besmirching of their honor and that of the military, leading to the lawsuit against both Ōe and Iwanami. 3 The plantiffs enjoyed the firm backing and financial support of various nationalistic and revisionist organizations. 4 While the charges were not in criminal court, and the court eventually rejected the suit in March 2008, the incident was no less shocking. The media went into an uproar. The Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (MEXT) responded, before the lawsuit had even reached a conclusion, by calling for deletion of any references to the suicides in history textbooks, igniting a firestorm of protest in Okinawa. 5 With the textbook issue once again in the spotlight, politicians began to take sides, with the more reactionary among them trying to rally allies in the academy against the scholarly establishment Iwanami Shoten represented. 6 The 3 The proper title for the case was the “Ōe Kenzaburō and Iwanami Shoten Battle of Okinawa Trial” ( 大江健三郎・岩波書店沖縄戦裁判), often shortened to just “Battle of Okinawa Trial.” 4 To give but one example, Sono Ayako, chair of the Nippon Foundation (not the Japan Foundation, but rather the organization founded by Sasakawa Ryōichi), strongly supported the plantiffs. For more on this angle, see Karoline Postel-Vinay with Mark Selden, “History on Trial: French Nippon Foundation Sues Scholar for Libel to Protect the Honor of Sasakawa Ryōichi,” Japan Focus, on Apr. 26 2010, <http://japanfocus.org/-Karoline-Postel_Vinay/3349>. 5 On the textbook issue, see Kiyoko Selden, trans. & ed., “Compulsory Mass Suicide, the Battle of Okinawa, and Japan’s Textbook Controversy,” Japan Focus, Jan. 6 2008, <http://www.japanfocus.org/-Aniya-Masaaki/2629>, featuring three takes on the issue, which she provides both in the original and in translation. 6 Iwanami Shoten also took heavy criticism from reactionary forces when it published findings 3 attacks were not kind: the right wing railed against Ōe and Iwanami Shoten, his enablers. Economist and critic Ikeda Nobuo ( 池田信夫, 1953- ), in a blog entry entitled “The Disease Called Ōe Kenzaburō,” directly conflated author and publisher, lambasting them as “absolute pacifists” subscribing to a “masochistic view of history,” while devoid of any feeling of “belonging to the nation called Japan.” 7 Iwanami Shoten, he claimed, was just part of the media endlessly hounding the view of “Japan [as an] assailant against Asia.” 8 Amidst all the vitriol, left unmentioned were the obvious parallels to a previous case many years prior. On February 10, 1940, Tsuda Sōkichi ( 津田左右吉, 1873-1961), a major intellectual and historian at Waseda University, saw four of his books banned for violating the publications law. 9 Tsuda’s scholarship, which included extensive analysis of the classics Kojiki and Nihonshoki, claimed that the earliest Japanese monarchs recorded therein were strictly mythological, not historical, figures, and moreover that this mythic heritage had been deployed concerning Japanese biological and chemical warfare. Frederick Dickinson, discussing the findings, notes their publication by “one of Japan’s most powerful publishing houses, Iwanami,” (“Biohazard: Unit 731 in Postwar Japanese Politics of National “Forgetfulness”,” on Nov. 21, 2010 <http://apjjf.org/-Frederick-R.-Dickinson/2543/article.html>). 7 池田信夫 Ikeda Nobuo, 「大江健三郎という病」 “Ōe Kenzaburō toiu Yamai,” on Apr. 3 2007 <http://blog.goo.ne.jp/ikedanobuo/e/511455fcb6a86af7b6b9118d517e03ea>. 8 Ibid. 9 The four works were 『古事記及び日本書紀の新研究』Kojiki oyobi Nihonshoki no Shin-kenkyū (Tokyo: Rakuyōdō, 1919), 『神代史の研究』Jindaishi no Kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1924), 『日本上代史研究』Nihon Jōdaishi Kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1930), and 『上代日本の社会及び思想』Jōdai Nihon no Shakai oyobi Shisō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1933). Tsuda first rose to prominence with an earlier version of 『神代史の研究』, titled 『神代史の新しい研究』Jindaishi no Atarashii Kenkyū (Tokyo: Nishōdō, 1913). 4 by the Nara court to legitimate the dynasty. 10 Tsuda’s assertions were understood to have violated the prohibition on besmirching the royal household, and invoked a storm of criticism from the right wing, which accused him of insulting the kokutai ( 国体, national essence) by denying the absolute truth of the classical accounts. 11 In addition to seeing his books banned, Tsuda was also dismissed from Waseda at the demand of the Ministry of Education. As with Ōe’s case much later, the issue was books which, while not received badly at their initial time of publication many years earlier, were lambasted later as the political tides shifted. 12 Of the four books in question, three were published by Iwanami Shoten, and the company founder, Iwanami Shigeo ( 岩波茂雄, 1881-1946), shortly found himself facing charges as well. 10 Both Japanese and English-language scholarship on Tsuda is more concerned with his contribution to the history of thought, but on the affair see volume 5 of Ienaga Saburō ( 家永三郎)’s comprehensive study, 『津田左右吉の思想史的研究』Tsuda Sōkichi no Shisōshiteki Kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1988). In English, there are several articles on Tsuda’s theories (most recently Joel Joos, “‘Love Thy Emperor’: Tsuda Sōkichi’s Views on Tennō and Minzoku,” Japan Forum 20.3 (November 2008): 383-403), and also see Chapter 13 in John S. Brownlee’s Japanese Historians and the National Myths, 1600-1945: The Age of the Gods and Emperor Jinmu (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1997). Brief mention of the Tsuda Affair and Iwanami Shigeo is also made in Ben-Ami Shillony, Politics and Culture in Wartime Japan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 121, and Susan L. Burns, Before the Nation: Kokugaku and the Imagining of Community in Early Modern Japan (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 218. 11 The term kokutai, encapsulating the fundamental essence or characteristics deemed to be intrinsic to the Japanese nation, was a vague, amorphous and contradictory concept, making it almost impossible to articulate and thus leaving those accused of somehow violating it unable to defend themselves. 12 Another obvious parallel to the Tsuda Affair is the 1935 Minobe Affair, where constitutional law scholar Minobe Tatsukichi’s controversial “organ theory” concerning the political role of the tennō led to his works being banned some twenty years after their original publication (at which point they had caused barely a stir and even became standard texts for many students). The political context also played a role, as ultranationalist groups among both the public and the military sought to undermine the Okada Cabinet (1934-1936) and force a shift towards a more totalitarian form of government. 5 Unlike the Ōe case, the outcome of the Tsuda Affair was far less favorable to the defendants: both Tsuda and Iwanami were found guilty, and received prison sentences. 13 The case was widely covered in newspapers, and the reaction among intellectuals at the time was one of intense shock. Twice Iwanami Shoten was dragged into court because of works it had published; twice it was called to answer for works not of political propaganda or explicit content, but rather studies by prominent intellectuals that had proved controversial outside of the intellectual community proper. Twice it was as if the leading intellectuals of an era saw their world put on trial. These were not just legal disputes, but major political and cultural “shocks” that were later understood as turning points in the broader discourse. This was only the case because of the immense prestige that Iwanami Shoten enjoyed, for no other Japanese publisher was quite so strongly bound up with the intellectual establishment. The intellectual cachet and authority wielded by the publisher was so immense that its works were taken as embodying the intellectual consensus, often accepted uncritically by the public. An Asahi Shinbun article in 1977, reporting on a teacher uncovering an error in an Iwanami Bunko ( 岩波文庫, Iwanami Pocketbook series) text, expressed this well, noting that numerous publishers had accepted and 13 The guilty verdict was reached in May 1942, and saw Tsuda sentenced for three months, and Iwanami for two; these were then subsequently commuted to suspended sentences of two years’ duration. Most of Tsuda’s publications during the 1920s and 1930s were with Iwanami, and he resumed his relationship with the publisher after the war. 6 repeated the error without question: “If Iwanami Bunko is Mistaken, Everyone is Mistaken?!” 14 Yet how did a publisher acquire such a great amount of intellectual cachet, while becoming so bound up with the intellectual community that it was seen as all but synonymous with it? Why did Japanese come to see Iwanami as a stand-in for their sentiments regarding intellectuals? Finally, what can such a case tell us about the world those intellectuals inhabited, and the trajectory of Japanese intellectual history? It is these questions that prompted the present study, which aims to examine the origins of Iwanami Shoten and how its founder, Iwanami Shigeo, established the foundation for the publisher’s unique position in the modern Japanese cultural landscape. This study seeks to dive into an unexplored valley of the intellectual and cultural terrain by considering how a business could build and deploy intellectual authority, and how such authority is rooted in not just ideas but in human networks – the links, in other words, between cultural capital and social capital. Through combining perspectives from intellectual history and publishing history, it hopes to shed light on an unexplored aspect of life in prewar Japan. 14 「六社が「桜町」と誤る― ― 岩波文庫こけたら、みなこけた⁈ 」 “Rokusha ga ‘Sakurachō’ to Ayamaru: Iwanami Bunko Koketara, Mina Koketa?!” 『朝日新聞』Asahi Shinbun, 22 November, 1977. The error in question occurred in Tayama Katai ( 田山花袋, 1872-1930)’s Inaka Kyōshi ( 田舎教師, Countryside Teacher), in which yokochō ( 横町) was instead rendered as sakurachō ( 桜町). The error was traced back to the Iwanami editorial processes of either 1936 or 1943. Literary critic Yamashita Takeshi ( 山下武) mentions the incident (see 『古書を求めて』 Kosho wo Motomete (Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 1994), 69). 7 Chapter I Iwanami Shoten: Publishing and Intellectual Community in Modern Japan Introduction The Taishō era (1912-1926) in Japan was a fundamentally transformative time. New media including film and radio spread, anime was born, transportation became more accessible, and records changed the whole experience of music. In Tokyo, theatres and dance halls, cafes offering new dishes local and foreign, and stores with all manner of wares proliferated, amidst tall buildings and a glittering nightlife. The changing urban environment played host to the birth of a vibrant mass culture, as Miriam Silverberg has illustrated. 1 But while all this seemed to suggest a profound love affair with the “new,” it also heralded a rethinking of the “traditional.” The new media and shopfronts were filled with images drawn from the pre-industrial world; geisha were one particularly enduring image, adorning all manner of consumer items. 2 Neither was this reimagining and reconstructing of the traditional alongside the modern limited to products. It was an issue that ran to the heart of the society, where new styles and media meshed with traditional sounds and imagery. Intellectuals grappled with the ongoing transformation of society, attempting to pin down just what made Japan distinct from other 1 Miriam Silverberg, Erotic Grotesque Nonsense: The Mass Culture of Japanese Modern Times (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 2 Kendall H. Brown and Sharon Minichiello, Taishō Chic: Japanese Modernity, Nostalgia, and Deco (Honolulu: Honolulu Academy of Arts, 2001), 163. 8 modern countries, and what, if any, of the traditional world remained. Just what made modern Japan truly “modern”? Nowhere was this more obvious than in the world of print, which became an ideological battleground wherein a government-sponsored discourse on modernity was contested by alternative articulations formulated by writers and publishers. 3 Intellectuals played a key role in the culture of the day, enthusiastically participating in the media world. They contributed to newspapers and magazines, and even produced advertising copy, contributing to the notion of intellectual “brands” associated with a particular writer, artist, or school. There existed both collaboration and competition among intellectuals as their numbers grew, amidst a thriving new intellectual culture, in a social world that connected them all together as an intellectual community. Yet in spite of the thorough research that has been conducted on particular intellectuals and groups, and on the educational institutions that mattered to them, the social world they inhabited has received little attention and remains a missing part of the cultural landscape of modern Japan. A major component of this story is print culture, which mattered immensely to intellectuals: print was their means of reaching each other, reaching the public, and building their reputations. Their world was one of bookshops and publishers, and its lifeblood was the printed word. 3 Andrew T. Kamei-Dyche, “Crafting the Modern Word: Writing, Publishing, and Modernity in the Print Culture of Prewar Japan,” in Rasoul Aliakbari, ed., Comparative Print Culture: A Study of Alternative Literary Modernities (London: Palgrave Macmillan, forthcoming). 9 Print culture and its role for the intellectual community is not only important because it was a key part of the society of the time. Rather, examining it is essential if we are to understand the dissemination and mediation of ideas in society. While by the mid-1920s the new media of radio and film were influential, the most vital role continued to be played by print. Indeed, the Taishō period could be described as a golden age of print culture – more people than ever before could read, bookstores exploded, and publishers expanded rapidly. 4 Large-scale publishers with enormous reach like Kōdansha jostled with established brands like Chūō-Kōron Shinsha and small upstarts with intellectual cachet like Iwanami Shoten. Alongside the mountains of books being produced, magazines were a regular source of information and entertainment for much of the population. They included general interest periodicals like Chūō Kōron ( 中央公論, Central Review, from 1887) and the immensely popular Kingu ( キング, King, 1924), women’s magazines like Shufu no Tomo ( 主婦の友, Housewife’s Friend, 1917) and Ie no Hikari ( 家の光, Light of the Home, 1925), and children’s magazines like Shōnen Kurabu ( 少年倶楽部, Boys’ Club, 1914) and Shōjo Kurabu ( 少女クラブ, Girls’ Club, 1923). 5 4 By the dawn of the Taishō period illiteracy, particularly among men, had declined dramatically: nationwide, among military recruits less than 10% were illiterate by 1909 (Richard Rubinger, “Who Can't Read and Write? Illiteracy in Meiji Japan,” Monumenta Nipponica 55.2 (Summer 2000): 163-198). 5 On publishing in general see Edward Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature: Publishing, Prizes, and the Ascription of Literary Value (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010), and Sari Kawana, The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018); on magazines see especially Sarah Frederick, Turning Pages: Reading and Writing Women’ s Magazines in Interwar Japan (Honolulu: University of 10 Print was the most essential media of the age; mechanical printing presses were the engines of modernity. Most scholarly treatments of the print world in English, however, have been limited to newspapers with little discussion of magazines until recently, and little attention has been paid to book publishing or publishers per se. 6 Japanese scholarship, with few exceptions – notably the work of Satō Takumi and Takeuchi Yō, which has considered the links between publishing and culture – has tended to either celebrate particular publishers in narrow studies, or focus on intellectuals and cultural trends while downplaying the role of publishers, partly because of the lingering negative associations that the publishing world used to have (as is discussed later in the present study). 7 This is unfortunate, because publishing was such a significant part of the entire Taishō cultural scene. This was an era when books and magazines were the primary source of information, education, entertainment, and, in the case of intellectuals, of identity – for the latter, going to the bookstores and being seen reading were a form of social performance that marked them as educated elites. This made publishers major agents in the cultural arena, at precisely the same time that the readership was expanding due to public Hawai’i Press, 2006) and Amy Bliss Marshall, Magazines and the Making of Mass Culture in Japan (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2019). 6 On the press, see in particular James L. Huffman, Creating a Public: People and Press in Meiji Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1997). Frederick R. Dickinson rightly points out that it is vital for historians of prewar Japan to consider print, but his discussion too is almost entirely about news media (World War I and the Triumph of a New Japan, 1919–1930 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 50-54. 7 See 佐藤卓己 Satō Takumi, 『「キング」の時代 ――国民大衆雑誌の公共性』Kingu no Jidai: Kokumin Taishū Zasshi no Kōkyōsei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), and 竹内洋 Takeuchi Yō, 『教養主義の没落』 Kyōyōshugi no Botsuraku. Tokyo: Chūō Kōronshinsha, 2003. 11 education, and new readerships were emerging. The publishing world was therefore an important component of Japanese society in general, but especially vital for the intellectual community. Why is it meaningful to consider the connections between the intellectual community and publishing, and attempt to merge the concerns of intellectual history and publishing history in this way? The answer lies in the mediation of ideas: if intellectuals can be seen as the generators of ideas, then publishers were the gatekeepers to the channels through which those ideas flowed through society. Understanding how these channels and gatekeepers functioned is therefore vital to understanding not just intellectuals, but how prewar Japanese society functioned. Publishers were important for their reach, such as the case with Kōdansha, enabling access to a wide spectrum of the reading public, or their intellectual authority, such as the case with Iwanami, which granted great cachet and influence to those who published with them. Iwanami represents a valuable case study because it was, simply put, the single most elite channel available. The fact that it became intrinsically bound up with the intellectual community means that studying it enables us to better understand not just the publishing world, but the intellectual world at the same time, as well as the key role played by authority in that world. Not only was no other publisher directly associated with the intellectual community, but no other publisher wielded anything close to the authority that Iwanami had. Examining Iwanami as a case study therefore opens a window to exploring the entire intellectual world of early twentieth-century Japan. 12 Iwanami Shoten: Proposing an Argument Among all of the prominent publishers in modern Japan, Iwanami Shoten has long enjoyed the strongest association with intellectual culture, both in being recognized for the connections it enjoyed with a range of intellectual figures, and in terms of being considered the most cultured and sophisticated publisher. This is in spite of the fact that it has never been either a particularly large or a wealthy publisher. 8 Yet since its inception in 1913, Iwanami Shoten has held a unique and defining position in Japanese intellectual culture: it has functioned as a center of much networking among intellectuals, a leading force behind intellectual movements, and a symbol of education and cultural sophistication. Moreover, it has contributed to forming public personas for many intellectuals, and broadened the reach of those intellectuals through marketing their works in a canon of “modern classics.” The cultural complex formed by intellectuals, publications, and the public, has come to be understood by Japanese cultural critics as comprising an “Iwanami Culture.” This culture, with its trappings of elite education and sophistication, was since the mid-1920s contrasted with “Kōdansha Culture,” which represented the popular voice and the 8 The major book and magazine publishers in Japan at present consist of, first and foremost, Kōdansha (founded in 1909), Shōgakukan (1922), and Shūeisha (1925; founded by Shōgakukan, and which in turn founded Hakusensha; the three are technically independent entities but together effectively represent a publishing conglomerate, known as the “Hitotsubashi Group”), as well as Tokuma Shoten (1954), Chūō-Kōron Shinsha (1886), Bungei Shunjū (1923, originally Bungei Shunjūsha), Kobunsha (1945; owned by Kōdansha), and Shinchōsha (1896), amongst others. Major newspaper corporations such as Nikkei Keizai Shinbun and Asahi Shinbunsha also routinely publish books and magazines. 13 mass culture of the day, a juxtaposition of two reading cultures perhaps most famously expressed by political scientist Maruyama Masao ( 丸山眞男, 1914-1996). 9 Japanese historians have tended to take Iwanami’s influence for granted, and assume that the publisher was important for its own sake. Scholarship has proceeded on this basis, whether critical or celebratory in tone, and with the perspective usually informed by how the author feels about the intellectual mainstream. As shall be shown momentarily, this is by no means a recent innovation: in the prewar era Iwanami Shoten was so bound up with the intelligentsia that praising or attacking it functioned as a form of commentary on the intellectual community as a whole. That Iwanami stood in as a sort of symbolic representation of that community was, and has continued to be, assumed. How Iwanami was able to achieve this status in the first place, however, awaits critical examination. The current project seeks to remedy this by bringing together perspectives from intellectual history and publishing history to examine how Iwanami Shoten become so bound up with the intellectual community of prewar Japan that it came to serve as a stand-in for it, and what insights this can offer for understanding the intellectual world of prewar Japan. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) explained how various forms of capital, principally economic capital (such as cash or landholdings), social capital (networks and human 9 Maruyama Masao, Thought and Behavior in Modern Japanese Politics, trans. Ivan Morris (London: Oxford University Press, 1963), 63. 14 relations) and cultural capital (cultural resources such as education and prestige, as well as symbolic goods such as art), constitute various assets that can be deployed to elevate one’s status and pursue goals within a society. 10 Moreover, one form of capital can be converted into another: investment in building social relations can lead to economic opportunities, for instance. In present study argues that Iwanami’s founder, Iwanami Shigeo, made skillful use of all three forms of capital, but while it considers his business decisions and innovative practices, it argues that it was social capital, in the form of his intellectual networks, and cultural capital, in the form of the authority bequeathed by his mentor Sōseki, that were most responsible for his success. I argue that Iwanami’s founder, Iwanami Shigeo, made skillful use of networking throughout his career. He began by drawing upon the Mokuyōkai ( 木曜会, Thursday Society), a social circle centered on noted author and cultural critic Natsume Sōseki ( 夏目漱石, 1867-1916) and primarily (though not exclusively) composed of Sōseki’s disciples ( 門下生, monkasei). This study considers Sōseki’s own history of networking and how the Mokuyōkai developed from this as a way of both explaining the significance of this circle and setting the scene of intellectual life at the start of the twentieth century. Through the Mokuyōkai, Iwanami had access to a variety of intellectuals who could keep him abreast of trends as well as provide works to publish and services as editors. Vital to all this was intellectual authority, which Iwanami amassed principally 10 Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory of Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John C. Richardson (New York: Greenwood: 1986), 46-58. 15 from Sōseki. Although Sōseki helped in practical ways such as by lending Iwanami money and directing business his way, it was through his name and particular cultural artifacts – ranging from a sign for the storefront to his books – that he gave Iwanami a cultural foundation. Iwanami thus gained an interest in continually renewing and cementing Sōseki’s legacy in Japanese society because this legacy quite literally held up the publisher. Understanding how this process developed reminds us that authority and influence are never simply givens but must be constantly cultivated, and renewed, through careful management of social and cultural capital. The case of Iwanami Shoten thus sheds light on how not just publishers, but any source of cultural and/or intellectual authority in modern society establishes themselves and must continually foster their resources in order to survive and remain relevant. Iwanami Shoten as an Approach to Intellectual History Because Iwanami Shoten was consistently associated with the leading thinkers and writers of the day, and played a role in shaping intellectual movements, its history represents a window on the trajectory of modern Japanese intellectual history. Iwanami really got its start as a publisher when founder Iwanami Shigeo managed to convince his mentor, Sōseki, to let Iwanami publish his famous novel reflecting upon Meiji culture, Kokoro ( こゝろ), in 1914. Thus began the public association of Iwanami with Sōseki, who published all his subsequent works with his disciple. At that point Iwanami Shigeo already enjoyed substantial connections through the 16 Mokuyōkai, several members of which became major writers during the Kyōyōshugi ( 教養主義, self-cultivation) movement of the early-to-mid 1920s. In addition to publishing those writers, Iwanami Shoten gave direction to the movement by presenting its bunkobon ( 文庫本 , pocketbooks) series as a canon for the movement. Because this canon was itself based on what the writers connected to Iwanami recommended, it serves as a snapshot of what late Taishō intellectuals were reading (and perhaps more importantly, what they considered worthwhile to read). The Iwanami Bunko were cheap, readily available classics that shaped the education and cultural life of Japanese almost immediately: they represented both a prescribed path to becoming a cultured individual of the day, and a means to access that path. Students began carrying Iwanami books as a sign of being cultured, seeking to stand out from the workers with their Kōdansha publications. Iwanami Shigeo continued to cement relations with each successive generation of intellectuals to ensure his preeminent position among publishers in the intellectual world endured. In addition to building relations with leading intellectuals like philosopher Nishida Kitarō ( 西田幾多郎, 1870-1945), he also “discovered” new intellectual hopefuls, offering scholarships for them to study abroad or pursue projects. Such efforts ensured connections with the next generation of intellectuals, who could then also be recruited for editing or other duties when needed. Iwanami also published an influential journal building on the intellectual fervor of the 17 time, Shisō ( 思想, Thought, launched in 1921 and still in print). The publishing decisions of Iwanami Shoten also continued to reflect the sentiment of the intellectual mainstream. For instance, during the war years from 1937 to 1945, the publisher played down its prior emphasis on progressive thought and instead emphasized its high-brow intellectual qualities, as a tactic to escape heavy censorship. This attitude of claiming high ideals while quietly engaging in self-censorship was the course pursued by many intellectuals of the time, when progressives faced state suppression and support for imperialism was the only publicly viable option. Self-censorship at the editorial level among publishers was easier than invoking the wrath of the official censors by breaking the rules, and made it easier to slip things past the radar. Immediately after the war, however, Iwanami jumped into the fray of debates over the direction of Japanese social and intellectual development, offering a renewed canon of works and a new flagship journal reflecting the internationalism embraced by the intellectual community of the times: Sekai ( 世界, World, begun in December 1945). Today Iwanami retains a defining role in Japan’s intellectual world, both in terms of its relations with leading intellectuals, and in terms of its practical influence as well: not only is it a major publisher of philosophy, literature, and scholarship in a wide range of fields, but furthermore many of the primary materials for the study of the humanities are published in enormous standardized canons by Iwanami. Consequently, no academic in Japan in those fields 18 can work without a sizable number of Iwanami materials. Publication by Iwanami, moreover, continues to function as a sort of seal of endorsement bestowed by the mainstream intellectual community. This unique position of Iwanami Shoten in the intellectual world of modern Japan has tended to stir up powerful emotions both for and against the publisher, as the trials introduced in the preface demonstrate. As indicated above, because Iwanami Shoten functioned as a symbolic stand-in for the intellectual community as a whole, writers have long expressed their sentiments regarding the community by celebrating or attacking the publisher. Because Iwanami’s own success depends upon its association with the intellectual community, it has a vested interest in propagating a celebratory view of its role in intellectual culture. Its advertisements proclaim its sterling reputation, influence, and role in establishing new standards of publishing. 11 There is also no shortage of supporters, among educators, who may depend on Iwanami for a range of textbooks and teaching materials; among humanities scholars, who appreciate Iwanami’s efforts at consistently publishing the great canons of textual material they need to do their work; and of course among everyday readers, who purchase reams of Iwanami's influential 11 Neither is this limited to the Japanese-language world; English-language advertisements similarly relay how the company “immediately establish[ed itself] … as one of Japan’s most influential publishers,” “kept the torch of conscience lit in spite of official oppression” during the war, and today “Building upon nearly 100 years of history of publishing excellence, [would] continue its role in contributing to society and advancing intellectual innovation” (“Iwanami Shoten, Publishers,” advertisement, An Introduction to Publishing in Japan, 2004-2005 (Japan Book Publishers Association, 2004). 19 paperbacks and pocketbooks. Moreover, young intellectuals and budding academics, who benefit from the prestige that comes with being published by Iwanami, no doubt have a vested interest in reinforcing that prestige. All of these groups benefit from being part of the intellectual community, or in seeking access to that community, and consequently view Iwanami in a positive vein. Then there are the critiques, which emerge from several directions at once. The left-wing populist version paints Iwanami as representing elitists and elitist culture, rather than the interests of the masses. Iwanami emerges as a symbol of everything that conventional leftists dislike about bourgeois intellectuals: eager supporters of “Iwanami Culture” are seen as social-ladder-climbing pretenders who hoist Iwanami publications as symbols of the learning and sophistication to which they either aspire, or the outward trappings of which they wish to wear. The social display of Iwanami books as legitimating talismans of intellectual authority, although at its heart simply a variant on the established practice of displaying books as a form of cultural capital, was a phenomenon that was derided even in the prewar era, when “Iwanami Boys” and “Iwanami Girls” carried around their books as fashion statements proclaiming erstwhile cultural sophistication. 12 Critiques of Iwanami Shoten from this perspective reflect a deep ambivalence 12 On the possession of literature as a form of social capital, see, for example, Edward Mack, op. cit.; on prewar Iwanami culture see, for example, 村上一郎 Murakami Ichirō 『岩波茂雄』 Iwanami Shigeo (Tokyo: Sunagoya Shobō, 1982). 20 about intellectuals as pretentious elites divorced from real social concerns. Right-wing critics have been no less unkind, accusing Iwanami Shoten of representing nothing more than a bastion of leftist ideology – again, everything that this group dislikes about the intellectual mainstream. Certainly the most (in)famous critique in the prewar era was that of Minoda Muneki ( 蓑田胸喜 , 1894-1946), who bitterly attacked Iwanami Shigeo in the subtly-titled article “Iwanami Shigeo’s Arrogant, Traitorous Ideas.” 13 This line of attack did not fade in the postwar era, as Vanessa Ward notes, observing marked postwar criticism of Iwanami as purveyors of leftist ideology. 14 More recently, Nishio Kanji, former chairman of the revisionist historical group Atarashii Rekishi Kyōkasho wo Tsukurukai (Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform), claimed “Iwanami Shoten is a publishing company that has been occupied by the Japanese Communist Party,” serving up a reminder that this line of right-wing anti-Iwanami critique remains alive and well. 15 Here again the critique is not really concerned with the publishing industry per se; rather, it represents a hostile view towards intellectuals as leftist activists bent on undermining traditional Japanese values. 13 蓑田胸喜 Minoda Muneki, 「岩波茂雄氏の驕慢反逆思想」 “Iwanami Shigeo-shi no Kyōman Hangyaku Shisō,” 『蓑田胸喜全集』 Minoda Muneki Zenshū (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 2004), vol. 4 (essay #40), 656-658. 14 Vanessa B. Ward, “The Spectre of the Left: Iwanami Shoten, Ideology and Publishing in Early Postwar Japan,” Japanese Studies 26.2 (Sep. 2006): 171-184. 15 Nishio Kanji, “Breaking the Seal on the GHQ Burned Books,” Society for the Dissemination of Historical Fact, <http://www.sdh-fact.com/CL02_1/68_S4.pdf>, 27. Unlike prewar critics, however, Nishio suggests this supposed communist takeover was a postwar development. 21 Two points here bear consideration. First, it is important to note that the frame of the debate is not new; rather, Iwanami Shoten’s supporters and naysayers have been fighting in very much the same fashion since the prewar era. Essentially, the discourse of images and tropes concerning Iwanami and its influence in the intellectual world represent a significant continuity in Japanese popular consciousness. Second, while many of the debaters are vehement in expressing their support of, or ill will towards, the publisher, they nevertheless agree that Iwanami represents the intellectual community and mainstream Japanese thought of the day. Iwanami itself is unable to engage with these debates because to do so would be to risk undermining the central tenant – that Iwanami stands for the intellectual community – and this is obviously not an option, given that the publisher’s entire raison d’être depends upon this notion. Even the criticism of Iwanami therefore reveals how it has always been bound up with the intellectual community of modern Japan, and how analyzing its development can serve as a lens into the history of that community itself. Perspectives and Historiography Approaching Publishers and the Intellectual Community The current study seeks to integrate the perspectives of intellectual history and publishing history, and therefore engages with the scholarship of those fields to consider in what way their issues and approaches may be of benefit. Firstly, how should one go about approaching the 22 intellectual community, and the role of publishers in the intellectual world? The importance of the intellectual world itself has been long established among scholars of modern Japanese history. Due to the pivotal position occupied by the Meiji Restoration and Japanese modernization in scholarship on modern Japan, it is widely accepted that the various ideologies involved in shaping Meiji politics and society are worthy of study. The role of intellectuals in both affirming and challenging these ideologies, and in shifting the contours of intellectual debate, has ensured that this carries through the scholarship to studies on late Meiji and the prewar era, where many works critically assess the role of intellectuals in Japan’s road to militaristic expansion and war. This has ensured that considerable attention has been afforded leading Japanese intellectuals and major intellectual movements, 16 while other scholarship, ushered in primarily by Carol Gluck, has incorporated intellectual developments as one aspect of the culture under the rubric of discourse analysis. 17 Despite this awareness of the importance of intellectuals and the power of 16 To just give some significant examples, consider Maruyama Masao, op. cit., W. Miles Fletcher III, The Search for a New Order: Intellectuals and Fascism in Prewar Japan (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1982), Germaine A. Hoston, Marxism and the Crisis of Development in Prewar Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), Andrew Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan: The Public Man in Crisis (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), James W. Heisig, Philosophers of Nothingness: An Essay on the Kyoto School (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001), Harry D. Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), and Michiko Yusa, Zen & Philosophy: An Intellectual Biography of Nishida Kitarō (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2002). 17 One of the innovative works ushering in this critical approach to culture was Gluck’s Japan’ s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987). Examples include Louise Young, Japan’ s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), and Silverberg, op. cit. Inclusive studies of culture and politics such as John W. Dower’s Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of 23 ideas, far less attention has been paid to the social world of the intellectual community and the vital role played by publishers in that community. This is a space in which studies of publishing and book history stand to make significant contributions to rethinking the intellectual history of modern Japan by situating it firmly within a social dimension. An intellectual community is more than just a collection of people. It comprises a particular group identity, social life, and cultural world. The interaction of various actors within the community encourages and fosters the development and distribution of ideas, while adding legitimacy to the individual’s pursuits and lifestyle. The social world of intellectuals is not merely the context of intellectual activity, but the glue holding together the various components of the intellectual world. Indeed, as Randall Collins argues in The Sociology of Philosophies, the social interaction of intellectuals plays a vital role in driving intellectual development. 18 The foundation of any intellectual community rests upon intellectual networks, consisting of an interconnected series of relationships among intellectuals, and which may also include individuals not strictly regarded as intellectuals themselves, such as colleagues, or family members of participants. Such intellectual networks may take many forms, the most ubiquitous being a social circle based around a particular intellectual pursuit (such as poetry composition), World War II (New York: W. W. Norton, 1999) also share the broader methodology of critical, wide-ranging views across the historical experience of a given era. 18 Randall Collins, The Sociology of Philosophies: A Global Theory of Intellectual Change (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). 24 central figure (such as a noted writer or philosopher), or set of ideas (such as Neo-Confucian ethics). 19 Such circles function as the axial social framework for intellectuals. They serve as the first audience for writers and philosophers to sound out ideas and debate current issues, and often guide the career and intellectual development of the participants. Studying them can therefore provide insight into not only intellectual activity itself, but also the broader cultural world of a given place and time. What sort of roles could publishers play in this cultural world? Studies of historical print culture, discussed below, reveal that cultures of print intimately bound readers, publishers, and booksellers, and not only in terms of consumer-producer relations. It is therefore not surprising that publishing and print culture came to significantly inform intellectual life, as the work of historians like Gary Marker has shown. 20 Publishers could serve to connect different spheres of activity, forging links between public and private, individual and community. They could also participate in intellectual networks, connecting intellectuals together and heightening their sense of a shared community. While publishers often performed these roles in indirect fashion, a more 19 Of course, many other configurations, such as circles of intellectuals from a given region, educational institution, social background, or generation are conceivable; neither are these categories mutually exclusive: a given social circle may partake of multiple configurations simultaneously. 20 Gary Marker, Publishing, Printing, and the Origins of Intellectual Life in Russia, 1700-1800 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); another excellent study considering the links between printing and intellectual life in a certain country is Martin Fanning and Raymond Gillespie’s Print Culture and Intellectual Life in Ireland, 1660-1941 (Dublin: Woodfield Press, 2007). 25 direct engagement could be afforded by bookstores, which might themselves function as immediate centers of intellectual networks. Two particularly illustrative cases that come to mind in this regard, both from the 1920s-1930s, are Sylvia Beach’s “Shakespeare and Company” in Paris – which served as a meeting point for F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and other writers associated with the “Lost Generation” – and Uchiyama Kanzō’s “Uchiyama Shoten” in Shanghai – which functioned as the center of Lu Xun’s intellectual networks, as well as a location where visiting Japanese intellectuals could meet their Chinese counterparts. 21 At times, however, publishers themselves might become directly involved in the intellectual community, such as by shaping canons of texts (as was the case with Reclams Universal Bibliothek in Germany, and Iwanami Shoten in Japan). Likewise, they might become involved in intellectual networks, as establishing connections and networking with writers was (and remains) an important skill for all publishers. In the case of Iwanami Shoten, however, the founder Iwanami Shigeo went beyond this to effectively deploy, and continue to expand, his own 21 On Beach, see her own memoir Shakespeare and Company (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1959), and Noel R. Fitch, Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties (New York: Norton, 1983); on Uchiyama Kanzō ( 内山完造), see his own 『花甲録』 Kakōroku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1960), as well as Christopher T. Keaveney, Beyond Brushtalk: Sino-Japanese Literary Exchange in the Interwar Period (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009), and my own 「魯迅と出会った日本人 ― ―戦前日中関係の再考」“Rojin to Deatta Nihonjin: Senzen Nicchū Kankei no Saikō,” 『思想史研究』 Shisōshi Kenkyū 10 (September 2009): 105-115). 26 intellectual network, encourage a cultural milieu with his publishing house at its center, and actively seek a leading role in intellectual movements. His success in these areas played a vital role in establishing the reputation of Iwanami Shoten and cementing its association with Japan’s intellectual community. A careful consideration of these developments in the case of Iwanami therefore offers the potential for insights into how intellectual communities in general function, as well as the evolution of the intellectual community in particular in modern Japanese history. Assessing the Scholarship on the History of Books and Print Culture In addition to raising new perspectives regarding the intellectual community, and through it rethinking the intellectual history of modern Japan, the present study also seeks to contribute to the history of books and print culture. In the Western world this is a relatively young field, having only really evolved during the late twentieth century. 22 Early treatments of print culture tended to consider culture as just a deterministic product of technology, with intellectual history largely an afterthought. 23 The present study, however, draws inspiration from Robert Darnton, 22 Early works on printing and publishing date back over a century in Europe, but were largely expository works that celebrated technology or craftsmanship, and considered these developments largely in isolation from the social context. The emergence of the “history of the book” as a distinct mode of inquiry is best associated with the 1958 L’Apparition du livre by Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin (Paris: Editions Albin Michael), a seminal text in the development of the Annales School of history. 23 One of the first scholars to study the history of print culture was Elizabeth L. Eisenstein in The Printing Press as an Agent of Change: Communications and Cultural Transformations in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 2 vols. She argued that the standardization and wide distribution of texts enabled by printing provided a fixed, broad base for knowledge, which in turn served as a foundation for the development of the Renaissance, the scientific revolution, and the emergence of modern politics. However, her approach framed 27 who coupled the history of the book to intellectual history by pioneering an approach to intellectuals that he conceptualized as a “social history of ideas.” 24 Darnton’s study treated publishing not as something incidental to the development and circulation of ideas, but rather as an integral force with its own often tumultuous history, bound up with the numerous threads of intellectual and social history. 25 In addition to Darnton, the present study also takes inspiration from Roger Chartier, who analyzed the development of communities of readers in early modern Europe, and some of the recent scholarship on publishing and print culture in China. 26 In terms of Japanese scholarship, studies of publishing have a long pedigree. 27 In fact, cultural developments as largely the result of technological innovation, and conceived of print culture as imbued with inherent qualities, rather than something produced over time. I concur instead with Adrian Johns, who argues that print culture is always in flux, shifting across time and space (The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 17-19). 24 Robert Darnton, The Business of Enlightenment: Publishing History of the Encyclopédie, 1775-1800 (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1979). Darnton initially grappled with this in “In Search of the Enlightenment: Recent Attempts to Create a Social History of Ideas” (The Journal of Modern History 43.1 (March 1971): 113-132); also see “What is the History of Books?” Daedalus 111 (1982): 65-83. 25 Darnton emphasized the connection between the publishing business and the exchange of ideas, calling for the study of “communication circuits,” or patterns of text circulation in society. 26 Robert Chartier, The Order of Books: Readers, Authors, and Libraries in Europe Between the Fourteenth and Eighteenth Centuries, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994); on the historiography of the work on China, see Christopher A. Reed, “Gutenberg and Modern Chinese Print Culture: The State of the Discipline II,” Book History 10 (2007): 291-315, and Tobie Meyer-Fong, “The Printed World: Books, Publishing Culture, and Society in Late Imperial China,” The Journal of Asian Studies 66.3 (August 2007): 787-817. Significant works that touch on print culture in China include Cynthia Brokaw, Commerce in Culture: The Sibao Book Trade in the Qing and Republican Periods (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), Leo Ou-fan Lee, Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China, 1930-1945 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), and Wen-Hsin Yeh, Shanghai Splendor: Economic Sentiments and the Making of Modern China, 1843-1949 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007). 27 For an overview of the Japanese- and English-language historiography of the field, see my “The History of Books and Print Culture in Japan: The State of the Discipline,” Book History 14 28 Japanese scholars were considering the cultural aspects of books and publishing before their European counterparts, with scholarship on shuppan bunka-shi ( 出版文化史), 28 or the history of print culture, dating back to the early twentieth century. 29 Early scholarship sought to be encyclopedic, but gradually came to focus on key cultural developments. 30 By the 1980s, however, innovative scholarship was increasingly focused on the Edo period, while treatments of modern publishing were less specialized. 31 Yayoshi Mitsunaga sought to emphasize the social (2011): 270-304. 28 The “han” ( 版) originally referred to the identifying label or board of a text, and evolved to mean a given instance of a text, akin perhaps to “edition” or “version.” “Shuppan” originally meant producing the spines of texts (i.e. printing books), and evolved to mean printing reproductions of a given version of a text. 29 Shuppan bunka is sometimes rendered in English more literally as “publishing culture,” but is an inclusive term that clearly overlaps with what is known as “print culture” in the Anglosphere. Naturally, there are particular associations informing it which are specific to the Japanese context (much as Histoire du livre is informed by French particularities). There is usually a somewhat greater emphasis on the publisher and their cultural agency than on the reader. While other terms such as 書物史 (shomotsu-shi) and 書籍史 (shoseki-shi) exist, they are far less common. The term shuppan bunka enjoys broad currency. Significant early works include 牧野善兵衛 Makino Zenbē, comp., 『徳川幕府時代書籍考 ― ― 附・関係事項及出版史』Tokugawa Bakufu Jidai Shoseki-kō: Fu Kankei Jikō oyobi Shuppan-shi (Tokyo: Shosekisho Kumiai Jimusho, 1912), 小林善八 Kobayashi Zenpachi, 『日本出版文化史』 Nihon Shuppan Bunka-shi (Tokyo: Nihon Shuppan Bunka-shi Kankō-kai, 1938), and 岡野他家夫 Okano Takeo, 『日本出版文化史』Nihon Shuppan Bunka-shi (Tokyo: Muromachi Shobō, 1954-1955), 2 vols. 30 The 1950s and 1960s witnessed a blossoming of the field, with many works focused on regions, such as 脇坂要太郎 Wakisaka Yōtarō’s 『大阪出版六十年のあゆみ』 Ōsaka Shuppan Roku-jū-nen no Ayumi (Osaka: Osaka Shuppan Kyōdō Kumiai, 1956), popular histories such as 杉村武 Sugimura Takeshi, 『近代日本大出版事業史』Kindai Nihon Dai Shuppan Jigyō-shi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1953), and prominent exhibitions such as 「明治以降出版文化資料展：目録と解説」 Meiji ikō Shuppan Bunka Shiryō-ten: Mokuroku to Kaisetsu (Tokyo: Kokuritsu Kokkai Toshokan, 1966; National Diet Library holdings). 31 During the bubble era, print culture received renewed attention as part of a large-scale hunt in Japanese society for “sophisticated,” but non-Western, traditions to celebrate. The print culture of the early modern era was ideal because books and publishing were plentiful, but were not yet transformed by the technological tools and machinery of the modern West. Notable works of the 29 history of publishing, charting the role of books and print culture in daily life. 32 However, there was little considering the relationship between publishing and the intellectual community; despite an increasing number of studies on aspects of historical print culture, approaches that seek to mesh publishing history with intellectual history remain lacking. 33 There is therefore time include 鈴木敏夫 Suzuki Toshio, 『江戸の本屋』 Edo no Honya (Tokyo: Chūkō Shinsho), 1980), 2 vols., 今田洋三 Konta Yōzō, 『江戸の禁書』Edo no Kinsho (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1981), and 宗政五十緒 Munemasa Isō, 『近世京都出版文化の研究』Kinsei Kyōto Shuppan Bunka no Kenkyū (Tokyo: Dōmeisha Shuppan, 1982). When Kawase Kazuma published a set of lectures intended to guide students new to the field, he devoted considerable effort to the medieval and early modern eras but ended with the late Edo period ( 川瀬一馬 Kawase Kazuma, 『入門講話日本出版文化史』Nyūmon Kōwa Nihon Shuppan Bunka-shi (Tokyo: Nihon Editāsu Sukūru, 1983)). Works that did cover aspects of modern publishing included 塩沢実信 Shiozawa Minobu, 『昭和ベストセラー世相史』 Shōwa Besutoserā Sesō-shi (Tokyo: Daisan Bunmeisha, 1988), 石川弘義 Ishikawa Hiroyoshi and 尾崎秀樹 Ozaki Hotsuki, 『出版広告の歴史 1895 年―1941 年』 Shuppan Kōkoku no Rekishi: 1895-1941 (Tokyo: Shuppan Nyūsu, 1989), and Ozaki Hotsuki and 宗武朝子 Munetake Asako, 『日本の書店百年― ―明治・大正・昭和の出版販売小史』Nihon no Shoten Hyakunen: Meiji, Taishō, Shōwa no Shuppan Hanbai Shōshi (Tokyo: Seieisha, 1991). This time also witnessed the first full-length study of postwar print culture, namely Shiozawa’s 『戦後出版文化史』Sengo Shuppan Bunka-shi (Tokyo: Ronsōsha, 1987), 2 vols. 32 弥吉光長 Yayoshi Mitsunaga, 『江戸時代の出版と人』Edo Jidai no Shuppan to Hito (Tokyo: Nichigai Asoshiētsu, 1980), and 『明治時代の出版と人』 Meiji Jidai no Shuppan to Hito (Tokyo: Nichigai Asoshiētsu, 1982), respectively. His later works of note included 『江戸出版史 ― ―文芸社会学的結論』Edo Shuppan-shi: Bungei Shakaigakuteki Ketsuron (Tokyo: Yumani Shobō, 1989) and 『近代出版文化』Kindai Shuppan Bunka (Tokyo: Yumani Shobō, 1990). 33 Recent studies include works on the premodern era ( 五味文彦 Gomi Fumihiko, 『書物の中世史』 Shomotsu no Chūsei-shi (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobō, 2003), and 東野治之 Tōno Haruyuki, 『書の古代史』 Sho no Kodai-shi (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994)), and for the Edo era works on regional publishing ( 太田正弘 Ōta Masahiro, 『尾張出版文化史』 Owari Shuppan Bunka-shi (Jinbei: Rokkō Shuppan, 1995)), libraries ( 岡村敬二 Okamura Keiji, 『江戸の蔵書家たち』 Edo Zōshokatachi (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1996)), reading ( 長友千代治 Nagatomo Chiyoji, 『江戸時代の書物と読書』Edo Jidai no Shomotsu to Dokusho (Tokyo: Tokyodō Shuppan, 2001)), and book circulation Nagatomo, 『江戸時代の図書流通』 Edo Jidai no Tosho Ryūtsū (Kyoto: Bukkyō Daigaku Tsūshin Kyōiku-bu, 2002)). Works on modern print culture include 池田恵美子 Ikeda Emiko, ed., 『出版女性史 ― ―出版ジャーナリズムに生きる女性たち』Shuppan Josei-shi: Shuppan Jānarizumu ni Ikiru Joseitachi (Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 2001) on women in journalism, 30 little work that can shed light on “Iwanami Culture” and its significance in prewar Japan – even though a continuing interest in mass culture has led historians to seek early modern antecedents for “Kōdansha Culture.” 34 The upshot of this is that the bulk of Japanese scholarship remains focused on print culture writ large, with theorizing about the development of media or the role of books in everyday culture. This tendency represents a move in the opposite direction from the increasingly specialized book history in Europe or America, a point also made by Giles M. Richter when he correctly observed that the trend in Japan has been not towards greater specialization in book history, but rather towards a more inclusive, mass media or communications approach. 35 Consequently, and particularly pertinent for the current project, there is little scholarship on the key role played by human relations in publishing. Literary scholars may write about intellectual and 松本昌次 Matsumoto Masashigu, 『戦後出版と編集者』Sengo Shuppan to Henshūsha (Tokyo: Ichiyōsha, 2001) on the history of editing. 34 Arguing that printing technology and widespread literacy represented something akin to an information revolution, these scholars seek in the history of publishing a precursor to modern mass media and consumer culture. Precisely where the root of this mass media lies – in widely-reproduced novels, news broadsheets, travel guides, etc. – varies, but the general approach remains the same. The pursuit has engendered numerous book-length studies ( 富士昭雄 Fuji Akio, 『江戸文学と出版メディア ― ― 近世前期小説を中心に』Edo Bungaku to Shuppan Media: Kinsei Zenki Shōsetsu wo chūshin ni (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2001), and 管聡子 Kan Satoko, 『メディアの時代 ― ― 明治文学をめぐる状況』 Media no Jidai: Meiji Bungaku wo meguru Jōkyō (Tokyo: Sōbunsha Shuppan, 2001)), discussions ( 加藤秀俊 Katō Hidetoshi and 前田愛 Maeda Ai, 『明治メディア考』Meiji Media Kō (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1980)), and even reading guides featuring collections of reproduced materials ( 吉田豊 Yoshida Yutaka, 『江戸のマスコミ「かわら版」 ― ― 「寺子屋式」で原文から読んでみる』Edo no Masukomi “Kawara-ban”: “Terakoya-shiki” de Genbun kara Yondemiru (Tokyo: Kōbunsha, 2003)). 35 Giles M. Richter, “Marketing the Word: Publishing Entrepreneurs in Meiji Japan,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1999, 8-9. 31 circles – although only to provide background to assessing an author’s work – but even this is limited in scale and little discussed in relation to publishing. While networking skills are obviously vital for successful publishing, this is neglected as publishing scholars focus on the mechanics of production and literary scholars assume publication as a given and afford publishers little attention altogether. This is one of the factors that strongly informed my intention to undertake a careful consideration of the variety of human relations that could shape a publishing enterprise in early twentieth-century Japan. English-language scholarship on the history of Japanese publishing and print culture, meanwhile, represents a relatively small field of academic inquiry. To some extent this is surprising considering the sophistication and diversity of English-language scholarship on Japanese literature. The great number of monographs on Japanese literature stands in stark contrast to the minute amount of studies concerning how all that literature was actually made available to the public. Iwanami worked to cement Natsume Sōseki’s legacy in the modern canon for generations, while philosopher Nishida Kitarō owed a considerable degree of his influence to Iwanami’s publication of his work, yet recent scholarship on both figures continues to discuss the publication process rarely if at all, and Iwanami goes altogether unmentioned. 36 In other words, 36 For example, on Sōseki consider Doris G. Bargen, Suicidal Honor: General Nogi and the Writings of Mori Ōgai and Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006) and Marvin Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writings of Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009); on Nishida, consider James W. 32 literary studies, like much intellectual history, still remains largely unaware of the significant roles publishers played in shaping the literary world through such things as not only choosing what to publish, but popularizing writers and shaping their identity as part of a canon. This is not to say that there has been no English-language scholarship on the history of books and print culture. However, aside from work on artistic prints, the bulk of work has been squarely focused on the history of newspaper journalism. 37 Research on the history of education 38 as well as literary studies of readership and canon formation 39 have much to offer in Heisig, Philosophers of Nothingness: An Essay on the Kyoto School (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004) and Christopher S. Goto-Jones, Political Philosophy in Japan: Nishida, the Kyoto School, and Co-Prosperity (Leiden: Curzon Press, 2005). Of these, only Goto-Jones mentions Iwanami at all, and then only in the context of Maruyama Masao’s distinction between “Iwanami Culture” and “Kodansha Culture,” a point which he does not pursue. 37 One of the first works on artistic prints was the Catalogue of Prints and Books Illustrating the History of Engraving in Japan (Burlington Fine Arts Club, 1888), while an early work of scholarship was Edward F. Strange, Japanese Illustration: A History of the Arts of Wood-Cutting and Colour Printing in Japan (London: George Bell and Sons, 1897). Later works in a similar vein include David Chibbett’s The History of Japanese Printing and Book Illustration (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1977). On journalism, the first full-length study was Kisaburō Kawabe, The Press and Politics in Japan: A Study of the Relation between the Newspaper and the Political Development of Modern Japan (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1921). The postwar era saw Albert Altman’s dissertation on the Meiji press (“The Emergence of the Press in Meiji Japan,” unpublished diss., Princeton University, 1965), and two seminal biographical works: John D. Pierson, Tokutomi Sohō, 1863-1957: A Journalist for Modern Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), and James L. Huffman, Politics of the Meiji Press: The Life of Fukuchi Gen’ichirō (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1980). Also significant were Itō Takashi and George Akita, “The Yamagata-Tokutomi Correspondence: Press and Politics in Meiji-Taishō Japan,” Monumenta Nipponica 36.4 (Winter 1981): 391-423, Gregory J. Kasza, The State and the Mass Media, 1918-1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), and James L. Huffman, Creating a Public, op. cit. 38 See, for example, Donald Roden, Schooldays in Imperial Japan: A Study in the Culture of a Student Elite (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980); Margaret Mehl, Private Academies of Chinese Learning in Meiji Japan: The Decline and Transformation of the Kangaku Juku (Copenhagen: Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, 2003); and more recently, Benjamin Duke, The History of Modern Japanese Education: Constructing the National School System, 1872-1890 (Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2009). 33 terms of understanding the role of literary production for Japanese audiences, but – as was the case with much of the Japanese scholarship discussed above – the focus remains on mass culture rather than the intellectual community and the role of publishers is seldom considered. In terms of dedicated studies of the history of books and print culture, the field is in its infancy. As with Japanese-language scholarship, most of the English-language studies have focused on the early modern era. 40 The first comprehensive study of Japanese book history in English was Peter Kornicki’s The Book in Japan, which covered from manuscripts through early modern texts and the bulk of which focused on the Edo period. 41 However, Kornicki did not draw out much in the way of connections between the publishing and bookselling worlds and social history. Two works on Edo-era print culture which did pursue this line of inquiry, and which have also inspired the current project, are Mary 39 See, for example, Joseph K. Yamagiwa, “Regional Differences in Literary Tastes and Reputations in Japan,” Occasional Papers: Center for Japanese Studies (University of Michigan) 4 (1953): 51-75; Earl H. Kinmonth, “Fukuzawa Reconsidered: Gakumon no susume and Its Audience,” The Journal of Asian Studies 37.4 (Aug. 1978): 677-696; and Michael C. Brownstein’s “Jogaku Zasshi and the Founding of Bungakukai,” Monumenta Nipponica 35.3 (Autumn 1980): 319-336, and “From Kokugaku to Kokubungaku: Canon-Formation in the Meiji Period,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 47.2 (Dec. 1987): 435-460; as well as the essay volume Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature, eds. Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). 40 One of the first thorough studies was an article by Henry D. Smith comparing the history of the book in early modern Edo with that of Paris (“The History of the Book in Edo and Paris,” in James L. McClain, John M. Merriman, and Ugawa Kaoru, eds., Edo and Paris: Urban Life and the State in the Early Modern Era (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994), 332-352). 41 Peter Kornicki, The Book in Japan: A Cultural History from the Beginnings to the Nineteenth Century (Honololu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001). 34 Elizabeth Berry’s Japan in Print and Julie Nelson Davis’ Partners in Print. 42 Berry argued that print culture linked people together through shared information, whether in the form of maps, tourist guides, and reference books, or in the form of popular stories and literature. This sharing of information resulted in a sense of a shared identity, so that Berry implied that the roots of modern Japanese cultural identity were to be found in early modern print culture. The current study draws inspiration from this approach, situating printing within its social context and the role of publishers within the community, but focuses on the intellectual community rather than on popular readerships, and on the role of networks and human relationships in the publishing enterprise rather than on the formation of identity per se. Davis, meanwhile, focuses on networking among artists, carvers, printers, and other individuals involved in the production of artistic prints. The current study shares Davis’ concern with situating the creation and dissemination of works within a matrix of numerous agents, a matrix generally centered not on the author but on the publisher. In contrast to the scholarship on the early modern era, there was much less work on 42 Mary Elizabeth Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), Julie Nelson Davis, Partners in Print: Artistic Collaboration and the Ukiyo-e Market (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2015). Berry had first addressed the role of print culture in “Public Life in Authoritarian Japan,” Daedalus 127.3 (Summer 1998): 133-165. Also see Marcia Yonemoto, Mapping Early Modern Japan: Space, Place, and Culture in the Tokugawa Period, 1603-1868 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 35 publishing in the modern era until the 1990s. 43 Recent years have also seen studies of particular publishers, including two short pieces on Iwanami Shoten (although neither is concerned with the prewar intellectual community). 44 A concern with discourse analysis and media representation among some literary scholars has also contributed to more work in this vein on modern print culture. 45 In a related trend, work on cultural history is also increasingly likely to incorporate considerations of print culture. 46 Most of this scholarship, however, focuses more on the reception aspect of print culture with less attention given to the publishers’ roles in that context. In this regard, my own study is in a similar vein to that of Vanessa Ward on postwar 43 One of the earliest English-language works on modern publishing was a translation of Kōdansha founder Noma Seiji’s autobiography in 1934, now a largely unknown work. See Noma Seiji, The Nine Magazines of Kodansha: The Autobiography of a Japanese Publisher, unknown trans. (London: Methuen, 1934). There was also G. R. Nunn’s study, significant because what was for him at the time contemporary data today offers valuable insight into the early postwar publishing system (G. R. Nunn, “Modern Japanese Book Publishing,” Occasional Papers: Center for Japanese Studies (University of Michigan) 8 (1964): 57-94), and Matthi Forrer’s study of Eirakuya Tōshirō, one of the earliest full-length English treatments of a modern publisher (Eirakuya Tōshirō, Publisher at Nagoya: A Contribution to the History of Publishing in 19th-Century Japan (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1985). Scholarship in the 1990s included Gerald Figal, “How to jibunshi: Making and Marketing Self-Histories of Showa among the Masses in Postwar Japan,” The Journal of Asian Studies 55.4 (Nov. 1996): 902-933, Rachel DeNitto, “Return of the “zuihitsu”: Print Culture, Modern Life, and Heterogeneous Narrative in Prewar Japan,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 64.2 (Dec. 2004): 251-290, and Susan Townsend, “Lost in a World of Books: Reading and Identity in Prewar Japan,” Literature Compass 4.4 (2007): 1183-1207. 44 See Giles Richter, “Enterpreneurship and Culture: The Hakubunkan Publishing Empire in Meiji Japan,” in Helen Hardacre and Adam Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 590-602; the Iwanami pieces are J. Thomas Rimer, “Iwanami Shigeo’s Meiji Education: Encounters, Transmissions” (in the same volume, 136-150, based strongly on Abe Yoshishige’s account which the present study also draws on), and the aforementioned Vanessa Ward’s “The Spectre of the Left.” 45 See, for example, Sarah Frederick, op. cit. 46 In addition to the aforementioned Erotic Grotesque Nonsense by Miriam Silverberg, another example is Michiko Suzuki’s Becoming Modern Women: Love and Female Identity in Prewar Japanese Literature and Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009). 36 Iwanami Shoten and postwar leftist intellectuals, or that of Sari Kawana on the role of editors and publishers in producing and selling early twentieth-century literature. 47 This overview of scholarship in the field has revealed that while there is a large body of Japanese-language scholarship on publishing and print culture in Japan, and an increasing amount in English as well, there is but little on the links between publishing and the intellectual community. Studies that incorporate intellectuals and publishing tend to focus on the reception of works or the broader cultural context rather than the networks that enabled publishers to function and meet the needs of the intellectual community. Human relations and networking were important for modern publishers in general, and were vital for a publisher focused on a particular community like Iwanami Shoten. Yet this perspective is lacking in almost all of the scholarship in both languages, a situation that the present study seeks to correct by considering how a publisher achieved success by effectively developing and deploying his network among the intellectual community. Theoretical Orientations & Methodology The success of Iwanami Shoten was due to its founder Iwanami Shigeo’s ability to secure for his publishing house a position of great influence and respect within the intellectual 47 Ward, op. cit., Sari Kawana, Murder Most Modern: Detective Fiction and Japanese Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), and Kawana, The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book, op. cit. 37 community of modern Japan. This was the result of his skillful use of human networks. Yet if such networking skills were important for anyone involved in publishing, what made Shigeo different? What enabled him to achieve a level of influence among intellectuals far beyond that of other publishers? Iwanami Shigeo’s success was the result of an interconnected series of long-term endeavors: he drew upon an established network with a central figure who already possessed great intellectual authority; he worked to amass intellectual cachet for himself both among his colleagues and the community at large; he made skillful use of intellectuals in his circle to increase this cachet; and finally he built on all these relations to secure a leading role in intellectual trends, including fostering the next generation of intellectuals. The entire enterprise was also informed by solid business decisions, which often deftly adapted from other business enterprises. While there has been among Japanese writers in the field (starting with Abe Yoshishige’s classic 1957 biography) something of a tendency to celebrate Iwanami’s human networking skills and/or his business skills as pioneering or even unique, in reality this was not the case. 48 Rather, what stands out was Iwanami’s careful meshing of these skills in a comprehensive way rather than being the first or the only person to use any of the particular tools in question. 48 安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige, 『岩波茂雄傳』 Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1957). 38 The current project seeks to articulate this process, tracing Iwanami’s trajectory through the early decades of the twentieth century while using this as a lens to shed light on the contours of the interconnected worlds of publishing and intellectual community. In other words, this study is a historical treatment of a publishing enterprise and its context, but it also draws inspiration from the field of intellectual history and stands to contribute to what might be called a social history of intellectual community. Ultimately, I seek to encourage awareness of how social and economic circumstances, such as the multifaceted relationships among various intellectuals and publishers, shaped the form of Japanese intellectual discourse in the early twentieth century. There are two particular orientations that inform this study, the first being publishing and networks, and the second being commerce and culture. I will now discuss each of these briefly. Orientation I: Approaching Networking The first approach is to attempt to map out social networks among intellectuals, identifying their structure and seeing how they functioned. One example of this approach is my earlier study on Uchiyama Shoten. 49 This approach is essential for articulating Iwanami’s development from a figure primarily functioning as a member of one intellectual circle – Sōseki’s Mokuyōkai – to a figure at the center of his own network of overlapping intellectual circles. In this regard, Actor-Network-Theory (ANT), as articulated by Bruno Latour, offers some 49 Kamei-Dyche, “Rojin to Deatta Nihonjin,” op. cit. 39 insight. Rather than see the “social” as comprising just one more aspect of the human experience (alongside legal, historical, cultural, etc.), Latour holds that the “social” is in fact not a separate realm of human experience, but rather a series of connections which holds all the other realms together. 50 The “social does not designate a thing among other things, like a black sheep among other white sheep, but a type of connection between things that are not themselves social.” 51 Every realm of the human experience contains a social aspect consisting of a particular set of such connections, and a given series of connections (a “social aggregate”) can change over time and place. In other words, any given network has its own particular social configuration, which may be given to fluctuation. Moreover, this configuration, since it is assembled by the individuals involved, must be charted not from above, seeking to use “society” to explain something, but rather from within, examining the relationships at work and then building these back up into a society. 52 Rather than imposing a social order from outside a network, one must “follow the actors” themselves, and comprehend how their social experience works. 53 Therefore, to understand a network of intellectuals, one must start with those intellectuals and see how they organize themselves, and then work up from these building blocks to understand the sort of social system they have formulated. 50 Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 5. 51 Ibid., emphasis in original. 52 Ibid., 8. 53 Ibid., 12. 40 In addition to Latour, I am also inspired by historian Anna Beerens’ use of prosopography to understand the ways in which relationships configured the contours of intellectual life. 54 The next two chapters particularly draw upon these insights to chart out Iwanami Shigeo’s initial intellectual circle, Sōseki’s Mokuyōkai, by situating its development within the history of Sōseki’s networking. However, it is not the primary purpose of this study to undertake a thorough network analysis of the Mokuyōkai circle itself. Rather, I conceive of this as a window into understanding the career trajectory Iwanami followed. From this perspective the circle was important for two reasons: first because this circle constituted Iwanami’s starting context as an actor in the intellectual community, and second because it also served as the basic network from which he began his venture into the world of publishing. Moreover, I am not just concerned with the structure of sets of relationships, but also seeing what role those played in the life of the individual and what they meant for that person. As Morimura Toshimi observes, it is important to consider groups not only in terms of structure, but also in terms of identity. 55 This is an important point because for intellectuals being part of an intellectual circle provided material benefits such as career-related connections, but this was not 54 See Anna Beerens, Friends, Acquaintances, Pupils, and Patrons-Japanese Intellectual Life in the Late Eighteenth Century: A Prosopographical Approach (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2006). 55 森村敏己 Morimura Toshimi, 「「集う」ことの意味」“‘Tsudou’ koto no Imi,” in Morimura and 山根徹也 Yamane Tetsuya, eds., 『集いのかたち ― ― 歴史における人間関係』Tsudoi no Katachi: Rekishi ni okeru Ningen Kankei (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 2004), 13-28. 41 the only reason to participate in circles. Pursuing as a group activities that were understood as part of the social performance of an “intellectual” also comprised an important part of their social identity. Identity could also be strongly shaped by individual relationships, especially that of master and disciple. The relationship between Iwanami Shigeo and his mentor Natsume Sōseki is a particularly good example of this and is considered at length in the subsequent chapters. It is my contention that this approach enables a solid understanding of Iwanami’s intellectual circles and networking. It helps explain how he drew on his intellectual relations and through these was able to secure a unique position in the intellectual community, and from there the broader intellectual culture, of the day. The present study therefore focuses on exploring Iwanami Shigeo’s career from the perspective of his relations with intellectuals, considering what relations he developed, how he did so, and in what ways he made use of these. Orientation II: Commerce and Culture A second approach I employ is that of the relationship between commerce and culture, a key concern in the work of many English-language scholars in history, literature, or business studies working on books and publishing. 56 On the one hand, this approach simply refers to two 56 Some examples over the last twenty years include Lewis A. Coser, Charles Kadushin, and Walter W. Powell, Books: The Culture and Commerce of Publishing (New York: Basic Books, 1982; republished three years later by the University of Chicago Press with “Books” added in front of the title); Theodore Berland, Book Publishing in America, 1987: Niche Books as a 42 angles of the publishing trade: publishing is a cultural enterprise, but it is also a business fundamentally concerned with profit. Understanding how one aspect influences the other is therefore a major issue. On the other hand, the approach reflects a supposed tension between these two concerns: in short, how is one to resolve, or at least come to terms with, the presumed dichotomy between intellectual endeavor and mercantile vocation? This is a much more fundamental problem, particularly for businesses involved in the cultural trade, and publishers in particular. 57 Publishers have long suffered from negative portrayals, in Japan as elsewhere, for their presumed role in the commodification of artistic works through reproduction. Walter Benjamin famously bemoaned in a 1936 essay the loss of authenticity and authority when a work was reproduced, Solution to the Culture vs Commerce Dilemma (unknown publisher, 1988); Bill Bell, Jonquil Bevan, and Philip Bennet, eds., Across Boundaries: The Book in Commerce and Culture (New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2000); Stephen Brown, ed., Consuming Books: The Marketing and Consumption of Literature (New York: Routledge, 2004); Albert Greco, Clara Rodriguez, and Robert Wharton, The Culture and Commerce of Publishing in the 21st Century (Stanford: Stanford Business Books, 2006); and Huw Osborne, ed., The Rise of the Modernist Bookshop: Books and the Commerce of Culture in the Twentieth Century (London: Routledge, 2015). Also see, as an example of a synthetic approach, Don Lavoie and Emily Chamlee-Wright, Culture and Enterprise: The Development, Representation and Morality of Business (London: Routledge, 2001). For a treatment of the situation in Japan in the late twentieth century, see Satō Ikuya, “Dualistic Portfolio Strategies in Japanese Scholarly Publishing : Cultures and Interests in Interaction,” Hitotsubashi Journal of Commerce and Management 39.1 (2004): 17-30. 57 This is not, needless to say, an inherently modern or Western problem; it also represents a major issue in Confucianism, which has traditionally looked down on merchants and relegated them to the lowest rung of the social ladder, while at the same time affording enormous significance to the cultural and intellectual pursuits which, more often than not, depended so much upon the efforts of those same merchants. 43 separating it from the time and space of the original. 58 He argued that this deprived a work of its “aura,” an essential element of art that informed the experience of encountering it from a perspective of tradition and veneration: “that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art. […] the technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition.” 59 In practice, however, in terms of publishing the veneration afforded great works often carried over into veneration for the printed text regardless of how many copies were produced thereof. This did not stop people from reacting to publishers with displeasure even while celebrating the authors who were necessarily complicit in the process of modern reproduction. The crux of the matter, I think, is the notion that intellectual and cultural endeavors transcend (or at least should transcend) the very notion of commodity, and how this runs up against the commodification of such endeavors in books sold for profit. 60 Publishing scholars have pointed out that this conflict is, to at least some extent, a real problem faced by the industry. As Coser, Kadushin and Powell state, “It is still the case that, as in the past, publishers as a group or 58 Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in Benjamin, Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn, ed. Hannah Arendt (New York: Schocken Books, 1969), 217-251. 59 Ibid., 221. 60 Recently, publishing historian Christine S. Haynes wrote that the staunch opposition in France to Google Books was based on just such an issue; namely, the French government rejected the notion that information and books were like other products or commodities, and that in France (and other countries), the American notion of leaving literature to the market is anathema (“The (Very) French Argument against Google Books,” History News Network, Feb. 22 2010 <http://hnn.us/articles/123269.html>. 44 individuals within particular houses are often torn between the requirements of commerce and their sense of cultural responsibility.” 61 Although they were discussing the American publishing industry in the late twentieth century, their observations could apply with equal validity to modern Japan, as when they observe, “…book publishing in the past as in the present has operated under the pressures of the marketplace, the countinghouse, and the literary and intellectual currents of the day. The quest for profit and the demands of excellence have all too often refused to go hand in hand. One should not be surprised that these same tensions, albeit in somewhat different form, are still here today.” 62 In other words, at issue here is the tension (both real and perceived) between culture and capitalism: making money from cultural endeavors or the provision of enlightenment, as addressed by Darnton, Brokaw, and others. This study touches on whether there are particular Japanese elements to this issue, considering, for example, the possibility of pre-Meiji roots for a sort of benevolent, paternal capitalism. 63 This also stands to shed light on whether Iwanami Shigeo suffered from a tension between commerce and culture, or was somehow able to harmonize them. I therefore consider how Iwanami portrayed himself, and attempt to grasp his identity as both an intellectual and a merchant. 61 Coser, Kadushin and Powell, op. cit., 15. 62 Ibid., 35. 63 One possibility to consider is the efforts of early modern merchants to establish an ethical justification for their occupation. One thinks immediately of something akin to Weber’s Protestant work ethic, such as the thought of Baigan outlined in Robert Bellah’s classic study, Tokugawa Religion: The Cultural Roots of Modern Japan (New York: Free Press, 1957). 45 Synthesizing Orientations While these two orientations represent substantially different perspectives, they are not incompatible. The first considers Iwanami Shigeo as an actor in the intellectual community; an intellectual who connected other intellectuals, and who fully participated in the intellectual culture of the day. The second considers Iwanami Shigeo as a businessman trying to earn a living through publishing, and discusses how these endeavors related to, engaged with, or conflicted with those of the first. Was there a tension between these two roles, and if so, how did Iwanami deal with it? This study considers the circles Iwanami participated in and his various connections to intellectuals, but also what role these played in the business side of his activities as a publisher, and how intellectual values were reconciled with the demands of running a publishing business. The study also touches on a range of other issues, such as the extent to which the intellectual world of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Japan represented a major discontinuity from its early modern forebear. A scholarly preoccupation with “newness,” identified with the onset of modernity, has tended to obscure the persistence of aspects of the premodern intellectual tradition, most notably in the form of Chinese learning and Buddhism. Rather than a sudden breaking free from the premodern intellectual tradition, modern Japan witnessed an ongoing grappling with that tradition and numerous attempts to engage with it in relation with, or even coupled to, imported European ideas. Moreover, the thinkers engaged in 46 these exercises – ranging from Confucian nationalist Yasuoka Masahiro to Kyoto School thinkers inspired by Zen or Jōdo Buddhism – were not exceptions or reactionaries, but frequently principal articulators of mainstream concerns. It is not surprising to see, therefore, that the social norms of the era’s intellectual culture were bound up in a similar process, synthesizing both pre-existing and newly-emergent elements. This is one aspect of the lived experience of intellectuals at the time that can be illuminated through following the development of a publisher in this world. In a similar vein, studies of intellectuals have tended to focus on key figures and texts but neglect the social context of intellectual activity. This tendency has been widespread among both Japanese and English-language scholars, and holds true across a range of hermeneutic frameworks. 64 An awareness of the cultural and social nexus within which text and intellectual are situated, however, even if necessarily incomplete and fragmentary, can significantly alter how intellectuals and intellectual discourse are understood. Here too the present study, which incorporates a careful analysis of the publication of various works, serves as a corrective by helping to situate the production of those works in context. Examining the case of Iwanami 64 For instance, in Japanese see 清水幾太郎 Shimizu Ikutarō, 『現代思想』 Gendai Shisō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1966), 日高六郎 Hidaka Rokurō, 『戦後思想を考える』Sengo Shisō wo Kangaeru (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989), and 鹿野政直 Kano Masanao, 『近代日本思想案内』Kindai Nihon Shisō Annai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2001); and in English see James W. Heisig, op. cit., and Harry D. Harootunian, op. cit. 47 Shigeo, with his varied and overlapping roles in that context, can therefore help reconstruct an essential but often overlooked aspect of the early twentieth-century Japanese intellectual landscape. Sources and Outline of the Study The current study attempts to employ a wide range of source material. Sources include the sets of collected works (zenshū) that are staples in the field of intellectual history; “official” accounts such as company histories; “personal” accounts such as letters, diaries, and personal recollections; images such as photographs and artistic representations, and finally physical evidence, first and foremost the original and replica instances of particular editions of published books. In terms of the organization of the study, the coverage runs from the last decade of the nineteenth century through to the 1930s, focusing primarily on the 1910s and 1920s. This was the era when Iwanami Shigeo set about entering the book trade, first as a seller and then as a publisher, drawing upon his circle of fellow monkasei in the Mokuyōkai and then his gradually increasing network to become a prominent figure in Japanese intellectual culture. In the 1930s and 1940s he would go on to build on his early successes, and continued to occupy the central role in developing the company until his death in 1946. The period under study is further subdivided into several short eras, each corresponding to 48 a stage in the development of Iwanami Shigeo’s business and influence. Each chapter focuses on the figures and/or works, first and foremost those connected to Sōseki, that played significant roles for Iwanami Shigeo and his development in the context of the intellectual community of the day. Chapter Two concerns late Meiji intellectuals and their circles, and follows the path of Iwanami’s mentor Natsume Sōseki through his early intellectual networking ventures. Chapter Three is an in-depth study of the Mokuyōkai, which was to prove so crucial for Iwanami, examining its development and membership. Chapter Four looks at Iwanami’s decision to enter the book trade, his establishment of the store, and his earliest publishing ventures, as well as the vital role played by Sōseki throughout the process. Chapter Five examines the Iwanami edition of Sōseki’s Kokoro, and its significance for Iwanami both as a business achievement and as part of his identity as a high-brow publisher. Finally, Chapter Six picks up the story by detailing how the new publisher continued to effectively make use of his network, and covers the creation of the landmark Sōseki Zenshū, further laying the groundwork for Iwanami’s continued rise to the intellectual forefront through the development of literary canons. 49 Chapter II The Circuits of Intellectual Life, Part I: Natsume Sōseki and His Networks Introduction When Iwanami Shigeo first decided to enter the book trade, he already had at his disposal a significant intellectual circle. This circle, the Mokuyōkai (木曜会, Thursday Society, begun in 1906), consisted of the writer Natsume Sōseki and his disciples (門下生 monkasei), the latter including Iwanami and several of his old friends, as well as some of Sōseki’s other friends and admirers. The relationships that Iwanami developed with Sōseki and with the other members were to prove vital once he launched his book store and then began to pursue publishing projects. This chapter seeks to put Iwanami’s social network into context by discussing the central figure, his mentor Sōseki, from the perspective of social networking, before the next chapter turns to examine the formation and membership composition of the Mokuyōkai. Together, this treatment of Sōseki and the Mokuyōkai provides a foundation for the subsequent chapters which consider how Iwanami drew on these relations as he became involved in, and rose to prominence within, the book trade. The Mokuyōkai was a “centered” type of intellectual circle in that it was orientated around Sōseki as the key figure, and it was his personal proclivities and style of relations that therefore shaped the experience of other members, especially because many of his disciples idolized him 50 and consciously sought to imitate his mannerisms. Consequently, it is necessary to have a firm grasp of Sōseki, his personality, and his networking experience before one can fully comprehend the Mokuyōkai and how its members made use of it. Examining these issues within the context of intellectual networking is also important because the ways in which Sōseki and the Mokuyōkai were, and were not, typical of the era stands to shed light on a heretofore unexamined aspect of intellectual life in early twentieth-century Japan. Intellectual Networking in the Late Meiji Era Networking was an important aspect of the life of modern intellectuals. Colleagues, mentors and other figures provided a writer, critic, or academic with a support system that beyond criticism and encouragement could also include financial assistance and connections to opportunities for publication and employment. Networks included, but were by no means limited to, intellectual circles that consisted of like-minded individuals who produced a particular configuration of relationships that they could draw upon. As with all forms of networks, this was a constant and shifting process requiring that a pattern of social relations be continuously renewed: as Bruno Latour notes, ultimately there is no group, only group formation. 1 To quote the sociologist Pierre Boudieu, a network is never “a natural given, or even a social given” but rather “the product….of endless effort[s]…in order to produce and reproduce lasting, useful 1 Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 27-29. 51 relationships that can secure material or symbolic profits.” 2 “Symbolic profits” included cultural capital, particularly a sense of shared identity as intellectuals holding the same tastes and social aspirations. Of course, the role of networks as an important component in Japanese intellectual life was by no means a modern innovation. Networks as a means of connecting early modern intellectuals to each other, to audiences and consumers, and ultimately to the underpinning structures of their social world, have been examined from a range of perspectives by scholars such as Eiko Ikegami, Anna Beerens, and Julie Nelson Davis. 3 Ikegami, inspired by the work of Bourdieu and Elias on civility and taste, looks to aesthetic networks to explain the means by which the Tokugawa ruling elite carried out a “civilizing process”; Beerens assesses the links among eighteenth-century intellectuals to gain fresh insight into Edo intellectual life; and Davis examines artistic networks to clarify the complex collaborative efforts involved in making and selling artistic prints. Late Meiji-era intellectual networks, however, also had their own distinct forms and characteristics. First and foremost was the bundan (文壇), a term dating back to the early modern 2 Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in John C. Richardson, ed., Handbook of Theory of Research for the Sociology of Education (New York: Greenwood: 1986), 46-58; 52. 3 Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), Anna Beerens, Friends, Acquaintances, Pupils, and Patrons-Japanese Intellectual Life in the Late Eighteenth Century: A Prosopographical Approach (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2006), and Julie Nelson Davis, Partners in Print: Artistic Collaboration and the Ukiyo-e Market (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2015), respectively. 52 era that by the dawn of the twentieth century had come to mean two things. In its broadest sense it referred to the entire literary establishment, and some scholars today deploy it in this way. 4 Even in the broad sense the term was meaningful as a social identifier for intellectuals because it framed them as belonging to a distinct, educated and influential subculture with its own values. It therefore marked them as worthy of social respect. This was particularly true of figures associated with high-brow “pure” literature (純文学, junbungaku), whose inter-linked social networks comprised a sophisticated subset of the literary scene and who were characterized by an elitist consciousness, as Edward Fowler has shown. 5 Literary elitism could also be rooted in high social origins, as was the case with the writers of the Shirakaba (白樺) movement, whose works, as Maya Mortimer has demonstrated, often featured “master” figures characterized as much by their aristocratic background as their ostensible wisdom. 6 At the same time, in its more specific sense the term “bundan” referred to literary coteries. These were overwhelmingly Tokyo-based institutions, and consisted of writers linked by a shared style, mentor, or agenda (whether literary, or socio-political in scope). These bundan usually put out their own journal, and were often connected to a group of “their” editors, critics, 4 See, for example, Pierantonio Zanotti, “Dynamite Against the Bundan: Fantasies of Empowerment and Violence in the Writings of Yamamura Bocho,” Annali di Ca’ Foscari 50 (Dec. 2014): 225-254. Zanotti defines bundan as “literary scene” and “literary establishment.” 5 Edward Fowler, The Rhetoric of Confession: Shishōsetsu in Early Twentieth-Century Japanese Fiction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 129-130. 6 Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei: The Role of the Master in Shirakaba Writers (Leiden: Brill, 2000). 53 and publishers in a loosely-cohesive social unit. 7 Young writers who joined a bundan could therefore gain access to an entire support system for getting their work into the hands of readers, provided that they upheld the coterie’s norms. Bundan were led by members of the established male literary elite, and women writers were usually marginalized: the feminist Bluestockings and their journal Seitō (青鞜) were an attempt to respond to this by creating a female bundan, notes Angela Coutts. 8 While some bundan could have cordial relations with each other, others engaged in intense rivalries; there was also a loose hierarchy at times, with top-tier bundan being centered on major writers with connections to prominent newspaper editors, and so forth. Members usually carried their bundan label throughout their career as an important form of social status and identity. This use of an intellectual circle as a source for status and identity was not limited to just the literary coteries. Other types of network also performed the same role: indeed, this is a common characteristic, as Morimura Toshimi has articulated. 9 Beyond the bundan, there were 7 For a brief outline of bundan, see Marvin Marcus, “The Social Organization of Modern Japanese Literature,” in The Columbia Companion to Modern East Asian Literature, ed. Joshua Mostow (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 52-58. Also see Chapter 6 of Fowler, op. cit., and Irena Powell, Writers and Society in Modern Japan (London: Macmillan, 1983). 8 Angela Coutts, “Gender and Literary Production in Modern Japan: The Role of Female-Run Journals in Promoting Writing by Women during the Interwar Years,” Signs 32.1 (Autumn 2006): 167-195. 9 森村敏己 Morimura Toshimi,「「集う」ことの意味」“‘Tsudou’ koto no Imi,” in『集いのかたち――歴史における人間関係』Tsudoi no Katachi: Rekishi ni okeru Ningen Kankei, eds. Morimura and 山根徹也 Yamane Tetsuya (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 2004), 13-28; see esp. 17-18. 54 many other types of intellectual networks comprising philosophers, critics, teachers and other intellectuals. Late Meiji Japan was a vibrant intellectual landscape with large numbers of semi-professional associations, literary and artistic societies, study groups, and gatherings, including some coordinated or supported by leading political or cultural figures. Intellectuals would navigate this world through shrewd networking, establishing beneficial relationships with colleagues and mentors and moving amongst a series of various intellectual networks, at times establishing their own circles along the way. In the case of Sōseki, personal proclivities from his youth onwards affected his personal relations with others and prevented him from engaging in this landscape as fully as most young intellectuals. He was strongly influenced by a few foreign teachers and several close friends, first and foremost the poet Masaoka Shiki (正岡子規, 1867-1902). He gradually built up a loose network of colleagues, including some members of Shiki’s circle and people he had encountered at school or in the United Kingdom, but in spite of this he did not join any of the circles that these figures participated in, preferring to drift around among people until the development of a circle centered on him: the Mokuyōkai. Before beginning an examination of this process, it is first essential to grasp as much as possible some sense of Sōseki as a person and consider the impact that his personality had on his networking. 55 Natsume Sōseki as an Individual and a Meiji Intellectual Natsume Sōseki looms large as a figure in both modern Japanese literature and history. 10 Wielding both the evocative imagery of the novelist and the sharp insight of a critical journalist, his work stands as not only a monumental literary achievement but also a treasure trove of observations and reflections on contemporary society. As Marvin Marcus observes, “Sōseki was one of Japan’s leading public intellectuals, regularly holding forth on literary, cultural and political matters.” 11 Positioned at the turn of the century, and surviving to see the death of Meiji Tennō, Sōseki accurately and tenderly depicted his era as one infused with both fear and exuberance as the newly-emerged Japanese nation forged a place in the modern world. 12 The image of Sōseki as a masterful, sympathetic commentator on the birth of modern Japan amidst a tangled confusion of obstacles and aspirations shortly evolved into part of the national consciousness. Today Japanese students are introduced to his major works, especially Kokoro (こゝろ), Wagahai wa Neko de aru (吾輩は猫である), and Botchan (坊っちゃん), at an early age, and these works continue to be cultural staples to which myriad references are 10 Natsume’s birthname was 夏目金之助 (Natsume Kinnosuke). All references to『漱石全集』 Sōseki Zenshū in this study refer to the third Iwanami edition (1993-1999) unless otherwise stated. For more on the editions of the Sōseki Zenshū, see Chapter 6. 11 Marvin Marcus, introduction to Sammy I. Tsunematsu, trans., Natsume Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors (Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 2002), Kindle edition, unpaginated. 12 On Sōseki and his era, see volume 5 (1995) of 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū, 「漱石と明治」 “Sōseki to Meiji,” a special issue covering both the depiction of the Meiji era in Sōseki’s works and assessments of his life and works from perspectives informed by concerns such as imperialism and modern media. 56 made in everything from popular television programs to daily conversation. 13 At home and abroad Sōseki is heralded as the most quintessentially “modern” of Japanese writers. The scholarship on Sōseki in both Japanese and foreign languages is mountainous. 14 Works range from general studies of Sōseki’s life and works 15 across a spectrum of studies on such topics as 13 Kokoro was first published as a single volume by Iwanami Shoten (Sōseki,『こゝろ』Kokoro (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1914)); for an accessible bunkobon version see Kokoro (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989). Wagahai wa Neko de aru was first published as a single volume in 1911 (Sōseki,『吾輩ハ猫デアル』(Tokyo: Ōkura Shoten, 1911)); for the bunkobon see Wagahai wa Neko de aru (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990). Botchan first appeared in volume form in the compilation Uzurakago (Sōseki, 『坊っちゃん』Botchan in 『鶉籠』Uzurakago (Tokyo: Shun’yōdō, 1907); for the bunkobon see Botchan (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989). In English, there are several translations of Kokoro available, such as Edwin McClellan, trans., Kokoro (Washington, DC: Regnery Publishing, 1957), and the more recent Meredith McKinney, trans., Kokoro (New York: Penguin Books, 2010). For I Am a Cat, see Aiko Itō and Graeme Wilson, trans., I Am a Cat (Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 2002), and for Botchan see Umeji Sasaki, trans., Botchan (Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 2005), or J. Cohn, trans., Botchan (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2006). Like Lu Xun and other pioneering modern writers of their era, Sōseki wrote non-fiction works and poetry extensively, but far less of these have been translated. Exceptions include Igner Sigrun Brodey and Sammy I. Tsunematsu, trans., My Individualism and The Philosophical Foundations of Literature (Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing, 2004), Michael Bourdaghs, Atsuko Ueda, and Joseph Murphy, eds., Theory of Literature and Other Critical Writings (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), and Igner Sigrun Brodey and Sammy I. Tsunematsu, trans. and introduction, Rediscovering Natsume Sōseki: Celebrating the Centenary of Sōseki’ s Arrival in England 1900-1902: With the First English Translation of Travels in Manchuria and Korea (Folkestone: Global Oriental, 2000). 14 Sōseki’s ubiquitous presence in Japan but relative (and to some extent, exaggerated) obscurity elsewhere outside of academia has been much bemoaned and commented upon; for a thoughtful reflection on this state of affairs, and the varying factors and issues bound up with consumption of foreign authors, see Bruce Fleming, “Soseki and His Discontents,” Michigan Quarterly Review 40.3 (Summer 2001): 457-483. 15 Japanese-language scholarship on Sōseki began with works by his disciples, including, in particular, 松岡譲 Matsuoka Yuzuru,『漱石先生』 Sōseki-sensei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1934), 小宮豊隆 Komiya Toyotaka,『夏目漱石』 Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1938; republished numerous times until the present and was considered the gold standard in Sōseki biography well into the postwar era), 森田草平 Morita Sōhei『夏目漱石』Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Kōchō Shorin, 1942; also republished many times, such as by Chikuma Shobō in 1967), and 赤木桁平 Akagi Kōhei,『夏目漱石』Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Kōdansha Gakujutsu Bunko, 2015; originally Shinchōsha, 1917). Landmark studies include 江藤淳 Etō Jun, 『夏目 57 Buddhism, 16 suicide, 17 sociology, 18 the search for truth and authenticity, 19 and the body, 20 as 漱石』 Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Tōkyō Raifusha, 1956) and『漱石とその時代』Sōseki to sono Jidai (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1970), 5 vols.); 荒正人 Ara Masahito,『評伝夏目漱石』Hyōden Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Jitsugyō no Nihonsha, 1960); 瀬沼茂樹 Senuma Shigeki, 『夏目漱石』Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1962); 石崎等 Ishizaki Hitoshi, ed., 『夏目漱石―作家とその時代』 Natsume Sōseki: Sakka to sono Jidai (Tokyo: Yūseidō Shuppan, 1988); and 平岡敏夫 Hiraoka Toshio, 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū (Tokyo: Yūseidō Shuppan, 1987) and『夏目漱石――『猫』から『明暗』まで』Natsume Sōseki: Neko kara Meian made (Tokyo: Chōeisha, 2017). The essential reference works for Sōseki studies are Ara’s 『漱石研究年表』 Sōseki Kenkyū Nenpyō (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 1984), and Hiraoka, et. al., eds.,『夏目漱石事典』Natsume Sōseki Jiten (Tokyo: Bensei Shuppan, 2000), while 石原千秋 Ishihara Chiaki,『漱石はどう読まれてきたか』Sōseki ha dō Yomaretekita ka (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 2010) provides an overview of the interpretative history of the author’s major works since their publication. In addition to the wealth of Japanese-language scholarship on Sōseki, there is at least one whole journal dedicated to him, Sōseki Kenkyū. Some of the first people to introduce Sōseki to an English-language audience were writers in literary columns or journals, such as J. I. Bryan in The Athenaeum (4482 (Sep. 20, 1913), 283) or William Plomer, a South African writer and editor who described Sōseki as the “most important and representative writer yet produced by post-feudal Japan (“Soseki Natsume,” New Adelphi 3.1 (Sep. 1929): 49). An early unpublished study was Tadashi Kira’s “Studies of Selected Works of Natsume Soseki: With Original Translations” (M.A. Thesis, University of Southern California, 1938). Early English-language studies include Edwin McClellan, “An Introduction to Sōseki,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 22 (Dec. 1959): 150-208 (followed up by McClellan’s Two Japanese Novelists: Sōseki and Tōson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), Etō Jun’s “Natsume Sōseki: A Japanese Meiji Intellectual,” The American Scholar 34.4 (Autumn 1965): 603-619, Beongcheon Yu, Natsume Sōseki (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1969), and the edited volume by Iijima Takehisa and James M. Vardaman, Jr., The World of Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Kinseidō, 1987), while more recent works include Angela Yiu, Chaos and Order in the Works of Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), and William N. Ridgeway, A Critical Study of the Novels of Natsume Sōseki (1867-1916) (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 2005). 16 For example, see Ueda Shizuteru, “Sōseki and Buddhism: Reflections on His Later Works” (ed. Jan Van, Eastern Buddhist 29.2 (Autumn 1996): 172-206), and Mizukawa Takao, “Natsume Sōseki and Shin Buddhism” (trans. Michihiro Ama and Yokogawa Ken’ichi, Eastern Buddhist 38.1-2 (2007): 145-179), both of which draw out Buddhist themes in Sōseki’s work; also see Orion Klautau, “Against the Ghosts of Recent Past: Meiji Scholarship and the Discourse on Edo-Period Buddhist Decadence” (Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 35.2 (2008): 263-303), which examines Sōseki’s views on Buddhism in the context of Meiji writing on early modern Japanese Buddhism. 17 Most especially, see Doris G. Bargen’s study of the suicide of General Nogi Maresuke and the literary responses of Sōseki and Ōgai, Suicidal Honor: General Nogi and the Writings of Mori Ōgai and Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006). 18 See Michael K. Bourdaghs, “Property and Sociological Knowledge: Natsume Sōseki and the Gift of Narrative,” Japan Forum 20.1 (2008): 79-101. 58 well as Sōseki’s influence on the Japanese language itself. 21 Understandably, Sōseki’s writings provide endless fodder for comparative studies as well, and in addition to the plethora of scholarship on his works of fiction there is an increasing amount of interest in his non-fiction writings. 22 Of the wide range of interpretative analyses applied to Sōseki’s work over the course of a century, one of the most enduring has been the position that his writings reflect a fundamental series of underlying tensions in Meiji Japan. While these tensions come in many shapes and sizes depending on the interpretive framework and view of the critic in question, they are frequently 19 See, for example, Ward William Biddle, “The Authenticity of Natsume Sōseki,” Monumenta Nipponica 28.4 (winter 1973): 391-426. 20 See in particular Ridgeway, A Critical Study of the Novels of Natsume Sōseki, op. cit. 21 For example, see田島優 Tajima Masaru,『漱石と近代日本語』Sōseki to Kindai Nihongo (Tokyo: Kanrin Shobō, 2009). 22 For example, see Homma Kenshirō, A Comparative Study of Natsume Sōseki (Osaka: Kansai University of Foreign Studies, 1990), Thomas Lamarre, “Expanded Empiricism: Natsume Sōseki with William James,” Japan Forum 20.1 (2008): 47-77, as well as Daniel D. Baird’s dissertation, “Authority on the Margin: The Informal Essays of Virginia Woolf, Natsume Soseki, and Zhou Zuoren” (University of Oregon, 2006). Comparative studies are also plentiful among European scholars of Japan, one example being Franz Hintereder-Emde’s study of Sōseki and Robert Walser, Ich-Problematik um 1900 in der japanischen und deutschsprachigen Moderne: Studien zu Natsume Sōseki und Robert Walser (Munich: Ludicium, 2000). On Sōseki’s non-fiction writings, see for example 金正勲 Kim Junghoon,「漱石の満州講演――その文明批評の予告編」”Sōseki no Manshū Kōen: Sono Bunmei Hihyō no Yokoku-hen,”『日本文芸研究』 Nihon Bungei Kenkyū 61.1-2 (Sep. 2009): 17-34; 竹中龍範 Takenaka Tatsunori, 「漱石と英語――特に松山との関わりにおいて（四国英学史関係）」“Sōseki to Eigo: Toku ni Matsuysma to no Kakawari ni oite ‘Shikoku Eigaku-shi Kankei’”『紀要』Kiyō [Kagawa University] 30 (2010): 21-30; 中山禎 Nakayama Yoshiteru,「夏目漱石と京都（日記、書簡等から）」“Natsume Sōseki to Kyōto (Nikki, Shokan nado kara),”『鳳翔学叢』Hōshō Gakusō 7 (March 2011): 113-128; and in English, Marvin Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writings of Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009). On Sōseki’s kanshi, see松岡譲 Matsuoka Yuzuru,『漱石の漢詩』Sōseki no Kanshi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1966), as well as 中村宏 Nakamura Hiroshi,「漱石漢詩の世界」 Sōseki Kanshi no Sekai (Tokyo: Dai-ichi Shobō, 1983). 59 collapsed into what might be called a “great divide” between East and West, and between tradition and modernity (however these might be defined). 23 This view reaches beyond Sōseki scholars to a wide range of academics who draw on Sōseki in this way. For example, Michael Foster writes that in his novels, essays, and literary criticism, Sōseki portrayed “the tension between old belief systems and new systems of rational thinking.” 24 At the same time, however, Sōseki wrote eloquently of his own personal struggles and torments, as Etsuko Nakayama has shown. 25 His oeuvre was, then, a portrayal of the experience of a nation undergoing dramatic and even violent internal changes, and as well a self-portrait of the tensions he experienced in his own life. Those tensions were not just the result of the changes underway in his society. Sōseki was 23 Consider, for example, Angela Yiu’s Chaos and Order in the Works of Natsume Sōseki, which posits a fundamental tension in Sōseki’s work between a desire for order and stability in life and a more emotional, chaotic desire reaching out from within; or Diaz Mary Elizabeth’s “The Conflict between the Novel and the Eastern Concept of the Private Self: The Literary Responses of Natsume Soseki and Mori Ogai,” (Ph.D. dissertation, State University of New York at Stony Brook, 2002), which begins by postulating a (questionable) distinction between Western values supporting the notion of self-worth and Eastern values encouraging sacrificing the self for the good of the group, building on this to explore how Ōgai and Sōseki engaged with a medium (the novel) which was fundamentally bound up with a sense of self which conflicted with that of their own culture – of the two, it is Sōseki who is portrayed as the more conflicted, depicting modern (Japanese) man as torn between disparate worlds of old and new. Also see Etsuko Nakayama’s dissertation (“A Study of Conflict in the Life and the Later Novels of Natsume Sōseki,” Ph.D. diss., University of Hawai’i at Manoa, 1988), another study that examines links between conflict and tensions in Sōseki’s life and social context and those portrayed in his fiction. 24 Michael Foster, Pandemonium and Parade: Japanese Monsters and the Culture of Yokai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 119. More broadly, Steve Odin sees in Sōseki, as with Mori Ōgai, a dialectical tension between detachment and sympathy regarding the position of the author vis-à-vis his subject, comparable to Western works at the time (Artistic Detachment in Japan and the West: Psychic Distance in Comparative Aesthetics (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001), 200, 215). 25 Etsuko Nakayama, op. cit. 60 a troubled individual, and it is crucial to grasp his personality if one is to understand the relationships he formed with others. Sōseki was unwanted by his parents and no attempt was made to hide this fact from the boy. He was the eighth child of his father Natsume Naokatsu (夏目直克), and the sixth of his mother, Naokatsu’s second wife, Chie, neither of whom wished to have another child. 26 His family, once prominent, was facing declining status and fortune. Moreover, the boy’s birth on the unlucky day of kōshin did not bode well. He was immediately given away to another family, then brought back briefly at the age of one before being formally adopted by a Mr. and Mrs. Shiobara who had no other children. His foster parents spoiled the boy in the hopes that he would feel obligated to care for them in their old age, but offered him no affection and left him feeling unwanted: in Nakayama’s words, “[their] way of looking after Sōseki strikes us as so crude as to serve as a model of how not to raise a child.” 27 Like the protagonist of his novel Michikusa (Grass by the Wayside, widely interpreted as an autobiographical work), Sōseki grew to dislike his foster parents and acted up for attention. Around the age of eight, Sōseki’s foster parents divorced and he ended up back with his mother, who tolerated his presence and was somewhat warm towards him, and his father, who 26 See, for instance, Etō Jun, Sōseki to sono Jidai, vol. I, 47-49. 27 Nakayama, 40. “[They] did not have genuine affection for Sōseki. Nonetheless, since they did not have any children, they treated him like a treasure and bought him whatever he wanted in spite of the fact that they were otherwise very stingy. They did so, however, not because they loved him, but because they thought they had to show their kindness in order to win his love. In their minds they were always calculating the benefits Sōseki would be able to give them in their old age.” 61 offered nothing of the sort. Within five years his mother had passed away. For the rest of his life Sōseki idealized her and described his yearning to be with her, as in the following example: She was called Chie. This name Chie is among the words which arouse the greatest nostalgia in me. It even seems to me that it belongs to her alone and to no other woman. Fortunately, I have never met a second woman with this name. […] I wish I could be reunited with my mother […]. I was too insubordinate and obstinate to have been pampered by my mother as youngest sons usually are. And yet I have always had the impression that she was the member of our family who cuddled me most frequently. Love and hate aside, my mother was certainly a woman endowed with dignity and grace. To everybody she seemed to surpass my father in intelligence. 28 While Sōseki adored his mother, he bitterly despised his father, portraying him as a vain, petty, heartless man who saw his son as a nuisance. “Above all, I have never forgotten how severely my father treated me,” he complained when reflecting on his childhood. 29 Scholars writing about Sōseki from a psychiatric perspective have suggested that Sōseki’s dislike of the government and authority figures was rooted in the intense hatred he had for his father. 30 Neither did Sōseki care much for his siblings, who unlike him seem to have received genuine affection from their parents and lived carefree lives. Like his foster parents, Sōseki’s siblings largely ignored him, into adulthood – until they needed money. Unsurprisingly, Sōseki craved affection. The editor and literary critic Miura Masashi 28 Natsume Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, trans. Tsunematsu, Chapters 37, 38 respectively. 29 Ibid., Chapter 29. 30 See, for example, 北垣隆一 Kitagaki Ryūichi, 『漱石の精神分析』 Sōseki no Seishin Bunseki (Tokyo: Kitagawa Shoten, 1968). 62 frames Sōseki’s entire body of work from the perspective of an unloved child (titling his work on the subject Sōseki: A Child Unloved by His Mother). 31 It has been suggested that Sōseki sought in his wife, Nakane Kyōko (中根鏡子, 1877-1963), a surrogate mother, a role that she was unable or unwilling to perform. 32 His expectations put great pressure on her, but he himself made little effort to communicate, then expressed frustration when she did not respond with unconditional sympathy and affection. 33 Nor did he receive much affection from his children, who were often scared of him because of his tendency to suddenly launch into rages and yell at them. 34 Kyōko, McClain and others have attributed this behavior to neurotic episodes, a topic to which I will return in a moment. 35 If, as his wife and others have argued, Sōseki genuinely loved his children, then their inability to return his affection out of fear must have been very painful for him, especially if he was unaware of how he was hurting them. In light of this, his tendency to 31 三浦雅士 Miura Masashi, 『漱石――母に愛されなかった子』 Sōseki: Haha ni Aisarenakatta Ko (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2008). 32 See, for example, Nakayama, 94-101. 33 See Doi Takeo, The Psychological World of Natsume Sōseki, trans. W. J. Tyler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 1976). For example, during his time in the UK, Kyōko – struggling to manage the household as well as giving birth to another child – did not write to Sōseki as often as he wished. Instead of trying to offer his wife emotional support, particularly in light of how her difficulties were intensified by his absence, Sōseki was hurt by what he perceived as her uncaring attitude. This later contributed to conflict between the couple. See, for example, letter 162 (March 9, 1901) in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 14 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1995), 179. 34 See Yōko McClain, “Sōseki: A Tragic Father,” Monumenta Nipponica 33.4 (Winter 1978): 461-469; and 夏目伸六 Natsume Shinroku,『父・夏目漱石』Chichi Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1956), e.g. 86. Sōseki had six children (four daughters and two sons). 35 See 夏目鏡子述 Natsume Kyōko, transcribed by 松岡譲 Matsuoka Yuzuru,『漱石の思い出』Sōseki no Omoide (Tokyo: Bunshun Bunko, 1994; originally Iwanami Shoten, 1929), and McClain, “Sōseki: A Tragic Father,” op. cit. 63 lavish attention and affection on his adoring disciples (as surrogate children who returned his feelings), is entirely understandable. 36 One issue to consider is whether Sōseki suffered from serious mental illness. His disciples and early Sōseki scholars, confronted with his antisocial behavior and nervous breakdown while studying in the United Kingdom, clung to the notion that he was merely “eccentric” or stressed from overwork. “Two years of loneliness and overwork seems to have left a permanent mark on Sōseki,” offers McClellan, “for he returned to Japan an irritable man, prone to sudden outbursts of temper and more eccentric than ever.” 37 The consensus among these early writers was that Sōseki was a great man who locked himself in his room to devote himself to intense literary study, but was naturally frustrated by the enormity of the task. This image of Sōseki’s time in Britain has proved surprisingly enduring. For example, in 1992, Peter Milward wrote “He tried to do too much; and so he fell into a melancholy that some Japanese visitors mistook for madness.” 38 Some scholars suggested that Sōseki had suffered from culture shock. 39 However, while this might certainly help explain some of his frustration while living abroad, it lacks 36 Sōseki’s relations with his disciples are addressed in more detail in the next chapter. 37 McClellan, 162. 38 Peter Milward, introduction to Natsume Sōseki, The Tower of London, trans. and eds. Peter Milward and Kii Nakano (Brighton: In Print Publishing, 1992), 14. 39 See, for example, Márta Fülöp, “Natsume Soseki: Culture Shock and the Birth of the Modern Japanese Novel,” in Wolfgang Berg and Aoileann Ní Éigeartaigh, eds., Exploring Transculturalism: A Biographical Approach (Wiesbaden: Springer VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, 2010), 63-80. 64 sufficient explanatory power for Sōseki’s condition. He had already had one breakdown before he even left Japan, and continued to experience neurotic episodes throughout the course of his life, as his wife Kyōko made clear in her account. 40 In other words, his troubled time in the United Kingdom likely just aggravated a preexisting condition. 41 A much smaller number of scholars, following Kyōko’s lead, have approached Sōseki from the perspective that he was afflicted with one or more serious psychological disorders. One of the first and most enduring assessments was that of Chitani Shinichirō, who argued that Sōseki suffered from severe manic-depressive tendencies. 42 Another was by Doi Takeo, a psychoanalyst who drew on Sōseki’s fictional characters for insight into various psychological conditions, while suggesting that the author himself was schizophrenic. 43 Every ten years or so following his first breakdown, Sōseki would experience severe episodes where he would 40 Natsume Kyōko, op. cit. For instance, in June 1903 Sōseki had an intense psychological episode, prompting Kyōko to grab the children and leave the house. Seeking medical help, Sōseki was diagnosed with neurasthenia, but there was no effective treatment and his wife and children simply had to endure his rants and destructive behavior during those times. 41 Sōseki also suffered from poor physical health. He struggled with stomach ulcers his whole life, which were likely related to stress and his psychological condition, a situation worsened by his lack of exercise and love of oily foods and sweets. On what was supposed to be a restful excursion to Shuzenji (a hot spring town on the Izu Peninsula, famous for being the site where Minamoto no Yoriie was assassinated) in June 1910, he collapsed, vomited large quantities of blood and nearly died. After doctors and family members came from Tokyo to care for him he recovered, the entire episode having lasted three weeks. Sōseki scholars refer to this as the “Shuzenji incident,” and employ it as a dividing line between Sōseki’s earlier humorous, satirical works and his later darker and more intense writing. 42 千谷七郎 Chitani Shinichirō,『漱石の病跡――病気と作品から』 Sōseki no Byōseki : Byōki to Sakuhin kara (Tōkyō: Keisō Shobō, 1963). 43 土居健郎 Doi Takeo,『漱石の心的世界』Sōseki no Shinteki Sekai (Tokyo: Shibundō, 1969). It was later republished in several revised editions. The original was also translated (see Tyler, op. cit.). 65 withdraw from others for extended periods, but this did not mean he was reliably stable or sociable the rest of the time. While it is not possible to state so unequivocally, a compelling case could be made that Sōseki had strong, even crippling, narcissistic tendencies. “The essential feature of Narcissistic Personality Disorder,” states the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM-IV , “is a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy […]. Individuals with this disorder generally require excessive admiration...Their self-esteem is almost invariably very fragile.” 44 Such individuals are preoccupied with what others think of them, and respond in a thoroughly negative way to criticism or perceived slights: “They may react with disdain, rage, or defiant counterattack. Such experiences often lead to social withdrawal or an appearance of humility that may mask and protect the grandiosity.” 45 In the case of Sōseki, this was manifested in several ways, one being an intense and unforgiving perfectionism. It is hardly going too far to suggest that this was born of a subconscious desire to prove himself and seek the affirmation and affection from others that he had been denied in his childhood. Sōseki has often been portrayed as a dedicated and serious student, and this was certainly true. However, his perfectionism went beyond merely being 44 American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th ed. (Washington, D.C.: American Psychiatric Association, 1994), 658. 45 Ibid., 659. 66 passionate about his work. He had long entertained fantasies about changing the world and leaving behind something great that would impress everyone, such as a work of English literature that would amaze the West: My ambition at that time [i.e. when a student] was truly boundless and obscure; [all I hoped for] was to be able to become thoroughly at home with the English language and literature, and produce a great work of literature in a foreign language that would astonish Westerners. 46 As his English studies proceeded the enormity, or outright impossibility, of this aspiration dawned on him and he became more and more frustrated and depressed. Reflecting on Sōseki’s relationships shows that this perfectionism was likely responsible for some of the pain he caused his family members. Nothing he did was ever good enough for Sōseki, and he was just as unsatisfied with the perceived failings of those close to him as his own. He exhibited little patience with anyone who fell short of his expectations. He would lash out angrily at his loved ones, then, when met with their pain and confusion, he would withdraw, indulging in fantasies of running away and being a hermit. It was as if he constantly desired others to live up to his expectations and pour affection on him, but was incapable or unwilling to show any awareness of their own needs – a common trait amongst narcissistic personalities. Sōseki’s behavior terrified his children. For example, when they failed to learn fast enough 46 Sōseki,「時機が来てゐたんだ――処女作追懐談」“Jiki ga Kiteitanda: Shojosaku Tsukai-dan,” in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 25 (1996), 279-283; 281. Originally published in 「文章世界」Bunshō Sekai 3.12 (1908.9.15), it is often just known as “Shojosaku Tsukai-dan.” 67 something that he tried to teach them, he would respond by becoming angry and yelling at them, making them cry. 47 When frustrated, he would launch into tantrums, even physically hitting people, or throwing and breaking things. What made this particularly troubling was that at other times he might be fine, even if the children were running around noisily. His behavior was unpredictable, and no one knew what might set him off or when. 48 Sōseki’s perfectionism and lack of empathy also hurt his disciples. Some would later vividly recount painful experiences. One of the most detailed accounts comes from Uchida Hyakken (内田百間, 1889-1971). Uchida relates how he used to decorate his room with works of painting and calligraphy by his mentor: in fact, he admitted, he had so many that his room resembled a “Sōseki exhibition.” 49 Sōseki, upon visiting, was obviously uncomfortable, prompting Uchida to regret having kept them on the walls, but “it was too late”: a few days later, a letter arrived from Sōseki stating that he was unhappy about the situation and requesting that Uchida return the works so that they could be destroyed. 50 The works, having been re-assessed by their creator, had clearly been found lacking. Sōseki offered to produce some new and better works for his disciple instead, but while Uchida appreciated this offer he really did not want to lose the works he had treasured for so long. Pleading in person brought no respite, because 47 Natsume Kyōko, 367. 48 McClain, 467-468. 49 内田百間 Uchida Hyakken,『漱石山房の記』Sōseki Sanbō no Ki (Tokyo: Chichibu Shobō, 1941), 13-14. 50 Ibid., 14-15. 68 Sōseki was resolute and firmly stated, “It is of no use for you to decorate [with] something I don’t like,” and in the face of his stubborn mentor’s anger Uchida backed down. 51 While pleased with the replacements, he still missed the ones Sōseki had destroyed. 52 Uchida states that while he did not know this at the time, years later he came to believe that Sōseki had learned about Uchida’s decorations from Tsuda Seifū (津田青楓, 1880-1978; an artist friend of Sōseki’s as well as a semi-regular Mokuyōkai member), prompting Sōseki to worry and pay Uchida a visit. 53 In other words, Sōseki’s behavior was not prompted by a chance discovery that his disciple was proudly displaying his works – it was the very reason why he bothered to visit in the first place, making his lack of regard for Uchida’s feelings doubly cruel. Sōseki’s belief that he somehow owned the works in perpetuity, even after having given them to Uchida, is also telling. 54 There are hints here that Sōseki strongly desired a degree of control, over his work and his social interactions, perhaps as a means of moderating stress and social pressure. Sōseki’s response to contemporary concerns that he was mentally ill was to seemingly face them head-on, and in so doing make light of them. In the opening of Bungakuron, he gave his 51 Ibid., 15-16. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid., 16. 54 That Uchida later decided the outcome was for the best – because, due to financial difficulties, he was unable to hold onto everything he had received from his mentor and would have felt sorry for Sōseki having his works end up in the hands of strangers who he did not wish to see them (ibid., 16-17) – could be seen as constituting not only an apology for Sōseki’s thoughtless behavior but also an acquiescence to his self-centeredness. 69 “madness” credit for his literary talent: The English people who observed me called me neurasthenic. A certain Japanese person even sent a report back to Japan that I had gone mad. Who am I to question the pronouncements of such wise persons? I only regret that I didn’t have my wits about me enough then to express my gratitude to them. Even after returning to Japan, I apparently remained unchanged—a neurasthenic and a madman. Even my own family accepted this view! Since my own family accepts this view, I am well aware that I, the person in question, have no leave to argue otherwise. But it was thanks to my neurasthenia and to my madness that I was able to compose Cat, produce Drifting in Space, and publish Quail Cage. Thinking about this now, I believe I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my neurasthenia and madness. Insofar as there is no drastic change in my personal circumstances, I imagine that my neurasthenia and madness will continue for as long as I live. So long as they persist, I have hopes of publishing any number of Cats, Driftings in Space, and Quail Cages, and so I pray that my neurasthenia and madness never abandon me. 55 While on the surface a humorous treatment, this excerpt also hints at a darker side. One can easily visualize a seething Sōseki lashing out at his critics, with the jab at his family taking on a particularly disturbing tone in light of the struggles Kyōko recorded in her memoir. 56 The disciples, however, instead of rallying around the long-suffering wife, on the whole rejected her view with hostility. Uchida was unusual in that he was one of the very few monkasei (another being Matsuoka Yuzuru (松岡譲, 1891-1969), who became part of the family and was sympathetic to Kyōko’s position) who wrote anything that could confirm, or even hint at, the 55 Sōseki, Theory of Literature and Other Critical Writings, 49. 56 Kyōko herself occasionally struggled with depression as well, although this is little-mentioned in the scholarship. She suffered a depressive bout in July 1897 after a miscarriage, and an even more serious one in late June the following year, during which she attempted suicide by drowning but was rescued. 70 suspicion that Sōseki was mentally ill. 57 Instead, most disciples portrayed their mentor as an almost saintly figure. 58 Why did Sōseki’s disciples act in such a way? Nakayama reasons that “His disciples and admirers […] denied the fact that Sōseki had bouts of mental illness partly because they were reluctant to mar their idealized image of Sōseki and partly because they seldom witnessed Sōseki’s eccentric remarks and behavior themselves.” 59 The notion that the disciples did not suffer the full brunt of Sōseki’s neuroses is debatable. While Sōseki spoiled his disciples and frequently came to their aid – as can be seen in the discussion of the members of the Mokuyōkai in the following chapter – he could also be thoughtless and cruel, as the Uchida case illustrates. When he was in a bad mood he would make sure that his disciples were painfully aware of this, as Uchida explains: Sōseki would gradually become ill-tempered once he started working on a newspaper serial. At such times, he would not say anything [even though] everyone was discussing 57 Here I must indicate that I am speaking in the relative sense. Matsuoka held Sōseki in high esteem – his daughter McClain notes that he argued with her mother over her fierce and fearful image of Sōseki (468). I simply mean that, compared to the other monkasei, Matsuoka was more willing to stand by Kyōko and entertain the notion that Sōseki was mentally ill. 58 The following description by Komiya is typical: Sensei was the sort of person who treats one with a pure heart as long as they approach him with a pure heart. That might sound like nothing, but it is never an easy job. Human beings tend to be impure [in that they] become annoyed, and get upset quite often. However, this could not be applied to Sensei. Sensei always respected pure things, and never stopped loving pure things. Therefore, one became completely naked without any worries in front of Sensei. Sensei was so skilled at bringing out the truth from others. (小宮豊隆 Komiya Toyotaka,『知られざる漱石』 Shirarezaru Sōseki (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1951), 18-19). 59 Nakayama, 87. 71 something. If he opened his mouth, it would normally be [to say] something severe, like “None of your impudence! Because of who do you think you could be full-fledged?” The person who said [whatever had angered him] would turn pale, and the rest of the members could not move even slightly, feeling like we could not even breathe. 60 Clearly Sōseki could behave towards his disciples in the same manner as he did towards his children, not hesitating to remind them, in Uchida’s example, of how they were indebted to him for their success. Nakayama is therefore closer to the mark in suggesting that the disciples idealized their mentor and saw what they wanted to see. However, there was one more reason for the disciples to downplay or dismiss notions that Sōseki was mentally ill: they had a vested interest in doing so. Having erected their careers and staked their reputation on the powerful name and influence of their mentor, they stood to personally suffer were he made to look a fool in mainstream society. It is no exaggeration to state that the leading disciples in particular were on a mission to reinforce and enhance Sōseki’s reputation at every opportunity, because the greater he appeared to others, by extension the greater they too became. In other words, idealizing his character while simultaneously downplaying or hiding his flaws was not the result of naivety, but rather a calculated decision. By publishing their own essays and books about Sōseki in the years after his death, they could be seen as both enhancing their own status and establishing “their” image of Sōseki as definitive, exerting influence on how the next generation of Sōseki scholars came to approach Sōseki. 60 Uchida, 18-19. 72 Aside from the potential for fame, one might wonder what drew would-be disciples and admirers into Sōseki’s orbit. Numerous individuals who came into contact with him, even before he became famous, described him as charismatic and possessing a powerful personal magnetism. Contemporary writer Nakamura Murao (中村武羅夫, 1886-1949) mentioned this, 61 as did author and critic Uchida Roan (内田魯庵, 1868-1929) 62 – himself an immensely well-connected figure and the center of an intellectual network – noting in particular that Sōseki was easy to talk to. 63 “Somehow, it was as if I had been an acquaintance of his for a hundred years,” he wrote, “[…] we truly opened up with each other. I stayed a long time. I had heard he would turn away 61 中村武羅夫 Nakamura Murao, 『現代文士廿八人』Gendai Bunshi Nijūhachi-nin (Tokyo: Hidaka Yūrindō, 1909), 31-32. Retrieved from National Diet Library Digital Collection, <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/903335/22>. 62 Uchida Roan is today mostly remembered for having introduced the works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Leo Tolstoy to Japanese audiences with his translations, although he was also an influential author in his own right and from around 1889 to 1891 engaged in a major debate in Japanese literary circles over the nature of the novel. “While his name is unknown to general readers [today],” observes scholar Kashima Shigeru, “For people in particular circles, he is a bigger name than Sōseki or Ōgai,” (鹿島茂 Kashima Shigeru, 「心ならずも操觚者に」 “Kokoro narazu mo Sōkosha ni,” in Kashima, ed.,『内田魯庵』Uchida Roan, vol. 11 of 『明治の文学』Meiji no Bungaku (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 2001), 442-450; 442). Also see 清家茂 Seike Shigeru,「内田魯庵――明治の国際人」 “Uchida Roan: Meiji no Kokusaijin,” in 東海大学外国語教育センター異文化交流研究会 Tōkai Daigaku Gaikokugo Kyōiku Sentaa Ibunka Kōryū Kenkyūkai, ed.,『日本の近代化と知識人』Nihon no Kindaika to Chishikijin (Tokyo: Tōkai Daigaku Shuppankai, 2000), 115-136. 63 内田魯庵 Uchida Roan, 「温情の裕かな夏目さん」 “Onjō no Yutakana Natsume-san,” in 『思い出す人々』Omoidasu Hitobito, new edition, ed. 紅野敏郎 Kōno Toshirō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), 354-359. This work contains a wealth of information about Meiji authors, as Uchida was acquainted with so many. In fact, Uchida’s networking was so impressive that Yamaguchi Masao (山口昌男)was able to track an entire cluster of Meiji-era intellectual networks by just starting from Roan and working outwards (『内田魯庵山脈――〈失われた日本人〉発掘』Uchida Roan Sanmyaku: “Ushinawareta Nihonjin” Hakkutsu (Tokyo: Shōbunsha, 2001). 73 people at the gate and have a grumpy demeanor; maybe that was also so. But from the start I had no such feeling.” 64 Up-and-coming writer, and shortly to become a monkasei, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (芥川龍之介, 1892-1927), was floored by his first meeting with Sōseki. “…It was as if I had been hypnotized,” he wrote, “For instance, if I showed him a novella, and Sōseki said it was bad, then no matter what masterpiece [it may have been] I too would believe it was bad. […] [He had] a kind of personal magnetism, one could say.” 65 This magnetism seems to have been sufficient to draw people close to Sōseki even though he might explode at them in angry outbursts from time to time. Insight also comes from the account of another leading disciple, Morita Sōhei (森田草平, 1881-1949). Morita explained that while his fellow disciple Komiya Toyotaka (小宮豊隆, 1884-1966) was unequivocally Sōseki’s favorite, whenever you talked to Sōseki you somehow felt like he was your sensei, and that somehow, you were his favorite. 66 Sōseki’s personal magnetism helps to explain why he was able to retain friends, and later disciples attracted by his works and fame, in spite of his narcissistic tendencies. Having briefly established Sōseki’s background and profile, it is now possible to approach him from the perspective of social networks. Tracing the development of Sōseki’s networking 64 Ibid., 354-355. 65 芥川龍之介 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,「あの頃の自分の事」“Ano koro no Jibun no Koto” in 石割透 Ishiwari Tōru, ed.,『芥川龍之介随筆集』Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Zuihitsu-shū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2014), Nihon Bungaku Denshi Toshokan ed., 88-89. 66 Morita, Natsume Sōseki (1942), 104-108. 74 through the course of his life, culminating in the Mokuyōkai, can shed further light on his character and help offer insight into the relationship he forged with Iwanami, whose early ventures were bound up with, and depended upon, Sōseki, as the following chapters show. Sōseki’s Early Networking The history of Sōseki’s social networking can be roughly divided into two periods. The first, stretching from his student days until the return from his study abroad in the United Kingdom, was characterized by multiple relationships with no persistent social circles, as Sōseki drifted among groups of friends, colleagues and teachers. Many of these figures themselves participated in various circles, or, as was the case of Masaoka Shiki, were even the centers of their own, but Sōseki’s presence in these networks was always fleeting. The second period, which commenced after he was back in Japan and resigned from teaching to focus on literary pursuits, saw a circle emerge with Sōseki at the center. This circle, the Mokuyōkai, came to function as a nexus for much of Sōseki’s intellectual and social activity. The first period can be further subdivided into two stages, corresponding to Sōseki’s time prior to his departure for Britain, and his time there. In the first of these two stages, Sōseki’s social networking began with a loose assembly of relationships with teachers and fellow students, beginning with his schooling in the 1880s. In 1890 he enrolled in the English Department at Tokyo Imperial University. The department was a relatively new creation, having only been 75 founded in 1888. In 1892 he became a staff member at Tetsugaku Zasshi (哲学雑誌), then the primary journal of philosophy in Japan. After graduating in 1893, he worked as a teacher at Tokyo Normal College (1894-1895), and at a middle school in Matsuyama. During this period of his life, Sōseki supported himself through his teaching jobs – as was typical of many intellectuals at the time – and, after having been discouraged from pursuing writing by his family, does not appear to have considered writing as a viable career until encouraged anew by his friends and colleagues. He married Kyōko in 1896, and had a family settled in Kumamoto by the time that he set out for the United Kingdom four years later in September 1900. By far the most important connection established by the young Sōseki was with Masaoka Shiki. 67 A pioneer in revitalizing Japanese poetry, Shiki was shortly to make his mark in the poetry world and take his place as a master of the haiku tradition. 68 A classmate at the time, 67 His birthname was 正岡升 (Masaoka Noboru). 68 Shiki is often regarded as the last of the four great haiku masters, the first three being Bashō, Buson, and Issa. On Shiki, see 久保田正文 Kubota Masafumi, 『正岡子規』Masaoka Shiki (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1986), 国崎望久太郎 Kunizaki Mokutarō, 『正岡子規』 Masaoka Shiki (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentaa, 1993), 小林高壽 Kobayashi Kōjū, 『正岡子規評傳』 Masaoka Shiki Hyōden (Mitaka: Tsukasa Shobō, 1994), and 正岡子規 Masaoka Shiki, 『子規の一生』Shiki no Isshō, ed. 和田克司 Wada Katsushi (Tokyo: Zōshinkai Shuppansha, 2003). In English see Burton Watson, trans., Masaoka Shiki: Selected Poems (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), Janine Beichman, Masaoka Shiki: His Life and Works (Boston, MA: Cheng and Tsui Company, 2002; revised ed. of 1982 original), and Donald Keene, The Winter Sun Shines In: A Life of Masaoka Shiki (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013). Keene states, The haiku and tanka were all but dead when Shiki began to write his poetry and criticism. The best poets of the time had lost interest in short poems. Shiki and his disciples, finding new possibilities of expression within the traditional forms, preserved them. The millions of Japanese (and many non-Japanese) who compose haiku and tanka 76 Shiki had come from the Kyōryū Gakkō headed by future prime minister Takahashi Korekiyo (高橋是清, 1854-1936). 69 When Sōseki first came to know Shiki in January 1889, the latter was already a well-connected individual with numerous friends, and while Sōseki met numerous other people at the Tokyo University Preparatory School – such as future naturalist Minakata Kumagusu (南方熊楠, 1867-1941), also a graduate of the Kyōryū Gakkō – it was Shiki’s friendship which was to prove the most significant. 70 The two quickly became close and spent much time together writing and discussing literature. Shiki and his circle provided Sōseki with a group of fellow-minded intellectual adventurers navigating the rapidly changing culture of the late Meiji period. Shiki pushed his friends to pursue activities he felt worthwhile, from rejuvenating poetic forms to taking up new today belong to the School of Shiki, and even poets who write entirely different forms of poetry have learned from him. He was the founder of truly modern Japanese poetry (12). However, Beichman argues that while Shiki undeniably shaped the haiku tradition, to emphasize this too much is to oversimplify the writer, for he valued and tried to contribute to literature as a whole (i-iii). Recently, a new generation of Japanese have become acquainted with Masaoka through the television drama 「坂の上の雲」Saka no Ue no Kumo based on author Shiba Ryōtarō’s historical novel. 69 Before making his mark in the political realm, Takahashi was best known for having studied English abroad and established himself as an important figure in education: other luminaries who attended the school as boys included the future writer Shimazaki Tōson (島崎藤村, 1872-1943), naval officer Akiyama Saneyuki (秋山真之, 1868-1918), physicist Nagaoka Hantarō (長岡半太郎, 1865-1950), and briefly Admiral Okada Keisuke (岡田啓介, 1868-1952). As a politician, Takahashi had a major impact on economic policy in the late 1920s. See Richard J. Smethurst, From Foot Soldier to Finance Minister: Takahashi Korekiyo, Japan’ s Keynes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007). 70 On their relationship, see in particular 和田茂樹 Wada Shigeki, ed., 『漱石・子規往復書簡集』Sōseki Shiki Oūfuku Shokanshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), as well as Rosemary Se-Soon Kang, “Sōseki and Shiki: Their Friendship in Haiku and Kanshi,” M.A. thesis, University of Tasmania, 2005. 77 pastimes like baseball (or doing both at once by using the former to celebrate the latter!). 71 Sōseki participated in excursions with the group, and would keep in touch with a small number of members during and after his time in the UK. His attachment to the circle per se, however, hinged on the presence of Shiki himself, and so was ultimately short-lived. Nor did he really find a place among the disciples who later gathered around Shiki, although some, notably Takahama Kyoshi (高浜虚子, 1874-1959), who he came to know in August 1892, were later to play an important role in Sōseki’s career. 72 However, Sōseki’s relationship with Shiki himself was deep and enduring. Like Sōseki, Shiki valued a wide range of literary and artistic pursuits, and pursued writing with a passion bordering on the manic. While on the surface more sociable than Sōseki, there is some evidence that Shiki too may have at one time wrestled with depressive tendencies. 73 This did not mean that he always understood Sōseki, and in fact his usual response to his friend’s glum and dark musings on the world was to joke around and otherwise cheer him up. For instance, Sōseki wrote the following in a letter to him in January 1890: Of late the world has become somehow repellant. The more I think about it, the less I 71 For Shiki’s poems on baseball, see Beichman, 89, 91. 72 Takahama was a poet and Kyoshi was his penname, bestowed by Shiki; his birth name was Takahashi Kiyoshi (清). He was introduced to Shiki by another disciple, Kawahigashi Hekigoto (河東碧梧桐, 1873-1937), about a year after the latter first contacted Shiki in 1890. For Kyoshi’s reflections on Shiki and Sōseki, see 高浜虚子 Takahama Kyoshi, 『回想子規・漱石』 Kaisō: Shiki, Sōseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002). Takahama’s reflections on Sōseki (「漱石氏と私」 “Sōseki-shi to watashi”) were originally published in Hototogisu in 1917. For more on Sōseki and Kyoshi, see 坪内稔典 Tsubouchi Toshinori「呼び水としての虚子」“Yobi Mizu toshite no Kyoshi” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 40-47 73 See, for instance, Keene, 69-70. 78 can overcome this feeling. But is the fact that I haven’t the courage to kill myself a sign that there is still something human about me after all? Faust prepared the poison he lifted to his lips, but in the end he could not drink it. Remembering Goethe’s work, I laugh bitterly to myself. 74 Shiki replied with humorous remarks on unrelated topics and avoided offering any comfort, a response that prompts Keene to observe “In this instance Shiki had not acted as a good friend,” and put it down to their different personalities. 75 In any event, in Shiki’s case it was not any psychological demons but his physical health that was most worrying for Sōseki and his other friends. When Shiki began to suffer from illness in mid-1889, Sōseki was always there to offer support. When Shiki became briefly bedridden, “None of the letters he received was more welcome than those from Natsume Sōseki,” in the words of Donald Keene. 76 Of course, at this point neither man knew that Shiki’s illness was early-stage tuberculosis, the disease which was to lay waste to his body and ultimately claim his life. When Shiki’s condition was worsened by his time as a war correspondent in China in mid-1895, upon his return to Japan later that year he convalesced at Sōseki’s house in Matsuyama, where he rested, partook of the healing hot springs, ventured on hikes when he could, and produced much poetry for his good friend. 77 Shiki encouraged Sōseki to continue with his Chinese studies, and more than anything to pursue his former dream of being a writer. 74 Keene, 55, citing『筆まかせ』 Fudemakase in『子規全集』 Shiki Zenshū (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1975-1978), vol. 10, 482-486. 75 Ibid., 55-56. 76 Ibid., 47. 77 See, for example, Keene, 92. 79 Shiki’s influence had a powerful effect on Sōseki’s will to put aside flirtations with more practical occupations he had considered and focus anew on literature. During 1896 and 1897, Sōseki was particularly active in Shiki’s circle. While it is difficult to ascertain to what extent Sōseki’s involvement in this network may have shaped the trajectory of his networking later in life, his relationship with Shiki was no doubt one of the most important at this point in his life. In addition to Shiki and his circle, the young Sōseki was part of some other loose social associations with fellow students, often centered on prominent teachers. Two individuals in particular stand out: James Murdoch (1856-1921) and Raphael von Koeber (1848-1923). Murdoch was a Scottish journalist and academic who garnered equal parts respect and loathing around the world for his socialism and atheism, and who taught primarily languages in Australia and Japan, with occasional ventures into far-flung adventures such as an experimental commune in Paraguay. 78 Along with nonfiction works he also published fiction, often concerned with Japan (or rather foreigners living there). 79 While today more familiar to scholars for his 78 On Mudoch, see 平川祐弘 Hirakawa Sukehiro,『漱石の師マードック先生』Sōseki no Shi Mādokku-sensei (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1984), and D.C.S. Sissons, “James Murdoch (1856-1921): Historian, Teacher and Much Else Besides,” in Arthur Stockwin and Keiko Tamura, eds., Bridging Australia and Japan, Volume 1: The Writings of David Sissons, Historian and Political Scientist (Acton, Australia: ANU Press, 2016), 319-378, as well as Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 168-169. 79 Along with short pieces for newspapers and other works, Murdoch edited the autobiography of shipwreck survivor and newspaperman Joseph Heco (Hamada Hikozō, 1837-1897), entitled The Narrative of a Japanese: What He Has Seen and the People He Has Met in the Course of the Last Forty Years (San Francisco: American-Japanese Publishing Association, c. 1894), 2 vols. As for his fiction, see in particular James Murdoch, From Australia and Japan (London: Walter Scott, Ltd., 1892), which was published under the pseudonym “A.M.,” and Ayame-san: A 80 masterwork History of Japan, for Sōseki Murdoch was an inspiring teacher of English and history. 80 Sōseki and Shiki took Murdoch’s classes together at the First Higher Middle School. Sōseki later fondly recalled his classes with the spirited Murdoch, and after-class sessions where the students gathered at their teacher’s residence. 81 He indicated that this activity occurred regularly and was a source of inspiration for him at the time, and indeed he stayed in touch with some of his former classmates. However, Sōseki lost contact with Murdoch himself, having made no serious effort to keep up the relationship after he graduated. After a gap of some twenty years he was surprised to receive in 1911 a letter from his old teacher praising him for his refusal to accept an honorary degree from the Japanese government, a decision the old socialist praised as evidence of his student’s strong moral fiber. 82 This prompted Sōseki to dash off two vignettes for the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun celebrating Murdoch and his influence. 83 As was the case with Shiki’s circle, Sōseki retained a handful of acquaintances, but made no serious attempt to Japanese Romance of the 23rd Year of Meiji (Yokohama: Kelly & Walsh, 1890), which was published under his legal name. 80 James Murdoch, A History of Japan (London: Kegan Paul, 1925-1926), 3 vols. In addition to teaching Sōseki and his contemporaries he also went on to lecture in economic history at the Higher Commercial College in 1899 (today’s Hitotsubashi University, which still employs the distinctive CC in its coat of arms). 81 Natsume Sōseki, 「博士問題とマードック先生と余」 “Hakushi Mondai to Mādokku-sensei to yo,” 『東京朝日新聞』 Tōkyō Asahi Shinbun, 6-8 March 1911, reprinted in 三好行雄 Miyoshi Yukio, ed.,『漱石文明論集』Sōseki Bunmei Ronshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1986), 215-225. 82 Ibid. Sōseki withered considerable public criticism due to his refusal of the degree. For more on this issue, see Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984), 195-198. 83 Natsume Sōseki, “Hakushi Mondai,” and 「マードック先生の『日本歴史』」 “Mādokku-sensei no Nihon Rekishi,” 『東京朝日新聞』Tōkyō Asahi Shinbun, 16-17 March, 1911, reprinted in Miyoshi, 227-233. 81 maintain his role in the circle of students, current and former, that orbited Murdoch. The second figure, Koeber, a Russian of German descent, was an introverted musician and philosopher who took up a post as philosopher professor at Tokyo Imperial University from 1893 to 1914. 84 He taught philosophy to two generations of Japanese students, including such luminaries as Sōseki himself, Nishida Kitarō (西田幾多郎, 1870-1945), Abe Yoshishige (安倍能成, 1883-1966), Kuki Shūzō (九鬼周造, 1888-1941), and Watsuji Tetsurō (和辻哲郎, 1889-1960), as well as Iwanami Shigeo. Several of his students wrote pieces honoring their former mentor that offer insight into Koeber’s character and the relationship he had with his students. 85 Koeber was celebrated among his students for his idealism and strong character, and many routinely sought his advice. Students would regularly visit him at home – not that they had 84 Koeber, who was also associated with the Tokyo Academy of Music, eventually decided to leave Japan to retire in 1914, only to have his plans ruined by the outbreak of the First World War. He therefore elected to retire in Japan after all, and died in 1923. Koeber’s legacy was to have a significant influence on the Kyōyōshugi self-cultivation movement, in which Iwanami Shoten also prominently featured. 85 See Sōseki, 「ケーベル先生」 “Kēberu-sensei,” 『東京朝日新聞』 Tōkyō Asahi Shinbun, 16-17 July 1911, reprinted in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 12 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), 461-466; 阿部次郎 Abe Jirō, 「ケーベル先生の言葉」“Kēberu-sensei no Kotoba,”『阿部次郎全集』Abe Jirō Zenshū, vol. 10 (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1960), 248-264; 和辻哲郎 Watsuji Tetsurō, 『ケーベル先生』 Kēberu-sensei (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1948); and 久保勉 Kubo Masaru, 『ケーベル先生とともに』Kēberu-sensei to tomo ni (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1951). For von Koeber’s own writings, see Kubo Masaru, comp. and trans.,『ケーベル博士随筆集』Kēberu-hakase Zuihitsu-shū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1928; republished 1994). Also see Inoue Tetsujirō’s reflections (井上哲次郎,「フェノロサ及びケーベル氏のことども」“Fenorosa oyobi Kēberu-shi no kotodomo,” in 大日本文明協会 Dai Nippon Bunmei Kyōkai, ed.,『明治文化発祥記念誌』Meiji Bunka Hasshō Kinenshi (Tokyo: Dai Nippon Bunmei Kyōkai, 1924), 47-57, as well as Gino K. Piovesana, Contemporary Japanese Philosophical Thought, 1862-1962 (New York: St. John’s University Press, 1969), 48-52, and Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 163-168. 82 much choice in the matter, however, since Koeber was also an eccentric recluse who aside from classes rarely even left his house and had no pursuits other than reading and the piano. Sōseki had stayed in contact with Koeber, but despite living close by the two failed to meet again for many years, always postponing a meeting for a later time. Having spent years promising to meet for dinner, finally the two met again on the night of July 10, 1911, when Sōseki and his disciple Abe Yoshishige dined with Koeber at his residence. As was his wont, Sōseki wrote an amusing but kind-hearted account of the meeting which was then published in the Asahi Shinbun. 86 Sōseki wrote, Neither nostalgic toward his homeland nor altogether averse toward Japan, Professor Koeber has been witness to the gradual incursions of the so-called modern age, this great, seething void that is so inimical to his own temperament, whose force threatens to overwhelm everything it touches. Having managed to stand outside the chaos that is modern Japan and regard it with a sort of cosmic indifference, Professor Koeber has managed to live here for eighteen years with a remarkable sense of equanimity. He is like a Greek statue, discarded in some vast junkyard, that has come to life. Amid the hustle and bustle, he moves about ever so quietly. As he walks the pavements, his shoes move silently, no sound of hobnails clattering against stone. Like an ancient Greek wearing sandals of supple leather, he strolls soundlessly as the trolleys rumble by. 87 As Marcus observes, Sōseki paints Koeber as “a paragon of civility, integrity, and dedication to 86 Sōseki, “Kēberu-sensei,” op. cit. Marcus provides a partial translation (Reflections in a Glass Door, 163-165), while Thomas J. Hastings has fully translated it (“‘Professor Koeber’ by Natsume Soseki,” 『北陸学院短期大学紀要』 Hokuriku Gakuin Tanki Daigaku Kiyō 21 (1989): 183-187). Sōseki also wrote a second piece on Koeber on the occasion of his (ultimately canceled) departure from Japan in 1914 (「ケーベル先生の告別」 “Kēberu-sensei no Kokubetsu,” 『東京朝日新聞』 Tōkyō Asahi Shinbun, 12 August 1914, reprinted in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 12 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), 511-513). 87 Trans. Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 164-165. 83 teaching and learning — a veritable Greek god,” who remained in Japan solely for the sake of his students. 88 Koeber’s eccentricities made him an intriguing figure, and it is not surprising that he served as the center of a loose, odd circle of students who continued to consult and admire this mentor and his ideals long after they had left his classroom. In light of this, it is thought-provoking that, as was the case with Murdoch and the circle of students around him, Sōseki withdrew from involvement with Koeber’s group, and stayed in only limited contact with his former mentor (until renewing his ties with him near the end of his life) and a few classmates. This happened at a time when most students would try to maintain links with teachers and colleagues throughout their career, with the circles established during one’s student days forming a sort of groundwork for future networking. In other words, Sōseki’s lack of interest in maintaining, or inability to maintain, these early networks was unusual. This is not to downplay the importance of the individuals involved, particularly in the case of Shiki and his circle, many of whom became lifelong friends of Sōseki’s. Having established individual connections through these circles, though, he was unable or unwilling to continue to participate in the circles themselves, perhaps because such socializing put psychological pressures on him that did not, in his view, outweigh the potential benefits. This makes the eventual development of the Mokuyōkai, a circle with him at the center, all the more significant. Thus, while Sōseki 88 Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 165-166. 84 remained close to various intellectuals who emerged from his early networks, he lost any real sense of association with the circles themselves, a break cemented by his departure for the United Kingdom in 1900. Sōseki’s Networking in the United Kingdom Sōseki’s time in the United Kingdom has been the subject of much attention. 89 Sōseki is often compared to Mori Ōgai, and he could also be compared to Lu Xun, in that all three had a profound impact on literature in their respective countries prefaced by formative stints spent abroad: Sōseki in England, Ōgai in Germany, and Lu Xun in Japan. 90 While these sojourns were 89 On this topic, see Sōseki, 「ロンドン留学日記」“Rondon Ryūgaku Nikki” in『漱石日記』 Sōseki Nikki, ed. 平岡敏夫 Hiraoka Toshio (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 5-78 (hereafter Sōseki Nikki), Sōseki, The Tower of London, trans. and eds. Peter Milward and Kii Nakano (Brighton: In Print Publishing, 1992), Sōseki, The Tower of London: Tales of Victorian London, trans. Damian Flanagan (London: Peter Owen, 2005), and 稲垣瑞穂 Inagaki Mizuho,『夏目漱石ロンドン紀行』Natsume Sōseki Rondon Kikō (Osaka: Seibundō, 2004), the last being a thorough guide to the places and people Sōseki encountered during his sojourn. An impressive collection of material was previously on display at the Sōseki Museum in London <http://soseki.intlcafe.info/j-menu.html>, but it closed in September 2017 due to financial difficulties and few visitors. Also see Honma (Homma) Kenshirō, Natsume Soseki and English Men of Letters (Tokyo: Maruzen Kyoto Publication Service Center, 2010), and Hirakawa Sukehiro, “Image of a British Scholar: Natsume Sōseki’s Reminiscence of His London Days,” in W. M. Chapman and Jean-Pierre Lehmann, eds., Proceedings of the British Association for Japanese Studies, V ol. 5.1 (Sheffield: University of Sheffield Press, 1980), 167-176, esp. 168-170. 90 On the formative role in Sōseki’s writing that his years in Britain played, as well as Sōseki’s role in East-West cultural exchange which they fueled, see Márta Fülöp, op. cit. For a parallel treatment of Sōseki and Lu Xun as sojourner students, see 柴﨑信三 Shibasaki Shinzō, 『魯迅の日本、漱石のイギリス――「留学の世紀」を生きた人びと』Rojin no Nihon, Sōseki no Igirisu: “Ryūgaku no Seiki” wo Ikita Hitobito (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Shinbunsha, 1999). On Ōgai, see Richard J. Bowring, Mori Ōgai and the Modernization of Japanese Culture (London: Cambridge University Press, 1979), and on Ōgai’s reflections on his time in Germany also see Susanna Fessler, “The Debate on the Uselessness of Western Studies,” Journal of Japanese Studies 37.1 (winter 2011): 61-90; on Lu Xun, see Leo Ou-fan Lee, ed., Lu Xun and His Legacy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), and the masterful reference work 85 short, these writers were heavily influenced by what they studied and by whom they worked with and associated with while there. Indeed, studying abroad in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century was a major undertaking for intellectuals, but offered a unique opportunity to acquire knowledge and experience in their fields. It also usually afforded such intellectuals with a range of new acquaintances and connections that could benefit them throughout their careers. In Sōseki’s case, however, the latter happened more in spite of his efforts than because of them, since his time in the United Kingdom was a troubled one beset by difficulties. First of all, Sōseki initially had no inclination to study in England at all, and would have preferred to continue his Chinese studies, for which he had developed a lifelong affinity. While Masaoka Shiki had encouraged him in this endeavor, one of Sōseki’s own brothers had prevailed on him to study English, holding that this represented the way of the future whereas Chinese studies constituted but a relic of the past. 91 While teaching English to support himself, Sōseki devoted himself to the study of English literature, seeking to master the English canon and on Lu Xun issues and scholarship, 丸山昇 Maruyama Noboru, 『魯迅・文学・歴史』 Rojin: Bungaku, Rekishi (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 2004). 91 Some of Sōseki’s friends also seem to have influenced his decision, although in what way is disputed. For instance, Tsunematsu holds that in September 1890 when Sōseki was first accepted into Todai he had planned to study architecture, but chose to be a writer instead when his friend Yoneyama Yasusaburō told him Japan would never be able to compete with the West in terms of architecture (Tsunematsu, in his translation of Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, op. cit., Chapter 16 notes). Marcus, however, points out that this decision was made much earlier, when the author transferred into the English literature program instead of architecture at the First Higher School in January 1888, and entered Todai already focused on English literature (Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 200). His elder brothers, meanwhile, had both died the previous year. It is possible that Sōseki relayed different accounts of his student career to different audiences, or that several accounts were conflated. 86 eventually develop his own theory of literature. This already ambitious goal soon grew to encompass creating a masterpiece himself, one that, as mentioned above, would amaze Westerners. Yet Sōseki did not think his goals required a sojourn in the United Kingdom, and was less than happy when his school successfully nominated him for a scholarship from the Monbushō to study abroad: “In Meiji 33 [1900], when I received orders to go to England as an overseas student, I was a teacher at the Fifth Higher School. At the time I harbored no particular desire to go abroad, and I believed there were others much better suited to it than I was.” 92 He was even more annoyed when instructed to study English, not English literature as he wanted, although he was able to gain some leeway from the Ministry, while being informed that the purpose of the entire project was to qualify him to teach in a higher school or university when he returned – hardly his preferred career choice. 93 There was thus a considerable degree of tension between Sōseki’s own goals and the role expected of him before he even arrived in the country. While Sōseki was to develop respect for English ways and come to be strongly influenced by English literature, the gap between what he wished to be and the expectations that others had of him would continue to be a long-running source of frustration in his life. Sōseki’s experience with the English language and foreign scholars in Japan did little to prepare him for the realities of daily life in England, where he lived from late 1900 to 1903. His 92 Sōseki, preface to Theory of Literature, trans. Bourdaghs, op. cit., 39. 93 Ibid., 40. 87 diary and other autobiographical writings are a source of oft-cited amusing anecdotes and thoughtful reflections, but as a whole they also represent an account of increasing isolation and depression. 94 Bitterly unhappy in London, Sōseki later described his time there as “the unhappiest two years of my life.” 95 Food was one problem. He had brought a variety of things with him, including umeboshi and pickles, which proved fortuitous because he found English food unpalatable and apparently depended largely on biscuits for sustenance. 96 He also disliked the weather and lifestyle of London, and struggled with discrimination there. Sōseki’s diary records observations about everything from buildings to women’s clothing, usually comprising complaints – although to be fair, he criticized Japanese mentalities just as much as British ones, and was perhaps harshest in his criticism of himself (he ultimately wrote more about himself than he did about his locale). He appears to have set himself up with unrealistic expectations of both himself and Britain, and railed against both accordingly when found to be lacking. Given his psychological tendencies, as outlined above, it is not surprising that he was to be constantly disappointed. Finally, he had financial problems. The Ministry had apparently not provided Sōseki with 94 See especially Sōseki Nikki, as well as The Tower of London, Sōseki, trans. Sammy Tsunematsu, Spring Miscellany and London Essays (Boston: Tuttle, 2011), and Inagaki, op. cit. 95 “The two years I lived in London were the unhappiest two years of my life. Among the English gentlemen, I was like a lone shaggy dog mixed in with a pack of wolves; I endured a wretched existence” (Sōseki, preface to Theory of Literature, 48). 96 Biscuits even featured in his diary, such as the entry for November 20, 1900: “Bought biscuits and tried them instead of lunch,” (Sōseki Nikki, 23). 88 enough funding to cover tuition and living expenses at a top-tier institution, forcing him to improvise. He later complained about how the lack of money had prevented him from devoting himself to classes, and the amounts he needed to spend on acquiring books, while not even attempting to hide his disdain for the other Japanese students, those “sons of wealthy families” at the universities who had lived privileged lives and spent much time socializing. 97 The tendency in most scholarship has been to take Sōseki’s claims of financial troubles at face value, and thereby use this as an explanation for his isolation, as in the following example: He had no letters of introduction, and he could not – or would not – associate with members of the Japanese diplomatic or business communities in London who might have introduced him to educated Englishmen, for the simple reason that he was too poor. As a result, he was forced to spend the two years in a foreign city in almost complete isolation. 98 However, it is inadvisable to accept Sōseki’s perspective uncritically. While studying at Cambridge would have undoubtedly been expensive, most Japanese students in the United Kingdom lived productive lives at various schools and did not overly complain about financial hardship – although some were undeniably from wealthy families, many were counting on less money than was Sōseki. 99 Neither did they tend to complain much about British society, on a 97 Sōseki, preface to Theory of Literature, 40-41. 98 McClellan, 160. 99 As Nakayama correctly observes, Tsukamoto Toshiaki and Deguchi Yasuo, among others, have expressed skepticism about Sōseki’s claim of staying home due to financial hardship (79). See Tsukamoto, “Sōseki: His Scholar-Critic Years,” in Iijima Takehisa and James M. Vardaman, Jr., eds., The World of Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Kinseido, 1987) 26-27, as well as 出口保夫 Deguchi Yasuo, 『ロンドンの夏目漱石』Rondon no Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Kawade Shobōshinsha, 1982), 138-144. Deguchi shows that, in comparison to other students at the time, 89 whole enjoying their sojourns and appreciating the opportunity they represented. 100 Sōseki, on the other hand, set himself apart from his contemporaries, and his protestations can be seen as attempting to make excuses for his social withdrawal. Reflecting on his experience later, he oscillated between claiming that he could not have engaged in academic or social life due to financial troubles on the one hand, and claiming that he had simply been uninterested in such pursuits on the other. He presented the Japanese university students as spoiled brats who had led a life he could not have afforded and did not desire – a serious scholar like him, the reader is led to believe, had no time to waste on social activities and other nonsense. 101 Sōseki’s attitude should be approached with skepticism. His diary for the trip, which begins with his departure from Yokohama on September 8, 1900, starts out with frequent entries, with reflections and comments on books interspersed with mention of galleries and places visited around London. 102 He gradually goes out less often, the entries become less frequent, and the diary finally grinds to a halt on November 13, 1901, with a comment that his latest stipend had arrived. 103 Sōseki’s financial situation was hardly poor, and that he enjoyed a better standard of living than he claimed. 100 Indeed, as Milward observes, “His unconcealed detestation of life in London is in marked contrast to the admiration expressed, almost unanimously, by other Japanese tourists and students,” (12). 101 Sōseki, preface to Theory of Literature, 41-44. 102 Sōseki, Sōseki Nikki, op. cit. 103 Ibid. 90 Sōseki was experiencing what the scholar Yamamoto Junji characterized as a “psychological crisis.” 104 He had suffered a complete nervous breakdown and began to experience great anxiety if he ventured outside his lodgings for long. The writer who would later express surprise at Koeber for never having ventured much outside Tokyo, or even his house, had himself become in the United Kingdom a virtual shut-in. However, perhaps because of pride, he avoided confronting the problem, instead convincing himself – and subsequent generations of readers – that he had made the decision to devote himself entirely to his studies, with a zeal for work far exceeding that of his contemporaries. 105 While Sōseki did work hard and was a studious reader, the popular notion of him just being a devout scholar, who worked so hard he caused himself stress, may have been but a mask for a troubled mind unable to face British society and fumbling for excuses for not going anywhere or doing much of anything. In light of this, it is not surprising that, as mentioned above, an unknown person sent a telegram to the Ministry of Education reporting that Sōseki had gone completely mad. Neither is it surprising that Sōseki, attempting to carefully manage his image later in life, should have remembered the telegram and written about it with bitter hostility even many years later. 106 104 山本順二 Yamamoto Junji, 『漱石の転職―運命を変えた四十歳』Soseki no Tenshoku: Unmei wo Kaeta Yonjūsai (Tokyo: Sairyūsha, 2005), 81. 105 See, for example, preface to Theory of Literature, 42-44. 106 While it is not known who sent the telegram, it is likely that, as Marcus suggests, it was Doi Bansui (土井晩翠, 1871–1952), a friend of Sōseki’s from Todai who had resided close to him in London. In any event, the Ministry responded by contacting Okakura Yoshizaburō (discussed 91 Sōseki’s time in London was not entirely devoid of joy. He recorded triumphs like learning how to ride a bicycle, an experience he later satirized in a well-known piece. 107 He enjoyed art and exhibitions, even during his darker days. He had visited the Exposition Universelle, a world’s fair held in Paris, en route to the United Kingdom, and particularly during the early part of his sojourn in London he made an effort to visit galleries. He frequently took walks to explore the various parts of town, as noted in his diary, and often went book-hunting. As Milward notes, “One of his stated reasons for staying in London was the large variety of second-hand bookshops.” 108 He also enjoyed having visitors and meeting acquaintances in the city, and by receiving letters from friends back home. By far his greatest comfort was word from Masaoka Shiki. By then terminally ill and bedridden, Shiki nonetheless kept in touch with him through letters. 109 Thanks to Shiki, Sōseki could also receive issues of Hototogisu (ホトトギス, The Cuckoo) from Japan, something that he enjoyed enough to note in his diary whenever he received the newest issue. Hototogisu was a literary magazine founded by Shiki’s disciple below), informing him that Sōseki was mentally unbalanced, and requesting that Okakura assist with returning Sōseki home to Japan (for more on this, see Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 34). 107 夏目漱石 Natsume Sōseki, 「自転車日記」Jitensha nikki in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 12 (1994), 57-70; originally published in the 20 June, 1903 issue of Hototogisu. 108 Milward, 14. On Sōseki and used book stores, see 恒松郁生 Tsunematsu Ikuo, 「倫敦消息 ――漱石とロンドンの古本屋――今昔」“Rondon Shōsoku: Sōseki to Rondon no Furuhonya, Konjaku,” 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 8 (May 1997): 215-221. 109 On their letters, see Hirai Masako, “The Birth of Modern Japanese Literature: The Creative Exchange in the Letters between the Dying Poet Shiki in Tokyo and the Future Novelist Souseki in London,” 『神戸女学院大学論集』 Kōbe Jogakuin Daigaku Henshū 51.1 (July 2004): 1-24, and 51.2 (December 2004): 1-64. 92 Yanigihara Kyokudō in 1897, who named it in honor of his master. 110 The journal was rooted in realism, portraying reality in all its pleasant and ugly aspects, which was a literary concern shared by Sōseki and Shiki. 111 In late 1901 a particularly lengthy, diary-style letter Sōseki had written to Shiki – and which the latter very much enjoyed reading – was published in Hototogisu. 112 Masaoka’s death in September 1902 deeply hurt Sōseki and contributed to his deteriorating mental state. 113 Back in Japan, Shiki’s circle continued on after the master’s death in some form – as would Sōseki’s Mokuyōkai later survive his own death. Japanese who visited London to study at the turn of the century usually depended, to varying degrees, on three communities to lend order to their networking. The first were social circles at academic institutions, one of the most important being those consisting of a teacher and 110 Shiki’s penname (子規 shiki) itself meant “cuckoo.” This was fitting for two reasons: first, because the cuckoo had long been a staple natural allusion in poetry as a harbinger of death, and second because an old notion held that cuckoos coughed up blood as they sang. Shiki, ravaged by tuberculosis, demonstrated his style and wit in choosing such a name. Hototogisu remains in print today as Japan’s most respected haiku journal. 111 Keene attributes Shiki’s brand of realism to shasei, a philosophy of art that he had derived from the painter Nakamura Fusetsu (中村不折, 1866-1943), and which emphasized the portrayal of real life (Keene, 4-5). Nakamura later did illustrations for Sōseki’s Wagahai wa Neko de aru (see Chapter 5 of the present study). 112 Sōseki, 「倫敦消息」 Rondon Shōsoku, 『ホトトギス』 Hototogisu 4.8, 4.9 (May, June 1901). The work is somewhat controversial because when it was prepared for republication in an anthology (『色鳥』 Irodori) some 14 years later, Sōseki extensively rewrote it, the only case in his career when he was known to have done so with a previously-published work. Both versions are available in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 12 (1994), 3-31 and 33-56, respectively. For more on this issue, see 安藤文人 Andō Fumihito, 「漱石はなぜ「倫敦消息」を書き直したのか」 “Sōseki wa naze ‘Rondon Shōsoku’ wo Kakinaoshita no ka,” Waseda RILAS Journal 2 (2014.10): 27-39. 113 Sōseki later wrote a piece on Shiki for Hototogisu; see 「正岡子規」, Hototogisu 11.12 (September 1908), reprinted in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 25 (1996), 274-278. 93 their students past and present. These paralleled the circles that Sōseki and his classmates had been in during their university days in Japan, which is not at all surprising given that the model was introduced by Western instructors. 114 The second was a loose network of Japanese students and Japanese visitors to the United Kingdom. New arrivals and short-term visitors would make contact with other Japanese in London before arriving, and through them come into contact with many more. While it is difficult to ascertain particular individuals who functioned as key nodes in this network, it is sufficient here to note that Japanese in the city were usually not the profoundly isolated fish-out-of-water types invoked by popular imagination. They would associate with each other, some quite frequently, and knew who else was in town, as well as who was coming and going. The very expense and difficulty involved in coming to London in the first place prompted most Japanese undertaking sojourns to ensure that they knew people and would be able to build a support network. Finally, there were locals and other individuals distinct from the first two communities. As far as the first community was concerned, originally Sōseki had planned to attend Cambridge or Oxford because of their reputation, but found the tuition to be unexpectedly high. 114 Of course, the basic idea of a master socializing with their students and the students drawing legitimacy from a social network centered on their master is hardly a uniquely Western innovation, having been a significant component of intellectual life in the Edo period. Early twentieth-century Japanese students, however, tended to perceive the form of social network they developed with their mentors at school as a Western cultural import. The point is that this form of social network would already have been entirely familiar to Japanese experiencing it in the United Kingdom. 94 He visited Cambridge at the invitation of an acquaintance, was put off by the pretentious air of the English students and their Japanese compatriots, and promptly abandoned the idea of Oxford after deciding even visiting it would have been pointless. 115 It is difficult to tell if he was unable to attend these institutions only because of the prohibitive cost, meaning that his griping about the students was just sour grapes, or whether he rejected the social environment of Cambridge and then used the high cost as an excuse. Lacking any official status at an English academic institution, Sōseki was still able to take lectures and tutorials at University College London. He studied with several scholars, and thereby had the potential to pursue links with the circles comprised of these teachers and their students. Two figures of particular significance were William P. Ker (1855-1923), whose lectures on English literature Sōseki attended, and William J. Craig (1843-1906), a renowned Shakespeare authority who tutored Sōseki. William Paton Ker was a respected and widely-published authority on the history of English literature, and while primarily a medievalist he produced studies on medieval and modern texts alike. 116 Originally hailing from Glasgow, he had taken up a post at University College London as a Quain Professor (one of several endowed chairs named for anatomist Richard Quain) in 1889. Sōseki first met Ker on 5 November 1900, and attended his 115 Sōseki, preface to Theory of Literature, trans. Bourdaghs, op. cit., 40-41. 116 For examples of Ker’s scholarship, see The Dark Ages (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1904), Essays on Medieval Literature (London: Macmillan and Co., 1905), Medieval English Literature (London: Oxford University Press, 1912), and On Modern Literature: Lectures and Addresses, eds. Terence Spencer and James Sutherland (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1955). 95 first lecture on the 7th, continuing to attend until January of the following year. Sōseki appears to have found the class environment stifling and failed to make friends with his classmates. When he decided to pursue direct tutoring as an alternative, he consulted Ker who provided him with a letter of introduction to Craig. 117 While Sōseki no doubt felt more at ease with a tutor than in a class of English students, his decision prevented him from developing personal routes into the social circles of the English literati. Sōseki’s tutor, William Craig, on the other hand appears to have been a literary eccentric perhaps comparable to Koeber, but the relationship between tutor and student did not develop into anything near the personal bonds Koeber forged with his Japanese students in Tokyo. Craig achieved fame through editing the Oxford Shakespeare and then (during Sōseki’s sojourn in the UK) as the editor of the Arden Shakespeare (a prominent series of scholarly editions). Craig comes across in Sōseki’s account as thoroughly engrossed in his own studies to the exclusion of much else, and as changeable in character, patronizing his Japanese student one moment and seriously inquiring about his opinion on complex interpretations the next. 118 At the same time, he made a strong impression on Sōseki, who continued taking weekly tutorial sessions with Craig for many months, eventually totaling more than 40 over the period from November 1900 117 Milward, 15. 118 Sōseki, 「クレイグ先生」“Kureigu-sensei,” in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 12 (1994), 208-217. Originally 1909. For a partial English translation, see Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 157-161. 96 until October the following year. Craig represents the closest relationship that Sōseki developed with a British academic. The fact that he was Irish and therefore somewhat on the margins of mainstream English academic society himself might have endeared him to Sōseki to some extent, as may have Craig’s decision to give up an academic position to pursue his work as an independent researcher. In other words, Sōseki got along best with a withdrawn eccentric who was in no position to connect his Japanese student with a community of fellow intellectuals. Neither does he appear to have made any effort to contact English writers who had inspired him, such as the novelist George Meredith (1828-1909) – although he did ask Craig about him at one point (Craig had no idea who he was). 119 One wonders if he was almost out to sabotage his own chances at networking with British intellectuals, that very activity that his Japanese compatriots pursued as a vital part of their overseas experience. As for the second community in London, Sōseki did associate with other Japanese students and visitors. His friend the linguist Okakura Yoshizaburō (岡倉由三郎, 1868-1936) resided in Hammersmith while studying the English language, and Sōseki often braved the roads on his bicycle to meet him. A pioneering figure in English-language education in Japan, Okakura went on to write and teach extensively. One of his greatest achievements was editing Kenkyūsha’s 119 Sōseki, Nikki, 39 (entry for 20 February, 1901). Meredith was a Victorian novelist and poet who wrote serial novels, often with a satirical bent. He was a likely inspiration for Neko and other early Sōseki works. Sōseki also admired Carlyle, and visited many spots related to him, such as his former house in Chelsea (no less than four times). 97 New Japanese-English Great Dictionary in 1927. 120 Sōseki also associated with Tanaka Kōtarō (田中孝太郎, 1872-1950) 121 and his friends who were boarding together, students Watanabe Watarō (渡辺和太郎, 1878-1922) and Kuwabara Kinnosuke (桑原金之助, years uncertain). Tanaka was the eldest son of a trading company executive in Yokohama and was abroad in the service of the company’s London branch. Reputedly easy-going and fun-loving, he must have provided quite the contrast to Sōseki’s dour demeanor around this time. Watanabe was also the son of a company man and was later involved in commercial ventures back in Japan. 122 He had been renting the second floor of a house (81, The Chase, Clapham Common) where the landlady, one Miss Leale, often took in Japanese students. Aware that Sōseki was drifting between residences in London, Watanabe proposed that he move into the same building, a suggestion that Sōseki accepted. 123 Tanaka and his compatriots were outgoing and likely dragged Sōseki out with them: when 120 岡倉由三郎 Okakura Yoshizaburō, comp., 『新英和大辞典』Shin Ei-wa Dai-jiten (Tokyo: Kenkyūsha, 1927). This went on to be one of biggest eiwa jiten; it was apparently also known popularly at the time as the “Okakura Waei.” Okakura’s elder brother was the prominent intellectual and art critic Okakura Tenshin (岡倉天心, 1863-1913). 121 Not to be confused with artillery officer Tanaka Kōtarō (田中弘太郎, 1864-1938). 122 I am presently unsure whether this is the same Watanabe Watarō who founded the celluloid company Yamato Shokai in 1906 (not to be confused with several other companies of the same name, including a tennis ball manufacturer founded in 1931, a postwar camera distributor, another major plastics company, and a mechanical components manufacturing firm founded in the US in 1980) after leaving the stationary trade, as given in Nishizawa Iwata, ed., Japan in the Taisho Era: In Commemoration of the Enthronement (Yokohama: Japan Gazette, 1917), 536. 123 This house became Sōseki’s fifth residence during his time in the UK, and the one in which he stayed the longest (from 20 July 1901 to 5 December 1902). See Sōseki Nikki, 68-69, and Inagaki, 129-136. 98 recorded socializing with groups, he was usually in their presence. A sketch from this period by artist Ishii Hakutei (石井柏亭, 1882-1958) – another figure in the students’ circle, and whose prints were later to make him famous as someone well-versed in both Japanese and European styles – depicts Sōseki in Richmond Park with Watanabe, another associate by the name of Fujimura, and Minobe Tatsukichi (美濃部達吉, 1873-1948), the future constitutional scholar who would of course in later years become pilloried for his Organ Theory of the role of the Tennō in the Minobe Affair. 124 Ishii himself later helped found the intellectual circle Pan no Kai, and was associated with the literary journal Myōjō『明星』, founded by Yosano Tekkan (与謝野鉄幹, 1873-1935) in 1900. Other friends of Sōseki included Ikeda Kikunae (池田菊苗, 1864-1936), the chemist who identified the basic taste “umami” and discovered MSG, and Nakamura Yoshikoto (中村是公, 1867-1927), a school friend who met up with him again in London and who later became the second chairman of the South Manchurian Railway Company. 125 Ikeda was a well-rounded intellectual who became another of the few individuals for whom Sōseki developed significant respect during his time in the UK. 126 “A splendid 124 Inagaki, 243. On Ishii, see Mikiko Hirayama, “Ishii Hakutei on the Future of Japanese Painting,” Art Journal 55.3 (Autumn, 1996): 57-63. 125 Ikeda stayed for some fifty days in London with Sōseki, who enjoyed their discussions about philosophy. As for Nakamura, in autumn 1909 Sōseki took a tour of Manchuria and Korea at his invitation, with the company covering all expenses and the Asahi Shinbun encouraging the trip in the expectation that the author would produce interesting columns as a result. However, the trip was not a great success, and was called off before Sōseki even reached Korea, primarily because of the assassination of Itō Hirobumi but also because the author was suffering from ulcers. 126 Sōseki Nikki, 60 (9 May, 1901), 61 (15 May, 20 May, 1901). 99 scholar,” was how Sōseki referred to him in a letter. 127 In other words, Sōseki had access to a sizeable number of influential Japanese, but while he did make friends, he seems to have made no attempt to draw upon their networks, turning down opportunities to focus on his reading. Finally, there is the third category, consisting of locals and other individuals, and here too Sōseki came into contact with a range of people who were not connected to either his academic life or his friends’ group of acquaintances. The most significant was perhaps John Henry Dixon, a Scottish solicitor who admired Japanese art and had twice visited Japan. 128 When Miss Leale and her sister expressed concern at Sōseki’s deteriorating mental condition and reclusive habits – already having become quite serious by September 1902, whereupon Shiki’s death left him on the cusp of another collapse – they pushed him to get out of the house and take a holiday. In October, Dixon invited him to Pitlochry in the Scottish highlands. As someone who both appreciated the beauty of the natural world and held a deep interest in Japanese culture, Dixon impressed Sōseki, and became one of the few non-academic individuals in Britain (another two being the Leale sisters themselves, who shared Sōseki’s love of literature) to whom Sōseki became close. Dixon was also a member of the Japan Society, which had been founded in 127 Sōseki, letter to Terada Torahiko, as cited in末延芳晴 Suenobu Yoshiharu,『夏目金之助ロンドンに狂せり』Natsume Kinnosuke London ni kyōseri (Tokyo: Seidosha, 2004), 425. Other Japanese who Sōseki encountered staying at the various residences he passed through included the artist Koyama Shōtarō (小山正太郎, 1857-1916), the engineer and later industrialist Nagao Hanpei (長尾半平, 1865-1936), who was well-known for his work in Taiwan on behalf of the Japanese colonial government. 128 On Dixon, and Sōseki’s trip to Scotland with him, see Inagaki, 163-170. 100 London in 1891. One of the world’s first international organizations dedicated to the study of Japanese culture and history, it served as a gathering point for individuals from various locales interested in, or researching on, Japan. 129 Sōseki came into contact with several members of the Society. Sōseki showed interest in Japanese studies overseas, and would get out of the house from time to time in order to meet some members of this early generation of foreign scholars and admirers of things Japanese. Thus, during his time in the United Kingdom Sōseki was introduced to a range of English literature and scholarship through several scholars, and also associated both with other Japanese students and with foreign scholars of Japan. However, he failed to pursue networking in any real sense. The tendency in the scholarship has been to excuse this by generalizing Sōseki’s troubles to Japanese students abroad as a whole: a similar tack taken by popular Japanese writing that frames Sōseki’s experience in the United Kingdom as typical for Japanese students. 130 The following assessment, from George A. De V os and Hiroshi Wagatsuma, is typical: While in London, Sōseki reacted in a typical Japanese fashion to the lack of attention paid him as a visiting scholar. He was a person of no consequence as far as London was concerned. No one paid any attention to his presence in intellectual circles, a not infrequent experience of the visiting foreign intellectual constrained by limited language capabilities. A sense of personal alienation can reach critical proportions for many 129 See Inagaki, 170-178. The Japan Society remains active today <https://www.japansociety. org.uk>. 130 This perspective is also commonly seen in the Japanese mass media, where ill-informed television presenters wander around London, quote from Sōseki’s diary, and conclude that really, foreign places are just too strange and Japanese are better off staying in Japan. 101 Japanese who, in like circumstances, have little social contact beyond that afforded by the landlady of their boarding house. 131 It is my position that this perspective, however well-intentioned, is in fact mistaken. While as foreign students in early twentieth-century Britain Japanese visitors did face a battery of challenges, it is risky to apply the feelings of utter isolation experienced, and social withdrawal pursued, by Sōseki as common defining elements. Sōseki had numerous opportunities to meet people but chose not to do so. On those occasions when he consulted his mentors or Japanese fellows, they proved willing to help him with introductions. Seldom did Sōseki entertain this prospect, even when, as his diary reveals, various English people took the initiative to extend invitations to him. Overwhelmingly depressed and crippled by anxiety, he isolated himself and made excuses, dismissing his more socially-active peers as lesser scholars for lacking his dedication to learning. His personal characteristics and psychological demons crippled his ability to benefit from what could have been, and often was in the case of Japanese in the United Kingdom, excellent networking opportunities. Conclusion The significance of the foregoing discussion is that Sōseki lived at a time when the social expectation among Japanese intellectuals was the establishment of networks and the active 131 George A. De V os with Hiroshi Wagatsuma, “Alienation and the Author: A Triptych on Social Conformity and Deviancy in Japanese Intellectuals,” in George A. De Vos, Socialization for Achievement: Essays on the Cultural Psychology of the Japanese (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 486-549; 502. 102 participation in circles, as even a cursory look at the bundan scene reveals. Sōseki’s psychological makeup did not lend itself to meeting such expectations, and so it is not surprising that, as discussed, his disciples would later seek to reframe his proclivities and behavioral patterns in ways that were more palatable to the social world of intellectuals and beneficial to their own careers. The reality is that while a young Sōseki came into contact with prominent individuals and had multiple opportunities to develop an extensive network of Japanese and foreign connections – that is, the normative script for contemporary intellectuals rather than an exceptional one – he let them slide by and even went out of his way to avoid them altogether. This makes it a matter of immense significance that instead of remaining a Koeber-esque recluse upon his return to Japan he instead became the center of the Mokuyōkai. The next chapter takes up a discussion of this circle, its major members, and just what they and Sōseki each gained from its existence. 103 Chapter III The Circuits of Intellectual Life, Part II: The Mokuyōkai Introduction Natsume Sōseki had participated to some extent in intellectual circles before setting out for the United Kingdom, but always as a fleeting figure who drifted about and was rooted only by the presence of a handful of friends, most especially Masaoka Shiki. After his experience abroad, and Shiki’s death, one might have expected Sōseki to have returned to Japan a broken man, remaining a bitter recluse until the end of his days. Yet something entirely different from this bleak scene transpired. Instead, after channeling his energies into fiction he found himself the subject of much attention and fascination. He became not merely a participant, but the central figure, in an intellectual circle that came to serve as an organizing axis for much of his social and intellectual activity. This chapter therefore examines this circle, the Mokuyōkai, considering how it came into being, and how it benefitted its participants, before outlining the major figures. Understanding the Mokuyōkai is important for several reasons. In a general sense it is an important circle because it functioned as an incubation chamber for some of the most influential intellectuals of a generation. It also represents an impressive case study of how late Meiji intellectual circles operated, and can thus serve as a window to a comparatively understudied aspect of modern 104 Japanese culture: the social world of the intellectual community. Finally, it is crucial because it was this network that functioned first as the context in which Iwanami Shigeo gained access to Sōseki, and ultimately as the foundation of Iwanami’s own network as he embarked on a career in the book trade. The Formation, Characteristics and Functions of the Mokuyōkai Upon his return to Japan in January 1903, Sōseki took up a post as a professor of English literature at Tokyo Imperial University (hereafter Todai), a task which had been part of the terms of the scholarship he had received to study abroad in the first place. Sōseki was unenthusiastic; grumbling about having been forced to take up a position he did not want and for which he felt unqualified. 1 Unsurprisingly, he encountered trouble fitting in at the university. Scholars have again treated this in terms of underlying tensions, suggesting, for example, that the perspectives he acquired in the United Kingdom now clashed with those of his students raised on Lafcadio Hearn’s “impressionistic humanism.” 2 However, it was just as likely that social and psychological factors played a role. For one thing, Sōseki’s predecessor, Hearn, had held the post since 1896, and as he had been dismissed to make room for Sōseki his students may have been left feeling resentful towards the newcomer. 3 At any rate, Sōseki found the job dissatisfying, and plunged into his own writing. 1 Sōseki, preface, 45-46. 2 Bourdaghs, Ueda, and Murphy in commentary on Sōseki’s critical writings (Sōseki, Theory of Literature and Other Critical Writings, 75-76, 88. 3 There were exceptions, like Nakagawa Yoshitarō, who prepared the manuscript for 105 Remnants of Sōseki’s links with Shiki’s circle proved helpful at this juncture. In 1905, Sōseki’s breakthrough work, Wagahai wa Neko de aru (I am a Cat) appeared in Hototogisu, the literary journal founded by Shiki’s disciples in his honor. Shiki’s leading disciple, Takahama Kyoshi, had taken over editorial duties from Shiki. 4 Takahama, mentioned above, had known Sōseki since 1892, and they had been in touch long after the heyday of Sōseki’s time in Shiki’s circle (in the mid-late 1890s). Takahama and the other disciples would also have been familiar with what Sōseki had published in Hototogisu during his time in London. Seeking to expand Hototogisu into a general literary journal beyond its former focus on poetry, Takahama requested that his old friend contribute something. 5 The original draft of the first part of Wagahai wa Neko de aru, which Sōseki expected to be a single offering and not a series, failed to impress Takahama, who asked Sōseki – still an unknown to the readership at this point and understood to be an English teacher not a writer – to rewrite it extensively. 6 The revised version of the story, which portrays a cat’s humorous and satirical perspective on Meiji society, blossomed into a series which appeared in the magazine during 1905 to 1906. 7 The first collected volumes were Bungakuron, as acknowledged by Sōseki in the preface (Sōseki, preface, 47). 4 Takahama was eventually succeeded in his editorship of Hototogisu by his son in 1959, and then his granddaughter in 1979. 5 Ultimately, Takahama would help usher many new writers into the literary mainstream through Hototogisu. 6 高浜虚子 Takahama Kyoshi, 『漱石氏と私』Sōseki-shi to Watashi (Tokyo: Oranda Shobō, 1918), republished in Takahama, 『回想子規・漱石』 Kaisō: Shiki, Sōseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), 107-258. 7 The cat was inspired by Sōseki’s own cat, an alley cat; he went on to have several more cats 106 published before the run of the series in Hototogisu was complete. 8 Takahama pushed Sōseki to keep producing work, prompting Komiya Toyotaka to later give him partial credit for Sōseki becoming a novelist (the lion’s share of the responsibility laying with Shiki). 9 By late 1906 in addition to Wagahai wa Neko de aru Sōseki had published Botchan, a novel chronicling a teacher’s experiences based on Sōseki’s own time in Matsuyama and widely regarded as representing an allegory for the various ideals and forces struggling for the heart of modern Japanese society. 10 The critical and financial success of these works enabled Sōseki to resign from his teaching post the following year in April, 1907, a decision which was likely also a response to his mental condition, having suffered yet another breakdown in the meantime. He became the editor of the literary page of the Asahi Shinbun in the following month and continued to work there, a part of his life that is little commented on in much of the English-language over his life. See Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, trans. Sammy I. Tsunematsu (Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 2002), Kindle edition, chapter 28. 8 This was not uncommon at the time where literary series could be extensive and the serial publication of works was considered a highly appropriate format for modern literature. The remnants of this publishing system are most obvious today in the manga industry, where collectible volumes of a series are published while the series continues serialization in the weekly or bi-weekly manga magazines. Interestingly, the books and magazines are usually printed by entirely different companies, another feature of the industry. 9 小宮豊隆 Komiya Toyotaka, 「解説」 “Kaisetsu,” in夏目漱石 Natsume Sōseki,『木屑録』 Bokusetsuroku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1932) 1-11; 10. 10 While these two works are widely held to represent the emergence of Sōseki as a truly modern writer, Jay Rubin suggests that they were not initially as well-received critically as we have been led to believe, and it was in fact Sōseki’s Kofū (The Miner), generally regarded as a second-rate work of Sōseki’s, that represented the author’s arrival at truly modern literature (“The Evil and the Ordinary in Sōseki’s Fiction,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46.2 (Dec. 1986): 333-352). 107 scholarship but well-studied in Japan, as Sōseki’s literary journalism is largely understood as part of his broader mission in life to pursue the possibility of an ethical and just existence amidst the confusion and turbulence of modern Japanese society. 11 On the one hand, the Asahi became the platform for the delivery of Sōseki’s fiction – beginning in June 1907 with Gubijinsō (The Poppy), all of his remaining novels were published in the newspaper. This made a significant impression on the literary establishment. As Marvin Marcus observes, A turning point in the social history of modern Japanese literature was the hiring, in 1907, of Natsume Sōseki as a staff fiction writer for the Asahi newspaper. The fact that such a prominent writer and intellectual would relinquish a prestigious lectureship at the Imperial University to write novels for newspaper readers did much to popularize fiction writing, while at the same time serving to elevate the rather marginal status of writers. 12 On the other hand, the Asahi also provided Sōseki with a means of directly communicating with a mass audience. The author also utilized it to promote writers he liked, and indeed, as with Hototogisu (where he had published four novels from 1905 to 1907), he would make extensive use of his contacts at the Asahi to help his disciples and friends, such as Naka 11 See, for example, 牧村健一郎 Makimura Ken’ichirō,『新聞記者漱石』Shinbun-kisha Sōseki (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2005), Yamamoto Junji, Sōseki no Tenshoku, op. cit., and 宗田安正 Sōda Yasumasa, ed., 『朝日新聞記者夏目漱石』 Asahi Shinbun-kisha Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Rippū Shobō, 1994), the last of which brings together a variety of pieces by Sōseki and his contemporaries related to his time as a columnist. For a list of Sōseki’s columns, see 遠藤祐 Endō Tasuku,「漱石主宰の「朝日文芸欄」（資料）」“Sōseki Shusai no Asahi Bungei-kan (shiryō),”『岩手大学学芸学部研究年報』Iwate Daigaku Gakugei-bu Kenkyū Nenpō 22.2 (1964): 1-18. 12 Marcus, “The Social Organization of Modern Japanese Literature,” 54-55. Another outcome was that other newspapers began to recruit their own prominent writers to compete with the Asahi-Sōseki formula. 108 Kansuke (中勘助, 1885-1965), whose work he recommended to the Asahi in a letter in February, 1913. 13 This was the context in which Sōseki soon found himself the center of an intellectual circle, one which he had not sought to assemble himself, but nevertheless embraced as it developed. Sōseki’s fame brought him a lot of attention, and increasingly students, writers both aspiring and accomplished, and all manner of what one might call “literary fans” began to call. Soon a cadre of dedicated young adherents of Sōseki’s writing began to gather there regularly, often but not always after a period of contact through letters, and in the manner of their Edo-period predecessors essentially offered themselves as apprentices to the master. The early disciples were attracted to Sōseki’s expression of the tensions and struggles of the era in ways they felt relatable, and while Sōseki’s outlook and mixed feelings about modern Japan were hardly unique among late Meiji intellectuals, his sensitive and thoughtful style won him devoted followers eager to follow in his footsteps. The prospect of being harassed continually by a group of followers eager to observe and imitate the master’s every move (and unlike their Edo predecessors, without offering the coin that would help make such a lifestyle bearable for an intellectual) was not exactly pleasing to Sōseki. This reality quickly dawned on the apprentices, who also had to compete for attention 13 Letter to Yamamoto Matsunosuke, 26 February, 1913, in 三好行雄 Miyoshi Yukio, ed., 『漱石書簡集』Sōseki Shokanshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 259. 109 with various other individuals who would drop by, often unannounced. They solved this problem by agreeing to meet with Sōseki regularly at his residence every Thursday from 3 pm, after one of their number, Suzuki Miekichi (鈴木三重吉, 1882-1936), offered the suggestion. As fellow disciple Komiya Toyotaka later recalled, According to Suzuki Miekichi, it was he who had Sensei decide the day to meet. Since Sensei was complaining about having too many visitors, Miekichi recommended that he decide on a day for meetings, while keeping Saturday and Sunday for himself. When asked what day of the week he had relatively free, Sensei’s answer was Thursday. So it was decided to set the day for the meetings as Thursday, from 3 p.m. Speaking of that, on Sunday, 7 October 1906, Sensei sent postcards to people to let them know he had decided to henceforth set Thursdays from 3 p.m. as a day for meetings. Those who received this notice included Takahama Kyoshi, Terada Torahiko, Noma Masatsuna, Nomura Denshi, and others. […] In this way, at Sōseki’s place on October 11, 1906, the Mokuyōkai began. 14 Sōseki’s postcards suggest he was pleased with the arrangement as a way to handle his visitors: 3 [8] October, 1906 Greetings. I was surprised by the advance notice of Hototogisu. I got sick and tired of having guests, and so decided to set Thursday from 3 pm as a meeting day. Interesting people will gather, I suppose. Please come to see how it goes. Natsume Kinnosuke To Takahama Kyoshi 15 Uchida Hyakken recalled that he had not originally known about the Mokuyōkai arrangement, and visited on another day along with Dazai Semon (太宰施門, 1889-1974), a scholar of 14 小宮豊隆 Komiya Toyotaka,『知られざる漱石』 Shirarezaru Sōseki (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1951), 3-4. 15 高浜虚子 Takahama Kyoshi,『回想子規・漱石』Kaisō: Shiki, Sōseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), 195-196. Note that Takahama’s rendering indicates that the letter was misdated by Sōseki and should have indicated the 8th, not the 3rd, of the month. Since the postcards were actually sent on the 7th, perhaps Takahama assumed it was sent on the morning of the day he received it. 110 French literature. Sōseki received them anyway, but told them to come on Thursday from then on. 16 So it was that the Mokuyōkai was born. When, two months later in December 1906, Sōseki moved house, the Mokuyōkai custom followed – first to #7, Hongō-ku Nishikata-machi 10 (present-day Bunkyō-ku Nishikata 1-chōme), and then, after September 1907, to Waseda Minami-chō 7. 17 It was the latter location, which became known as Sōseki Sanbō (漱石山房), that became synonymous with the Mokuyōkai, so that members often spoke of the former in reference to the circle as well as the location, leading to the common but mistaken assumption that the circle began there. 18 The circle would end up meeting regularly for ten years, from October of 1906 until November 16, 1916 (Sōseki died on December 6 of that year). 19 16 内田百閒 Uchida Hyakken,『漱石山房の記』Sōseki Sanbō no Ki (Tokyo: Chichibu Shobō, 1941), 3. 17 Sōseki lived in the Waseda Minami-chō house until his death in 1916. In 1920, the study was preserved and the rest of the house rebuilt, but it was destroyed in May 1945 by an air raid. The Shinjuku authorities turned it into a memorial park, and eventually opened a memorial museum on September 24, 2017 featuring a partial reconstruction of the site. See 「新宿区立漱石山房記念館」 “Shinjuku-kuritsu Sōseki Sanbō Kinenkan,” <http://soseki-museum.jp/>, checked 2017/03/23. 18 What makes this especially confusing is that many Japanese scholars use the term “Sōseki Sanbō” to refer to Sōseki’s networks in general, including but not limited to the Mokuyōkai, whereas other scholars use the term – as did many of the monkasei themselves – synonymously with Mokuyōkai. 19 Contrary to popular belief, a segment of the Mokuyōkai survived Sōseki’s death, as had Shiki’s circle survived its own mentor’s death earlier. The group renamed itself “Kokonokai” for the date of Sōseki’s death, and continued to gather occasionally. The involvement of at least Komiya, Morita, Nogami, Matsune and Uchida can be confirmed. The meetings, however, were not the same, and could even be downright morbid. Uchida described in his diary a gathering of almost all the old members at Sōseki’s house on New Year’s Day, 1919, but said the atmosphere was never the same, and that he wishes Sōseki’s ghost could have appeared since there was nothing enjoyable about the occasion (Uchida, 10). The continued friendship and association 111 With Sōseki able to deal with his apprentices and normally any other scheduled visitors on Thursdays, he gained more time to write in peace. He found this arrangement a relief, and also enjoyed the meetings, often mentioning to others when he enjoyed a particular session, such as in a letter to Takahama dated 24 November, 1906: “Last night was great fun. It would be enjoyable if there can be such an intense debate every Thursday.” 20 Of course, Sōseki was not always in high spirits, and from time to time he would cut short or cancel a week’s meeting, such as on one occasion when he explained he was “disliking people recently.” 21 Uchida also noted that as time went by, Sōseki was more guarded and might refuse to meet new people even on Thursday, unless they had a letter of introduction from someone he knew. 22 So long as he was not under one of his depressive episodes, Sōseki would try to ensure that the environment of the Mokuyōkai was positive and no one felt excluded. Komiya explains that in the early days Sōseki ensured that the monkasei all knew each other and were getting along, and he pushed them all to come at the appointed time each week even if they were shy or hesitant at first. 23 Komiya points out that Matsune Tōyōjō (松根東洋城, 1878-1964) sought a day just for himself and was rebuffed by Sōseki, who urged him to come on Thursday, to which Matsune acquiesced. 24 among the monkasei in the subsequent decades was far more significant than the continuing ghost of the Mokuyōkai proper. 20 Takahama, 206. 21 Letter to Takahama Kyoshi, 19 March, 1908 (Takahama, 231-232). 22 Uchida, 4. 23 Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 9 24 Ibid., 7. 112 Komiya himself was initially hesitant: I am also one of the people who caused Sensei trouble in this regard. […] I was shy by nature, and could not speak in front of many people because I would become too nervous. I could talk to Sensei in person without any problem, but it was somewhat painful for me to attend such a gathering as the Mokuyōkai. Even after a meeting day was set on Thursday, and being told to come on Thursday, I did not feel like attending the Mokuyokai and becoming a regular visitor there. However, once the meeting day was set, I had to do my best not to disturb Sensei on other days. 25 Komiya attended his first Mokuyōkai session, felt overwhelmed, and spent most of it sitting in a corner by himself. 26 He therefore wrote a letter to Sōseki requesting a meeting time just for himself, which resulted in the following reply: I was a bit surprised seeing the number of visitors was 13 or 14. However, there is nothing more enjoyable [for me] than listening to those I know gather like that and talk about various things without any hesitation. I believe that setting Thursday as a meeting day was a good idea. […] You were being quiet by yourself. It does not matter whether you speak or stay silent, but it is not good to keep closing your heart. You have to be more open-minded. The people who came are not scary people. Since you were being silent, they did not talk to you, either. If you meet them a few times, you will be able to talk to them. Actually, there was someone like you among the visitors yesterday, but he was also talking casually, which I found interesting. […] It is because I want to encourage you to speak on Thursday that I say such a thing. When you come next time, please talk about whatever you like. 27 Komiya soon came to love the Mokuyōkai. Sōseki, meanwhile, had started putting up a notice on red paper on his door telling guests to come back at the appropriate time. This proved effective, as Sōseki happily reported to Takahama Kyoshi after the first Mokuyōkai session: “…Three 25 Ibid., 9-10. 26 Ibid., 10. 27 Ibid., 10-11. 113 people came to visit me today, too. However, they immediately left after seeing the notice. Very good!” 28 From the disciples’ perspective, this whole arrangement must have seen attractive since it guaranteed them time with their master while also ensuring any “outside” visitors would be meeting Sōseki in an environment mediated by themselves. Sōseki accepted this because while he welcomed adoration, he wanted it on his own terms, and found being called upon to be a nuisance. Long after the Mokuyōkai was established as the proper route to meet him, random people might come by at their own convenience anyway – not that arranging a visit correctly was any guarantee of Sōseki’s patience. His recollections in the 1915 Garasudo no Uchi (Inside My Glass Doors) contains accounts of many visitors, such as this fan: She appeared to have read most of my books. It was therefore these that formed the subject of our conversation. Now to receive praise from a stranger on one’s own writings may seem gratifying; in reality it is extremely embarrassing. To be truthful, I was annoyed. 29 Sōseki also found himself pestered by people who wanted things, as Marcus rightly notes: “Some sought out the author’s advice on matters both literary and personal; others, representing this or that periodical, came by to solicit a manuscript, an interview—even a casual remark that could find its way into print.” 30 Sōseki grumbled that many people would give him manuscripts 28 Letter to Takahama Kyoshi, 12 October, 1906, cited by Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 4. 29 Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, chapter 6. 30 Marvin Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writings of Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009), 128. 114 merely so they could try to get their work published by claiming he had seen it, profiting from any association with the author and leaving Sōseki feeling used. 31 Other people sought Sōseki’s calligraphy: There are people who ask me for pieces of calligraphy of poems. And even before I have agreed they send me cards or pieces of fabric for the purpose. At first I was reluctant to disappoint them and wrote the things they wished me to write, even though I was aware that I wrote a mediocre hand. But it is difficult to continue indefinitely with kindness of this sort. I tended increasingly to see that these requests were eliminated altogether. 32 Some people were very insistent, sending him presents or reminders, and he found this immensely annoying. Others would drop by and ask him for advice about their relationships, careers or psychological problems, whereupon Sōseki either struggled to offer meaningful advice or pretended not to be home. 33 The unpredictable nature and pressure of such visits helps explain why Sōseki sought a degree of control, while the monkasei sought status and the limiting of competition for their master’s attention. This made the Mokuyōkai mutually beneficial. The Mokuyōkai thus originally referred not to a circle but to a regular event, where Sōseki’s disciples would gather in his study at his house, and receive any guests. Being a regular member of the Mokuyōkai was an important part of being a disciple, and it is the accounts of 31 For example, see Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, chapter 11. “Their only purpose was to make money out of their writings, and the reading of them was just a means to this end. I found it an ever greater burden to read strangers’ not easily decipherable manuscripts with a good grace.” 32 Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, chapter 12. 33 Uchida speculated on an early visit that the family’s maid would report a visitor to Kyōko, who would then decide to inform Sōseki and see whether he would receive the person or not (1-5). 115 these disciples that serve as the main primary sources for studying the circle. 34 These monkasei 35 formed the consistent core of the circle, and were joined by others who formed a range of outer rings. While the inner members thus had an elite name for themselves (for not just anyone could be a monkasei, one of the inner circle) and a special name for their meeting place (Sōseki Sanbō), they also began to identify with the meetings, so that the term Mokuyōkai came to be identified with the circle itself and not just the meetings per se. Life at the Mokuyōkai primarily consisted of discussion, sometimes in small groups, and sometimes in one large debate. Members would bring along writing to read to the others and 34 Along with Sōseki’s own vignettes like Inside My Glass Doors, the main accounts are those of Komiya (Shirarezaru Sōseki), Uchida (Sōseki Sanbō no Ki), Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (「漱石山房の秋」 “Sōseki Sanbō no Aki,” in 『大阪毎日新聞』Ōsaka Mainichi Shinbun, Jan. 1920, and 「漱石山房の冬」“Sōseki Sanbō no Fuyu,” in 『サンデー毎日』Sandē Mainichi, Jan. 1923), Matsuoka Yuzuru, 『ああ漱石山房』 Aa Sōseki Sanbō (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1967), and 林原耕三 Hayashibara Kōzō『漱石山房の人々』Sōseki Sanbō no Hitobito (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1971). For a brief outline of the layers of individuals involved, see 関口安義 Sekiguchi Yasuyoshi, 小森陽一 Komori Yōichi, and 石原千秋 Ishihara Chiaki,「漱石を生きる人々」 “Sōseki wo Ikiru Hitobito”『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 10-39, as well as 遠藤祐 Endō Tasaku,「漱石とその周辺――木曜会・「朝日文芸欄」のことなど」“Sōseki to sono Shūhen: Mokuyōkai ‘Asahi Bungei-ran’ no koto nado,” 『國文学：解釈と教材の研究』 Kokubungaku: Kaishaku to Kyōzai no Kenkyū 9.3 (Feb. 1962): 61-67. 35 Monkasei is a term that evolved from a label for factions within a school of thought or religion (literally, those who meet beneath the gate, i.e. a sub-set of people at a school) and therefore had a particular ring to it since the late Edo period when it became used to mean those who emerged from a particular scholastic tradition (employing the literal or symbolic figure of a founder under whom they situated themselves) and proceeded to form their own schools. “Apprentice,” “student,” or other such words fail to capture this meaning adequately in English. Marcus runs with protégé, which I feel is closer but still loses much of the traditional weight and emphasis on the master’s authority which the original word carries. I therefore elected to translate the term consistently as “disciple,” which I feel is the closest to capturing the importance of the figure in a given tradition while retaining the emphasis on the relationship with the master figure. 116 receive critique; they would also read works by members and non-members alike and discuss these. There was also criticism of artwork and calligraphy, which were another two artistic fields appealing to Sōseki and many of his disciples. Composition, especially of poetry, was another frequent activity, and performances of poems, excerpts from plays, and music also took place, often spontaneously. Members would also bring along food for the group. 36 The discussions could be both long and lively, as Komiya relates: At the Mokuyōkai, there were many occasions on which we had lively conversations and we stayed until 1 or 2 am. But Sensei would not give us any bad looks; he gave appropriate advice at the appropriate time, made us reflect […] and never got tired of being with us. Of course, when Sensei got sleepy, he would tell us to leave […] and we would leave in short order. 37 On the one hand, Mokuyōkai members sometimes compared their circle to European models of intellectual circles and formal literary societies, such as the Medan Group – a gathering of French Naturalist authors including Zola and Guy de Maupassant. A more immediate comparison, though, might have been modern Japanese groups like the literary and artistic society Pan no Kai. 38 Compared to these, however, Sōseki’s circle was a smaller, less 36 For example, a letter from Sōseki to Takahama in January 1907 refers to Matsune having promised to fix a banquet for the next session (Takahama, 215). 37 Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 18-19. 38 Needless to say, this refers to Pan the half-goat deity of classical Greek mythology, not “pan” as in “bread,” a confusion confounded today when one searches through indexes or online and is confronted with a list of home baking clubs. Inspired by, and possibly loosely affiliated with, the German art circle of the same name, Pan no Kai issued its own journal and encouraged the spread of European literary trends in Japan. 117 formal, and more intimate group, something that the monkasei were aware of and celebrated. 39 In this regard, it was perhaps most similar to Shiki’s old circle – several former members of which, such as Takahama Kyoshi, were semi-regulars in the Mokuyōkai. At the same time, because at its core the Mokuyōkai functioned like a private intellectual salon with Sōseki at the center and its membership consisting primarily of his disciples, it recalled the social circles consisting of professors and their students that Sōseki had participated in during his student days. Etsuko Nakayama goes further and argues that this was a conscious decision on Sōseki’s part, because in her view he modelled his relations with his disciples on the foreign scholars who had inspired him in his youth, particularly Koeber. It was for this reason that he lent them money, provided them with career support, and helped them with their personal lives, she suggests. 40 However, despite Sōseki’s ideals, the relationships with his disciples that formed the backbone of the Mokuyōkai did not turn out as intended. Nakayama holds that despite Sōseki’s efforts to model these relationships on those of his Western models, what resulted still had far more in common with the established master-disciple Japanese model. 41 This is a fair point, although perhaps the two modes are not mutually exclusive given that Koeber’s circle, for instance, was also clearly characterized by a degree of master-disciple relations. It could be 39 See, for example, Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 17-18. 40 Nakayama, 109. 41 Ibid., 113. 118 argued that the Mokuyōkai was informed by Western models at the time while in other respects resembled an Edo-era intellectual circle. While in studies of early modern intellectual life scholars have, with justification, given ample attention to juku – a typical model of an academy with one or two central figures and their disciples (plus other students) – less formal circles that nevertheless retained a strong master-disciple dynamic were not uncommon, and it is this model which Sōseki’s Mokuyōkai could be said to echo. 42 Given that many other late Meiji and Taishō intellectual circles were also strongly structured around the figure of the master, this would not be surprising. 43 This has not prevented some scholars from framing the Mokuyōkai as a more progressive, Western-style intellectual circle in contrast to more traditional models rooted in Confucian dynamics. Charles Shirō Inouye, for example, suggests that the Mokuyōkai was a progressive collection of colleagues rather than a more traditional circle with a master-disciple framework. 44 This fits into his argument that his subject, Kyōka, was a sort of exceptional bastion of Japanese tradition in an era of intense Westernization. However, this perspective on the Mokuyōkai does 42 For more on networks and other aspects of the social lives of intellectuals in the Edo period, see Anna Beerens and Mark Teeuwen, eds., Uncharted Waters: Intellectual Life in the Edo Period – Essays in Honour of W.J. Boot (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 43 See, for example, Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei: The Role of the Master in Shirakaba Writers (Leiden: Brill, 2000). 44 Charles Shirō Inouye, The Similitude of Blossoms: A Critical Biography of Izumi Kyōka (1873-1939), Japanese Novelist and Playwright (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 1998), 121). 119 not really hold water. As is evident from the discussion so far, the monkasei worshipped Sōseki as their master – many of them consistently just called him “Sensei,” and nothing else, for their entire careers. The monkasei themselves were proud of their title and used it often in their writings, along with deshi and similar terms. This served to immediately distinguish them from outer-ring members or mere visitors to the Mokuyōkai. They were also clearly aware of the top disciples among themselves, based on how close they were to Sōseki and the obvious favoritism he showed them. 45 Komiya Toyotaka was widely regarded to be the most-loved of all and also correspondingly the top monkasei (a topic to which I return when discussing him specifically). Komiya plus Morita Sōhei and Suzuki Miekichi were considered to be the top three. 46 Then, these three plus the ever-so-slightly-lower Abe Yoshishige (安倍能成, 1883-1966) were known as Sōseki’s “four heavenly kings” (四天王). 47 That the monkasei engaged in such delineation among themselves at all reveals the multi-tiered hierarchical nature of the Mokuyōkai and puts the lie to the notion that they were equal colleagues. It is true that not everyone supported the 45 Of course, gatherings by intellectual circles are often characterized by such delineation and organization, right down to who sits closest to the master and so on. As Bruno Latour notes regarding interaction rituals in social networks, “Interactions do not resemble a picnic where all the food is gathered on the spot by the participants, but rather a reception given by some unknown sponsors who have staged everything down to the last detail—even the place to sit might be already pre-inscribed by some attentive keeper,” Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 166. 46 See, for example, 松岡譲 Matsuoka Yuzuru, 「解説」 “Kaisetsu” in Komiya, Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1967), 209-218. Matsuoka clearly identifies these three as the top monkasei (210). 47 It is unclear which disciple coined the term “four kings.” The full version that came to be used by scholars and critics was「漱石門下の四天王」 , which is to say, the “Four Heavenly Kings of the Sōseki Disciples.” 120 framework as it stood. Abe Jirō (阿部次郎, 1883-1959), notably, complained about this because he sought a more colleague-based intellectual circle but did not find one in the Mokuyōkai. 48 At the same time, even this needs to be considered carefully, because Abe had enormous respect for Sōseki, and like Komiya and the others always called him “Sensei” – in fact, it is well-attested that Abe only called two people “sensei” in his life, namely Sōseki and Koeber. 49 Both the disciples and Sōseki benefitted from the Mokuyōkai in several ways. The disciples could gain practical help with their writing, but there were far more important benefits than just this. One was the legitimacy as writers and intellectuals in Meiji society that they could gain through a semi-formalized association with Sōseki. In addition to being able to identify themselves as members of Sōseki’s inner circle, they could also regulate access to the master himself. By setting their meeting time as the regular channel for any and all visitors to gain access to Sōseki, they could ensure that they were present for these encounters. This meant that they could meet new people to expand their network, while being seen near Sōseki, drawing authority from him in these encounters while simultaneously acting as gatekeepers for their 48 In「夏目先生の談話」“Natsume-sensei no Danwa,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 348-359, Abe Jirō portrayed himself as a young colleague of Sōseki’s rather than as a disciple per se; he felt that the monkasei were not apprentices, but rather young colleagues or friends who Sōseki had taken to supporting. In light of all the other accounts of the Mokuyōkai, it is important to see his portrayal as a prescriptive statement of his ideals, and not a description of how the circle actually was. 49 For example, see 小山文雄 Koyama Fumio, 「ねざす談議(32)―― 「愛」そして「敬虔」」 “Nezasu Dangi #32: ‘Ai’ soshite ‘Keiken’,” 『ねざす』Nezasu 41 (May 2008): 38-39. 121 master. The cultural capital that this represented was immense. Needless to say, this was obvious to outside visitors, and not everyone was happy with the monkasei performing this role, as Komiya himself admitted: To people outside the immediate circle, we seemed to have been acting as the foremost apprentices of Sensei. When Sensei returned from Shuzenji, and was still hospitalized for some four or five months, Kinoshita Mokutarō came to see him. He wrote in volume 6 of a magazine, possibly Myōjō, that ‘Sōseki was fine, but these people – like Morita, Suzuki, and Komiya – are lined up like the Five Musicians,’ 50 and it made him uneasy. Reading that, we felt that Mokutarō was speaking evil of us as a faction, and we all hated him. However, thinking back, Mokutarō was stating facts as facts. It was we who felt like a faction, and could not honestly admit that we had the feeling of not wanting to let any regular person approach our boss. 51 The potential for connections and support was another major benefit to members of the Mokuyōkai. First, the circle provided a venue for like-minded people to gather and feel a sense of community as intellectuals. 52 This was also important for socially asserting their collective identity as intellectuals in a social landscape where writers were almost as famous for their circle associations as for their literary accomplishments – an environment in which Sōseki’s earlier 50 That is to say, gonin bayashi, the five musician dolls that occupy the third tier from the top in a hina matsuri doll display. 51 Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 22-23. 52 From this perspective, it was the gatherings themselves, rather than any particular activity performed there, that were most important. This recalls the insights of Randall Collins, who argues: The crucial focus of an intellectual group is the consciousness of the group’s continuity itself as an activity of discourse, rather than the particular contents of its discussions. […] The ritual focus of group solidarity is not so much on the level of particular statements and beliefs, but on the activity itself. The focus is on a peculiar kind of speech act: the carrying out of a situation-transcending dialogue, linking past and future texts. A deep-seated consciousness of this common activity is what links intellectuals together as a ritual community (The Sociology of Philosophies: A Global Theory of Intellectual Change (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 28. 122 wandering and lack of firm association with a circle marked him as an exception rather than the rule. 53 Second, it afforded the opportunity for career connections through Sōseki’s help. Sōseki went out of his way to try and get his disciples published. Takahama Kyoshi noted that this was why many of the monkasei had their maiden works published in Hototogisu. 54 Sōseki would also lend money to friends and disciples if they could convince him of genuine need, although he was not wealthy (despite many contemporaries seeming to have assumed that he was). To take one example, Tsuda Seifu, mentioned earlier, came from a poor background and hated borrowing money. However, when faced with medical costs from his baby’s whooping cough, he recalled that he swallowed his pride and asked Sōseki for a loan, having decided after a conversation with his wife that he could never ask such a thing of anyone else. 55 Another example was that of 53 On intellectual networks and their contribution to identity, see, for example, 森村敏己 Morimura Toshimi and 山根徹也 Yamane Tetsuya, eds.,『集いのかたち――歴史における人間関係』 Tsudoi no Katachi: Rekishi ni okeru Ningen Kankei (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 2004), and Marvin Marcus, “The Social Organization of Modern Japanese Literature,” in The Columbia Companion to Modern East Asian Literature, ed. Joshua Mostow (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 52-58. 54 Takahama, 172. Sōseki would at times even attempt to help poor writers who asked him for help, such as one person who made quite an impression by bringing the Mokuyōkai a pheasant and preparing a dish for them with it. Sōseki reported, The next week he came by with another manuscript. Whenever he visited, he’d bring along something he’d written. There was even a magnum opus in three volumes, which turned out to be the worst of the lot. On several occasions I picked through the assorted manuscripts and sent the most promising to one of the literary journals, requesting their kind consideration. Out of charity’s sake, the editor would see to it that the piece got published… (Sōseki, Eijitsu 12, as cited by Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 174). 55 津田青楓 Tsuda Seifu, 『漱石と十弟子』Sōseki to Jū Deshi (Tokyo: Sekai Bunko, 1948), 138-143. Tsuda’s work was republished by Unsōdō in 2015 with numerous color plates, but also with various portions deleted (such as pages 142-143 of the original). 123 Uchida Hyakken. Chronically bad at managing his finances, he recalled how Sōseki had to instruct him even on basic matters – such as how it was possible to extend a pawn shop agreement by just paying the interest, which Sōseki then paid for him – and he recalled one occasion where he borrowed a substantial sum. 56 Finding Sōseki had traveled to Yugawara, he pursued him there with his last remaining money and was surprised to find his mentor did not scold him as expected, but instead, lacking enough money to cover his disciple’s needs, instructed him to return to Tokyo and tell Sōseki’s family he was cleared to borrow the amount in question (100 to 200 yen, he recalled). 57 Sōseki even covered Uchida’s travel expenses, and Uchida recalled going to a hot spring, enjoying beer and nice food, and sleeping in a big room all at Sōseki’s cost – suggesting just the sort of attitude that had gotten him into this financial mess in the first place. Sōseki also served as an example to his disciples of how to behave. They would often imitate his ways, regardless of whether or not he liked it. This was by no means unusual behavior in late Meiji circles, where the lifestyle and behavioral patterns of the central figure provided examples of normative conduct that members would often strive to imitate, as Maya Mortimer has demonstrated in his study of the Shirakaba masters. 58 Many members of the Mokuyōkai 56 Uchida, 128-133. 57 Ibid. 58 Mortimer, op. cit. 124 were feverish in their desire to imitate Sōseki’s mannerisms. Uchida noted that, of course, many of the monkasei kept things from Sōseki as mementoes (which, one may recall, had risks attached, as Uchida’s own case with the calligraphy revealed), but he also provides some insight into how they imitated their master: I respected Soseki-sensei very much when I was young, and so I copied him. It was not just me; among the disciples there were those who walked like sensei did, or who laughed like sensei did. Sensei’s nose was a little crooked, and so when he laughed there would be a bit of a crease on the bent side. Even if one’s nose is not crooked, if one tries to laugh while trying to make a little crease on the side, one could smile like him. Such things were not just consciously copied; [sometimes we] copied them subconsciously just from being close to him. However, what I did went beyond such imitation. 59 Uchida went on to describe how he surreptitiously measured Sōseki’s desk, and used the measurements to order a custom desk made exactly like Sōseki’s. 60 Other monkasei chose to carry on the spirit of the Mokuyōkai itself in later life. For instance, Terada Torahiko (寺田寅彦, 1878-1935) began to hold gatherings with his own students at Todai, inspired by the Mokuyōkai, where they would compose poetry and discuss literature. This tradition was then passed along to his student, Uda Michitaka (宇田道隆, 1905-1982), recognized as the father of Japanese oceanography, whose own students, such as Ishino Makoto (石野誠 ), recalled poetry gatherings. 61 In one final example particularly relevant to this study (and which is discussed at 59 Uchida, 55. 60 Ibid., 55-58. 61 I am indebted to my colleague Masaya Kanzaki, a former student of Ishino’s, for providing me with this information. Ishino taught at Tokyo University of Fisheries (Tōkyō Suisan Daigaku), which merged with Tokyo University of Mercantile Marine (Tōkyō Shōsen Daigaku) in 2003 to 125 greater length in Chapter 6), Akutagawa Ryūnosuke left the publication rights for his collected works to Iwanami Shigeo, not because he deeply trusted him – in fact he did not know him very well – but just because Sōseki had done so with his own work and so he followed suit. 62 As for Sōseki himself, he benefitted from the Mokuyōkai in four ways. First, he mined his disciples’ personalities and interactions as inspiration for his writing, often modelling his characters and stories on these. This phenomenon was hardly unusual – the naturalism embraced by Shiki and Sōseki emphasized writing from one’s authentic viewpoint about real experiences the writer encountered, or at least adopting the conceit of doing so. However, it certainly helped to be in regular contact with interesting and active young people if one wished to write about and for the same generation. Writer and women’s activist Hiratsuka Raichō (平塚らいてう, 1886-1971) recalled what Morita had told her as he bragged about his mentor cribbing from him: And do you know what? Sōseki doesn’t know a thing about women. He writes novels about them, but the only woman he knows is his wife. His heroines are all in his mind, and not a single character’s alive. He listens carefully to the conversations of his students, especially those about women, and then he writes them up in the next installment of his serialized novels. I’m the one who has to tell him how women really talk. 63 create Tokyo University of Marine Science and Technology (Tōkyō Kaiyō Daigaku). Uda is still remembered fondly for his literary activities as well as his scientific achievements. See, for example, 東京海洋大学附属図書館 Tōkyō Kaiyō Daigaku Fuzoku Toshokan,「海に生きて― ―海洋学者宇田道隆」 “Umi ni Ikite: Kaiyō Gakusha Uda Michitaka,” exhibition catalog, 17 Oct. to 21 Dec. 2012, <https://lib.s.kaiyodai.ac.jp/library/tenji/tokubetsu_ uda/uda_mokuroku.pdf>. 62 The topic of the editing and production of zenshū is considered in Chapter 6 of the present study. 63 Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist, trans. Teruko Craig (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 120. 126 The second benefit Sōseki derived from the Mokuyōkai was adoration and affection, which was vital since it could satisfy the unmet needs he had carried since his childhood. Sōseki doted on his disciples, playing a role that Nakayama describes as one of “affectionate father.” 64 Responding to rumors that Sōseki was unsociable or even misanthropic, Tsuda stated that “he loved people,” and that while he may have been suspicious of elders or authority figures, Sōseki …loved and took care of young people and his own apprentices. There were as many as ten or twenty who would get together at Soseki Sanbō. It was not the case that everyone one of them suited Sensei’s personality. […] Although he did not like drunks, he still loved those like Suzuki Miekichi who had a bad drinking habit. […] Miekichi or Morita would call Sensei things like “our old man” (washitachi no oyaji) or “boss” (oyabun) when they were drunk. He lent money to those in financial trouble, intervened for those who got in trouble in love affairs, and tried to find jobs suitable for them to secure their income if they had trouble with daily living – in this regard, he was worthy of being called their “boss.” 65 The disciples were devoted to Sōseki and spoke to, and of, him affectionately. Some of their Hiratsuka Raichō’s birthname was Hiratsuka Haru (平塚明); on her see 小林登美枝 Kobayashi Tomie, 『平塚らいてう』Hiratsuka Raichō [Hito to Shisō series, vol. 71] (Tokyo: Shimizu Shoin, 1983), 大岡昇平 Ōoka Shōhei and 丸岡秀子 Maruoka Hideko,『平塚らいてうと日本の近代』 Hiratsuka Raichō to Nihon no Kindai [Iwanami Bukkuretto 67] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1986), and 山本藤枝 Yamamoto Fujie, 『虹を架けた女たち――平塚らいてうと市川房枝』Niji wo Kaketa Onnatachi: Hiratsuka Raichō to Ichikawa Fusae (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 1991). On Raichō and Sōseki, see 佐々木英昭 Sasaki Hideaki, 『「新しい女」の到来――平塚らいてうと漱石』 “Atarashii Onna” no Tōrai: Hiratsuka Raichō to Sōseki (Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai, 1994). In English, see Hiroko Tomida, Hiratsuka Raichō and Early Japanese Feminism (Leiden: Brill, 2004). Raichō was very particular about the rendering of her name, explicitly stating in her autobiography that only the old syllabary style was acceptable and writing her name in the new format or with kanji was wrong (Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist, trans. Teruko Craig (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 166). Therefore, while some critics and scholars referred to her with 雷鳥 or らいちょう (ra/i/chi-yo/u), she rejected this and said only the form らいてう (ra/i/te/u) was acceptable. Japanese scholars have subsequently by and large followed suit. 64 Nakayama, 112. 65 Tsuda, Sōseki to Jū Deshi, 176-177. 127 letters to him read like love letters. 66 On the occasion of a New Year’s gathering, Komiya described the Mokuyōkai as akin to a Buddhist paradise, implying Sōseki was a benevolent bodhisattva: It was not just due to the environment being good... More than anything else, it was due to the power of Sensei’s love. Since we were guided by Sensei, made to reflect upon ourselves by Sensei, and held by Sensei, the whole atmosphere was relaxed, warm, comfortable. When there was truth, it was turned into a work of art. The flippant, shallow air that was the atmosphere in most salons […] had never occurred. Thinking back, the world of the Mokuyōkai led by Sensei was like a Paradise covered by five-colored clouds. 67 Komiya also wrote a letter asking Sōseki to be his foster father, although Sōseki denied him this. 68 As Nakayama observes, “Sōseki, probably because of his unhappy childhood experiences, unconsciously craved for love, and tried to satisfy this desire by showing affection to his disciples.” 69 His disciples clearly gave him the affection he sought, and so it is not surprising that, despite the troubles they caused from time to time, he liked the Mokuyōkai and the guaranteed weekly dose of adoration it brought. Paradoxically, this actually may have hurt his relationship with his real family, because the time and affection he invested in his disciples took away from his wife and children which made those already-strained relationships worse. 66 On this, see, for example, Ara, Hyōden Natsume Sōseki, 305, and 半田淳子 Handa Atsuko 「誰が一番愛されていたか――『文鳥』が語る両性愛」“Dare ga Ichiban Aisareteita ka: Bunchō ga Kataru Baisekushuariti” 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 100-109. 67 Komiya, Shirarezaru Sōseki, 17-18. Five-colored clouds are an allusion to Buddhist paradises, particularly in the Pure Land tradition. In Chinese and Japanese art the Bodhisattva Kannon and other bodhisattvas have been at times depicted riding upon or holding five-colored clouds. 68 Letter to Komiya Toyotaka, December 22, 1906, in Miyoshi, op. cit., 188-190. 69 Nakayama, 111. 128 Third, Sōseki welcomed the Mokuyōkai as a way of affirming that he was an influential member of society. It enabled him to influence people in a more direct and personal, and therefore perhaps more rewarding, way than he had as a teacher or journalist. This goes a long way to explaining why Sōseki, despite being reclusive and complaining about visitors harassing him, continued to receive any guests at all. He seems to have been fine with receiving adoring visitors provided they were respectful and he was in an appropriate mood. This helps explain the gap in visitors’ accounts between the reclusive hermit who snapped at people on one hand and the kind fatherly figure offering advice on the other. As Tsuda noted, It is said that Dr. Nishida [Kitarō] had a rule not to talk with anyone in his study [….] Sōseki-sensei might also have been expected to be in his study […] without being bothered by worldly affairs; however, he was surrounded by many apprentices and spent the nights enjoying various talks, meeting Kikugorō 70 , or a student who was once a miner, or even a woman who wanted to commit suicide. He was not the sort of person who shut his door and detached himself from the world. 71 By setting a certain time slot each week for visits, Sōseki could manage the steady stream of visitors while still ensuring both that it continued, and that he was left alone most of the rest of the time. Finally, the Mokuyōkai brought Sōseki a degree of control. It enabled him to manage his social life effectively, which was important in light of his psychology and history of personal relations. In other words, it was a means by which he could retain emotionally rewarding 70 六代目尾上菊五郎 (Onoe Kikugorō VI, 1885-1949). 71 Tsuda, Sōseki to Jū Deshi, 178-179. 129 relationships with his disciples and visitors while limiting the stress that might arise from involvement in other circles where he had no such control. Charting the Membership The core component of any circle is the composition of its membership, and it is the members of the Mokuyōkai to which I now turn. By delineating the members and assessing them both collectively and as individuals, it becomes possible to understand what connected these people together as well as offering insight into late Meiji intellectual networking. The first challenge is to identify the members themselves, a task complicated by a degree of fluidity in membership. This was by no means uncommon among intellectual circles at the time. In the case of the Mokuyōkai a fluid character was especially pronounced because of its orientation around meetings at which regular, irregular, and entirely unexpected guests could appear, enabling one to debate just who was or was not in the main circle at a given time. There were also outer rings consisting of individuals who knew the core members and whose social networks may have closely overlapped with them, but were themselves not part of the circle proper. 72 As Marcus correctly observes, 72 This characteristic continued through the Taishō era, and was particularly common in academic settings. For example, Nishida Kitarō shared the outer rim of numerous networks with Marxist intellectuals like Kawakami Hajime, but they did not get along or participate in each other’s primary circles. Nishida’s eclectic student Miki Kiyoshi (三木清, 1897-1945) juggled networks of stout Neo-Kantians and radical Marxists despite the hostility many members of the circles felt towards each other. 130 In sociological terms, the Sōseki circle is best understood as an arrangement of concentric rings, reflecting the multiple relationships that the author formed over the course of his career. The picture is further complicated by the fact that individuals came and went over the years. Some died. Others moved on. Most, however, remained in Tokyo, the locus of the Meiji bundan and the backdrop for much of its literature. And Sōseki would have occasion to write about them, fashioning a shōhin persona of social engagement that contrasts with the pensive loner voice. 73 Nevertheless, there is general agreement about the central figures, who comprised both the inner core of the Mokuyōkai and Sōseki’s loyal cadre of disciples, the monkasei. These figures make up the bulk of accounts and depictions of the group. The classic depiction of this inner core comes from Tsuda Seifū, the aforementioned print artist who was introduced to Sōseki by Komiya, and who made an illustration of a Mokuyōkai session entitled Sōseki Sanbō to Shideshi-tachi. It shows alongside Sōseki eleven individuals who were certifiably major, regular figures in the Mokuyōkai as well as prominent monkasei (see Figure 3-1). 74 W e see depicted the major disciples Komiya Toyotaka, Suzuki Miekichi, and Morita Sōhei; writers and scholars Abe Y oshishige and Abe Jirō; literary scholar Nogami Toyoichirō (野上豊一郎, 1883-1950); haiku poet Matsune Tōyōjō; writer and physicist Terada Torohiko; writers Akagi Kōhei (赤木桁平, 1891-1949) and Uchida Hyakken; and finally Iwanami Shigeo. For Tsuda this grouping recalled Bashō’s ten disciples (蕉門十哲), leading him to title an earlier version of the picture “Sōseki and Ten Disciples” (漱石と十弟子) – despite both versions obviously featuring eleven apprentices! 75 73 Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 169. 74 On Tsuda Seifū, see the aforementioned Sōseki to Jū Deshi, and Sōseki, 「津田青楓氏」 “Tsuda Seifū-shi,” in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 16, 619-622. 75 On the background to the paintings, see Tsuda, Sōseki to Jū Deshi, 1-8. Sōseki and Ten Disciples is reproduced therein (ii-iii). 131 Fig. 3-1: Tsuda Seifū’s Depiction of a Mokuyōkai Session, Sōseki Sanbō to Shideshi-tachi (Source: reproduced from Sōseki-sensei Kōyūroku, at “Karukuchi no Kobeya,” http://eizo.blog.ocn.ne.jp/eizo/, original held by the Museum of Modern Japanese Literature) Fig. 3-2: Identification Rubric for Tsuda’s Picture (Source: original creation) 132 Rubric (clockwise from top left): 1 則天居士 Sokuten Kyoshi (→Natsume Sōseki) 2 寅彦 [Terada] Torahiko 3 能成 [Abe] Yoshishige 4 式部官 Shikibukan (→Matsune Tōyōjō) 5 野上 Nogami [Toyoichirō] 6 三重吉 [Suzuki] Miekichi 7 岩波 Iwanami [Shigeo] -reading book 8 桁平 [Akagi] Kōhei -reading book 9 百鬼園 Hyakkien (→ Uchida Hyakken) -behind table 10 (cat) 11 森田草平 Morita Sōhei 12 阿部次郎 Abe Jirō 13 豊隆 [Komiya] Toyotaka The picture includes a cat, as was the case with many depictions of Sōseki and the Mokuyōkai. Although Sōseki kept a series of pet cats, he had already become so associated with cats in the public consciousness that depictions would be expected to feature one even if its real-life counterpart did not regularly put in appearances at the Mokuyōkai. Several of the members are identified by pennames or titles, most notably Sōseki himself, who is referred to as “則天居士” Sokuten Kyoshi (scholar/gentleman following Heaven). This is clearly intended – either as a pun or in homage – to evoke the homonym “則天去私” (follow Heaven, forsake the self), a phrase Sōseki discussed with his disciples at one Mokuyōkai session. On the surface, it could be taken as a conventional Confucian phrase, an exhortation to follow the unchanging laws of Heaven rather than the ephemeral desires of the self. It could also be interpreted as a call to concern oneself with society and the public good rather than just personal 133 benefit. After Sōseki’s death, the term took on new life as a mantra among some of the monkasei who sought to articulate a sort of Sōseki ideology as a way of cementing their mentor’s legacy. In this conception, as presented by disciples like Komiya and Matsuoka, the term reflected Sōseki’s long struggle with the beast of egoism (自己本位, jikohon’i), eventually turning from Western-style self-centered writing to Japanese-style socially-centered writing. 76 Having striven like a monk to achieve a sokuten kyoshi state of mind, Sōseki turned away from individuals to focus on social bonds and the importance of relationships. That the idea sounds simplistic to an almost ridiculous extent, and does a disservice to the nuanced characters of Sōseki’s writing, did not stop it from quickly catching on among other monkasei and subsequent generations of Sōseki scholars. 77 For decades they sought out evidence of sokuten kyoshi thinking in all Sōseki’s work, and, in spite of criticism, even today it is popular concept among many scholars as well as the broader Japanese reading community. 78 The phrase also decorates the bust of Sōseki in the 76 The main bedrock in the sokuten kyoshi canon is represented by Matsuoka’s 「宗教的問答」 “Shūkyōteki Mondō” (1932, republished as 「則天去私のこと」 “Sokuten Kyoshi no koto” in the 1967 Aa Sōseki Sanbō, op. cit., 142-153) and Komiya’s Natsume Sōseki (op. cit.) in 1938 although the mythologizing of the concept by these two disciples and their fellows predated these works. On Komiya’s mythmaking of Sōseki in general, see 大山英樹 Ōyama Hideki, 「「漱石神話」の生成とその影響――小宮豊隆『夏目漱石』を中心に」 “‘Sōseki Shinwa’ no Seisei to sono Eikyō: Komiya Toyotaka Natsume Sōseki wo chūshin ni,” 『青山総合文化政策学』 Aoyama Sōgō Bunka Seisaku-gaku 5.1 (March 2013): 1-45. 77 For instance, Steve Odin relates how Watsuji Tetsurō claimed to be inspired by Sōseki’s shift to sokuten kyoshi, and how this may have even influenced the development of his ethical philosophy (The Social Self in Zen and American Pragmatism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), 51-52). On the sokuten kyoshi phenomenon as a whole, see Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door, 193-194. 78 For a critical perspective, see especially Etō Jun’s Natsume Sōseki. Works on sokuten kyoshi 134 memorial park in Waseda. As Jay Rubin dryly observes, “the Japanese urge to find a sage in every great artist has kept the myth alive.” 79 What do we know about the members of the Mokuyōkai, particularly the primary disciples depicted in Tsuda’s painting? In order to better understand the composition of the group, it is most effective to start by considering the core membership as a whole and assessing what can be concluded about them collectively before moving onto discuss each of them in turn. This is helpful because it provides an effective snapshot of the members of what was to become Iwanami Shigeo’s foundational network as a group and as individuals. My treatment then turns to consider other important members not usually depicted as primary disciples, and finally peripheral members. The basic prosopographical data is further tabulated in the chart below, covering 23 significant members beginning with Sōseki and the inner circle (see Figure 3-3). include 岡崎義恵 Okazaki Yoshie,『漱石と則天去私』Sōseki to Sokuten Kyoshi (Tokyo: Hōbunkan Shuppan, 1968), 加藤敏夫 Katō Toshio, 『漱石の「則天去私」と『明暗』の構造』 Sōseki no “Sokuten Kyoshi” to Meian no Kōzō (Tokyo: Riiberu Shuppan, 1996), and 岡部茂 Okabe Shigeru『夏目漱石―「則天去私」の系譜』 Natsume Sōseki: “Sokuten Kyoshi” no Keifu (Tokyo: Bungei Shobō, 2006). Scholars subscribing to the ideal hold that it did not have to be inherently Japanese or only practiced by Japanese, often noting Jane Austen, among others, as a writer Sōseki praised for producing pure art devoid of egoism (see, for instance, Amano Miyuki, “Sōseki’s Transformation of the Austenian Novel: From the Novel of Manners to the Psychological Novel,” Persuasions On-Line 30.2 (Spring 2010), <http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol30no2/amano.html>, and 佐藤深雪 Satō Miyuki, 「則天去私とは何か――『高慢と偏見』、『ウェイクフィールドの牧師』、『明暗』」“Sokuten Kyoshi to wa nani ka: Kōman to Henken, Weikufiirudo no Bokushi, Meian” Hiroshima Journal of International Studies 21 (2015): 85-101. 79 Jay Rubin, “Sōseki on Individualism, ‘Watakushi no Kojinshugi’,” Monumenta Nipponica 34.1 (Spring, 1979): 21-48; 24. 135 136 137 Assessing the membership as a whole, several characteristics are immediately evident. Only one regular member was older than Sōseki (Ikebe Sanzan), and among the monkasei the dates of birth ranged from 1878 to 1891, making the eldest of them more than ten years younger than Sōseki (born in 1867) and the youngest a generation apart. The majority of the inner circle, including Iwanami, was born between 1880 and 1883. This congruence is logical given that many of the members encountered one another during the same span of time at Todai, which each one attended without exception, and where they moved in similar social circles despite having majors as far apart as German literature, law, and physics. This phenomenon was by no means unique: for example, Mortimer has demonstrated in his study of the Shirakaba that members of that circle were linked via a common experience at Gakushuin. 80 Unlike intellectual circles of the early modern era, the memberships of which were usually united by geographic proximity in the form of shared domanial origins, late Meiji intellectual circles like the Mokuōkai coalesced around memberships united by shared educational experiences. Neither was this limited to just intellectual networking, for the modern bureaucracy was also developing around the same time based on professional training acquired at Todai. The intellectual and political elite at the dawn of the twentieth century, in other words, 80 Mortimer, op. cit. For more on academic elites, see Byron K. Marshall, “Professors and Politics: The Meiji Academic Elite,” Journal of Japanese Studies 3.1 (Winter 1977): 71-97, and by way of comparison see Xiaoqing Diana Lin, Peking University: Chinese Scholarship and Intellectuals, 1898-1937 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005). 138 shared in the birth of modern national communities centered in Tokyo but comprised of individuals from across the country. 81 Some circles of the era lasted for multiple generations. Von Koeber’s circle at Todai, for example, lasted for two generations as students rotated into, and graduated from, the university. The Mokuyōkai may have emerged from a generation of students at Todai, but it was not dependent on the school and its core members, being monkasei, remained more or less consistent. Its membership thus lasted but a generation, with those members present at the decision to hold regular meetings in 1906 occupying a special status as Sōseki’s reputation grew and attracted new members. These individuals belonged to the first generation to grow up entirely in modern Japan, unlike Sōseki himself who belonged to the generation that had witnessed modernization in their childhoods. As Jeffrey E. Hanes put it in his study of Seki Hajime, this was …the “younger generation” – young men who, literally and figuratively, grew up with modern Japan. Unlike the new generation, [who came of age from 1885 to 1895 and] whose profound sense of cultural discontinuity both heightened their awareness of tradition and caused them to stigmatize it, the younger generation was unfazed equally 81 On the development of the bureaucracy, see, for example, M. Pierce Griggs, “From Civilizing to Expertizing Bureaucracy: Changing Educational Emphasis in Government-Supported Schools of Tokyo (Edo) during the Tokugawa Period and Early Meiji Era,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 1997, as well as Bernard S. Silberman, “Bureaucratic Development and the Structure of Decision-making in Japan: 1868-1925,” The Journal of Asian Studies 29.2 (Feb. 1970): 347-262, and Chapter One of B. C. Koh, Japan’s Administrative Elite (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). On the structure of political institutions, see J. Mark Ramseyer and Frances M. Rosenbluth, The Politics of Oligarchy: Institutional Choice in Imperial Japan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 139 by aesthetic eclecticism, cultural fluidity, and ideological syncretism. They were children of the new age; and the modern world, with its accent on change, was the only world they knew. 82 Many members of the Mokuyōkai struggled to balance their occupations with their literary aspirations, although not all members were – or desired to become – career writers. Komiya sought to be a literary scholar, and Suzuki a novelist, whereas Abe Yoshishige devoted himself to education and Terada to physics. 83 As was the case with other intellectual circles at the time, there were members who participated out of passion rather than just career aspirations. While most of the members were young writers who were struggling financially, they also belonged to the same generation as what David Ambras has called the “new middle class,” comprised of knowledge workers in professions such as medicine, education, and the civil service. 84 This is significant because this new middle class represented a major part of the expanding urban readership to which high-brow writers, and in turn publishers, would appeal. Studying the Key Members The core of the Mokuyōkai membership consisted of three central figures – Komiya, 82 Jeffrey E. Hanes, The City as Subject: Seki Hajime and the Reinvention of Modern Osaka (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 34. The “new generation” was a term coined by Kenneth Pyle in his landmark study, The New Generation in Meiji Japan: Problems of Cultural Identity, 1885-1895 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969). 83 Long after professionalization and the expansion of universities increasingly divided intellectuals into more and more specialized subsets, various intellectual circles enabled networking among, and across, factions. It might be said that inter-disciplinary consciousness was a reality of late Meiji intellectual life rather than an ideal for which to strive. 84 David Ambras, “Social Knowledge, Cultural Capital, and the New Middle Class in Japan, 1895-1912,” Journal of Japanese Studies 24.1 (Winter 1998): 1-33. 140 Suzuki, and Morita, the pillars of the group in the most immediate orbit around Sōseki – and the rest of the inner circle. 85 Komiya Toyotaka, the first of the pillars, was born in a village in Fukuoka Prefecture which is now part of Miyako-gun. At the First Higher School his classmates included Iwanami and Abe Yoshishige, as well as the haiku poet Ozaki Hideo (尾崎秀雄, 1885-1926). 86 Another of his classmates was Fujimura Misao (藤村操, 1886-1903), the young poet who, traumatized by being rejected by his beloved, simultaneously shocked and inspired his romantic contemporaries in late Meiji by carving a farewell poem into a tree at Kegon Falls before jumping to his death on 22 May, 1903. 87 Not long after he entered the German Department in the Faculty of Letters at Todai in 1905, Komiya became acquainted with Sōseki and became one of his first disciples, soon to become the master’s favorite. 88 He is popularly 85 Several of the monkasei, especially prime disciple Komiya, wrote accounts of Sōseki including their relationships with him. In addition to the aforementioned sources on the Mokuyōkai itself, also see Abe Yoshishige, Komiya Toyotaka, Watsuji Tetsurō and Uchida Hyakken, 「漱石をめぐって（座談会）」 “Sōseki wo megutte (sōdankai)” 『新潮』 Shinchō 48.7 (June 1951): 164-174; and for some of their correspondence see 小山文雄 Koyama Fumio, ed., 『漱石先生からの手紙――寅彦・豊隆・三重吉』Sōseki-sensei kara no Tegami: Torahiko, Toyotaka, Miekichi (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2006). 86 Ozaki is better known by his penname, 尾崎放哉 Ozaki Hōsai. 87 The woman in question, one Kikuchi Tamiko, chose instead Minobe Tatsukichi, whom Sōseki had briefly known while in London. Sōseki had also known Fujimura himself, who had been a former student of his. Sōseki’s 『草枕』 Kusamakura (grass pillow), which relates the retreat of an artist, contains a section celebrating Fujimura’s death as noble and beautiful, a sentiment shared by numerous writers at the time. Fujimura’s suicide could be contextualized as part of a literary trope celebrating romantic death that echoed the suicide craze associated with Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers in late eighteenth-century Europe. For Kusamakura, see Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 3 (1994), 1-171, and in English see Meredith McKinney, trans., Kusamakura (New York: Penguin Books, 2008). 88 There was little doubt among the monkasei themselves that Komiya was the favorite, and while they joked about who the master loved best they admitted the answer was a foregone 141 believed to have been the model for the titular protagonist of Sanshirō, a new Todai student fresh from the countryside who records his address in the novel as a village in Miyako, Fukuoka. 89 The relationship between Sōseki and Komiya was particularly close. In a 1911 letter to a former student, the literary scholar and prominent Nō critic Sakamoto Secchō (坂元雪鳥, 1879-1938), Sōseki stressed that he and Komiya were completely frank with one another, and that Komiya did not hide even his idiotic aspects from his mentor. 90 As mentioned above, Komiya saw Sōseki as a father figure and at one point in late 1906 went so far as to bring this up in a letter and ask his mentor to “be a father” to him (he likely desired to be able to call Sōseki “father,” but whether he hoped to go so far as to institutionalize the relationship in some way is conclusion. The most well-known account is that of Morita Sōhei, Natsume Sōseki (1942), op. cit., which contains a chapter entitled “Who Was the Most Loved?” (Dare ga Ichiban Aisareteita no ka), on this very point (104-108). Morita states that if he were asked which of the top three (Komiya, Suzuki, and himself) were most loved, “I want to answer without reservation, ‘It is Komiya,’” (111). Natsume Shinroku suggests that Komiya was devoted to Sōseki personally, and that Sōseki likely harbored affection for those who instinctively loved him as a person rather than as just a mentor or idealized figure. He also suggests this is why Sōseki got along so well with his old friend Nakamura Yoshikoto, who knew him in the UK and liked him for who he was rather than because of his image or reputation (夏目伸六 Natsume Shinroku,『父・夏目漱石』 Chichi Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1956), 54-55). For an alternative perspective, however, see Handa Atsuko, who singles out Suzuki for a particularly special relationship among the top three disciples and suggests that Suzuki and Sōseki enjoyed a form of romantic relationship hinting at bisexuality (104-106). 89 See 『三四郎』Sanshirō, in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 5 (1994), 271-608, and in English see Jay Rubin, trans., Sanshirō: A Novel (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1977). On the portrayal of Komiya as Sanshirō, see especially 中野記諱 Nakano Kii 「郷土の人・小宮豊隆」 “Kyōdo no Hito: Komiya Toyotaka”『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 65-73. Nakano notes that Komiya’s school in Fukuoka erected a monument on the centennial of his birth in a park on its grounds now called “Sanshirō no Mori” (72). 90 Letter to Sakamoto Secchō, February 24, 1911, in Miyoshi, op. cit., 241-242. Nakano (71) states that Komiya and Sōseki enjoyed ishin denshin (以心伝心, an intuitive, unspoken mutual understanding). 142 unclear). Sōseki’s reply is extant and contains the following: …I don’t mind if you regard me as your father, but if I think I have such an old son I won’t be able to kick up a fuss. 91 No matter how I may look, I am still young. Because I am still quite young, I am not suitable for a father, or an older brother. It is better to be your sensei, and your friend. 92 One cannot avoid the perception that Sōseki turns down Komiya’s affection here because it simply makes him feel old. At other times he would get annoyed at Komiya constantly reporting on everything he was up to, including details Sōseki protested that he simply did not need to know, as evidenced by this rather curt letter: 13 December, 1910 [Greeting] You do not need to let me know with whom you were drinking or with what geisha you were playing around. Furthermore, you do not need to write how you feel after everything, like if you are feeling sad or feeling sorry. I am just a regular person. I prefer people who write about everything in the usual way in their letters. 93 Komiya clearly had a tendency to relay to his mentor every detail of his day-to-day life; he also continually relied on Sōseki for advice and asked him to check many things he had written, which was another thing Sōseki occasionally found bothersome and complained about. 94 If he 91 That is to say, Sōseki implies that he wants to live in a spirited way and if he feels he has an adult son to care for he will be burdened by a great sense of responsibility and therefore be unable to pursue his desired lifestyle. 92 Letter to Komiya Toyotaka, December 22, 1906, in Miyoshi, op. cit., 188-190; 189. The original letter was one of a collection of materials (some 440 items including 120 pieces of correspondence with Sōseki) donated to Komiya’s hometown by his descendant in 2013 (see 「夏目漱石:門下生遺族書簡１２０点寄贈福岡県みやこ町」 “Natsume Sōseki: Monkasei Izoku Shokan 120-ten Kizō Fukuoka-ken Miyako-machi,” Mainichi Shinbun, May 2, 2013, <http://mainichi.jp/select/news/20130502k0000m040144000c.html>. 93 Letter to Komiya Toyotaka, December 13, 1910, in Miyoshi, op. cit., 235. 94 See, for instance, letter to Komiya Toyotaka, December 21, 1908, in Miyoshi, op. cit., 206-208. 143 realized, or feared, that he had hurt his disciple’s feelings, however, Sōseki would also fire off follow-up letters softening his remarks and indicating that he had not meant to cause hurt. 95 Komiya went on to teach German literature at several institutions and also run Tohoku University’s library, for which he was able to acquire a substantial collection of Sōseki materials. While recognized as a scholar of German literature in his own right, Komiya remained known throughout his life first and foremost as Sōseki’s chief disciple. In addition to producing his own 1938 landmark study of Sōseki, his status as foremost among the monkasei and his expertise on German literary criticism and scholarly editing led Iwanami to recruit him to edit the Sōseki Zenshū, as is discussed in Chapter Six. 96 Second among the three principals was Suzuki Miekichi, who, as mentioned above, was first responsible for suggesting the group meet on Thursdays. 97 Born in Hiroshima in 1882, he 95 This phenomenon occasionally applied to correspondence with other monkasei as well, although at other times Sōseki would appear clueless that his words had hurt their feelings. 96 For Komiya’s study, see his Natsume Sōseki, op. cit. Also see Komiya’s excerpts from his own diary, 「明治四十一年の日記から」“Meiji yon-jū-ichi-nen no Nikki kara,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 391-410, and 「日記の中から（明治四十二年）」“Nikki no naka kara ‘Meiji yon-jū-ni-nen,’” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 411-423, in which, naturally, Sōseki features heavily. More than any other monkasei, Komiya depended upon Sōseki for legitimacy and worked to cultivate his status as Sōseki’s heir. To some extent this was successful – he remains known as the foremost disciple – but on the other hand, his writings on topics unrelated to Sōseki have been largely forgotten. 97 For Suzuki’s collected works, see 鈴木三重吉 Suzuki Miekichi,『鈴木三重吉全集』Suzuki Miekichi Zenshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1938), 6 vols. On Suzuki, see 津田青楓 Tsuda Seifū, 『寅彥と三重吉』Torahiko to Miekichi (Tokyo: Man’yō Shuppansha, 1947), 根本正義 Nemoto Masayoshi, 『鈴木三重吉の研究』Suzuki Miekichi no Kenkyū (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 1978), and 半田淳子 Handa Atsuko, 『永遠の童話作家鈴木三重吉』Eien no Dōwa-sakka Suzuki Miekichi (Tokyo: Kōbundō Shuppansha, 1998). 144 studied English literature at Todai and encountered those who would become the other key disciples around that time. Suzuki was strongly influenced by Sōseki’s writing, particularly the romantic qualities of Sōseki’s early novels. This romanticism would continue to motivate Suzuki long after Sōseki had moved onto bleaker works in later life. In early 1906 Suzuki sent Sōseki his maiden work, Chidori (千鳥, The Plover), which he had written while recuperating from illness in his hometown. On the strength of the Sōseki’s recommendation to Takahama Kyoshi it was published in Hototogisu. With the onset of autumn he returned to Tokyo to resume his studies, and immediately became established as a prominent monkasei. Deeply devoted to Sōseki, he sent his mentor an enormous number of letters, many of them lengthy and affectionate or even passionate. 98 Suzuki continued to write fiction, with several more works appearing in Hototogisu. However, he came to take a particular interest in children’s literature, which had been evolving since the mid-Meiji period, transitioning from retold folktales and stories used for moral instruction to a multi-varied form of original literature in its own right. 99 In the Taishō era, prominent fiction writers increasingly dabbled in children’s literature, taking it in imaginative 98 On Suzuki’s letters, see Handa, “Dare ga Ichiban Aisareteita ka,” 104-106. Many of the disciples sent Sōseki moving letters discussing their feelings for him, but Handa is correct that Suzuki may have been unrivalled in the number of letters and the extent of romantic sentiment expressed for his mentor therein. 99 On the development of modern Japanese children’s literature, see Joan E. Ericson, “Introduction,” to Yukie Ohta, trans., A Rainbow in the Desert: An Anthology of Early Twentieth-Century Japanese Children’ s Literature (New York: M. E. Sharpe, 2001), vii-xv. 145 and innovative directions. Suzuki’s major contribution was to start the magazine Akai Tori (赤い鳥, Red Bird) in July 1918, a magazine for children that would run until August 1936 and earn him the sobriquet of “the grandfather of Japanese children’s literature.” This was a high-brow effort involving major writers, designed to act as a foil for the popular children’s literature of the day which Suzuki disliked as both amateurish and lacking in taste. Suzuki’s success as a novelist as well as an enabler of other writers of children’s literature enabled him to gain recognition himself and step out from Sōseki’s shadow. Of the three top disciples he seems to have been the least inclined towards representing himself as a guardian of the master’s legacy while simultaneously depending the least on his status as a monkasei. The third of the three major pillars was Morita Sōhei. 100 Hailing from a village in Katagata-gun, Gifu Prefecture, Morita was something of a problem child. As a young adolescent he gained a reputation for being preoccupied with girls, and was expelled from the Fourth Higher School after he was found to be cohabiting with a lover (later to become his wife, Tsune). He 100 There is currently no set of Morita’s collected works; an attempt was made by Rironsha in 1956 to produce a six-volume selected edition (『森田草平選集』Morita Sōhei Senshū) but this was halted after just publishing three of the volumes (1, 4 and 5). Scholarship on Morita includes a series by 根岸正純 Negishi Masazumi in 「岐阜大学教養部研究報告」 Gifu Daigaku Kyōyō-bu Kenkyū Hōkoku, namely 「初期の森田草平」“Shoki no Morita Sōhei” in 4 (Mar. 1969): 86-100,「大正期の森田草平」 “Taishō-ki no Morita Sōhei” in 7 (Dec. 1971): 14-47, and 「昭和期の森田草平」 “Shōwa no Morita Sōhei” in 11 (Dec. 1975): 277-300, and 森崎憲司 Morisaki Kenji, 『森田草平の歩んだ道』 Morita Sōhei no Ayunda Michi (Gifu: Gifu Shinbunsha, 2007). On Morita and Sōseki, see 関川夏央 Sekikawa Natsuo, 「森田草平――漱石を刺激するという「役割」」 “Morita Sōhei: Sōseki wo Shigekisuru toiu ‘Yakuwari’” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 74-79. 146 subsequently enrolled in the First Higher School instead. Like Suzuki, Morita studied English literature at the university. He also enjoyed reading Russian novels in English translation. However, upon returning to Gifu after graduating in 1906 he encountered Sōseki’s writings and was so impressed, particularly by Kusamakura, that he left behind his wife and child and proceeded back to Tokyo to seek out the master. 101 He was able to gain an introduction through Yosano Tekkan, who subsequently, along with Sōseki, helped Morita obtain work as a teacher to sustain himself. Like Komiya and Suzuki, Morita was deeply devoted to Sōseki and trusted him with his deepest secrets, often writing confessional letters that impressed Sōseki while also leaving him feeling somewhat uncomfortable, as the following reply from him to one such missive in October 1906 indicates: […] I read your letter with heartfelt sympathy, and tore it up with my full sympathy. It is only Natsume Kinnosuke, to whom the letter was addressed, who saw it. Your aim was achieved, and nothing else will come of it. I hope you accept my sympathy with relief. Among those I know, there are two or three people in the same situation as you. Rather, I hear they are in the same situation. However, they all succeeded in their own way. If you too achieve success in your own way, can you forget about this misfortune? I am deeply pleased that you have confessed this to me. I am pleased by your sincere heart, thinking so highly of me. At the same time, I curse the causes (if any) that have troubled your heart to 101 Although the scholarly consensus, based on the letters and accounts of the various monkasei, follows a 1906 date and the impact of Kusamakura, Morita himself stated that he did not clearly remember when he became a monkasei but felt it was around 1905 (Natsume Sōseki (1942), 90). This is a curious error given that he presumably remembered the year of his graduation, and it has been speculated that he (consciously or otherwise) back-dated the development to correspond to the height of Neko’s popularity. See, for example, Matsuoka Yuzuru’s afterward to the 1967 Chikuma Shobō edition of Morita’s Natsume Sōseki (“Kaisetsu,” 210). 147 the extent that you have confessed this to me. And at the same time I feel sad that your spirit has weakened to the point that you have no choice but to confess to me…. 102 In writing confessional letters to Sōseki, Morita differed little from Komiya, and even more so Suzuki with his emotional epistles. Yet whereas Suzuki harbored a deep but gentle romantic sentiment, usually limited to letters and conversation, Morita was openly flamboyant and melodramatic, which irked Sōseki from time to time. At times this tendency of Morita’s nearly led to disaster and sucked in his mentor. The most infamous case of this occurred when Morita, passionate and headstrong, pursued a relationship with the aforementioned, and controversial, Hiratsuka Raichō. Raichō had been a member of the Keishū Literary Society (閨秀文学会), a literature study group for women founded in June 1907 by Ikuta Chōkō (生田長江, 1882-1936), her literature teacher at Seibi Women’s English Academy (成美女子英語学校). 103 Morita, a friend of Ikuta’s since their First Higher School days, helped Ikuta with the group and they, along with Yosano Akiko (与謝野晶子, 1878-1942), gave lectures to the students. 104 He found Raichō, with her sharp wit and rebellious attitude, attractive, while she found him charming and interesting. His attempts to impress her with grandiose statements and romantic gestures, however, struck her as 102 Letter to Morita Sōhei, October 22, 1906, in Miyoshi, 170-172. The content of Morita’s confession relates to the circumstances surrounding his birth. 103 Hiratsuka, 100. Ikuta was known for his translations of foreign literature. 104 Akiko was Tekkan’s second wife. Today she is far more well-known than is her husband. See Laurel Rasplica Rodd, “Yosano Akiko and the Taishō Debate over the “New Woman”,” in Gail Lee Bernstein, ed., Recreating Japanese Women, 1600-1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 175-198. 148 awkward at best and hilarious at worst; she describes his attempts to seduce her as clumsy and amusing. 105 She was bothered by his tendency to not keep his word, and how he “exaggerated his claims as a writer and artist.” 106 While one should be wary of taking Raichō’s account of her former lover at face value, there is in all likelihood an element of truth in her portrayal of Morita as a man given to grandiosity, seeking to impress people with melodramatic statements and behavior. Perhaps in his attention-seeking and lack of empathy for others Morita took after his mentor more than he realized. The relationship took a turn for the bizarre when Morita sent Raichō a letter expressing the following, as she recalled: Women, he wrote, were the most beautiful at the moment of death, and for this reason, he intended to kill me. As an artist and a disciple of Beauty, he was determined to see me, the fairest of all, in my last moments. His letter read like a student exercise in composition, but I was nevertheless taken aback. 107 Having sent his wife away, Morita enjoyed the company of other women while continuing to send Raichō letters fantasizing about killing her and fetishizing her beautiful death, a notion she found simultaneously disturbing and exciting. In one such letter, Morita wrote, When it comes to you, I think I am capable of murder. This is because I have no way of expressing my love for you aside from killing you. I shall kill you. But I myself will not die. I am an artist, a writer. I must see for myself what happens to me, study my psychological state after I commit the act. And so I intend to escape, escape as far as I can. 108 105 Ibid., 105-107. 106 Ibid., 127. 107 Ibid., 109. 108 Ibid., 111. 149 Examining Morita’s character through Raichō’s account reveals three things. First, he strongly identified himself with social category types (artist, writer) and employed these to justify even pathological behavior. Second, he adored the idea of a beautiful romantic death and yearned to experience this, but only at no risk to himself. Finally, he was extremely self-obsessed, desiring to kill someone so that he could experience (enjoy?) the feeling of doing so and then reflect upon it thereafter. What Raichō wanted, or even how she felt about this, was not a matter he even raised for consideration. One could contrast Morita’s sentiment with the more typical late Meiji/Taishō romantic and self-destructive tendencies exemplified by Fujimura’s suicide discussed earlier: whereas Fujimura’s doomed love led him to experience such suffering that living became unbearable, Morita indulged in murderous fantasies predicated on the notion that women were most beautiful when they died and therefore killing one would be an unsurmountable experience. Because the attempted murder fantasy was considered too shocking, after the fact Morita and Raichō were encouraged to report what occurred as an attempted love suicide instead, a view that still predominates in popular consciousness today. The conflation of Morita and Raichō with Fujimura is therefore understandable, but unjustified. On 21 March, 1908, the couple set about climbing a mountain in Shiobara, Tochigi, to carry out the bizarre murder ritual, but things did not go according to plan. According to Raichō, Morita became exhausted, lost his nerve, and soon became a complete emotional wreck. He 150 disgusted her by throwing away the would-be murder weapon and collapsing in tears, prompting her to drag him along and keep them alive until they were rescued. 109 Sōseki had figured out what was going on and had called the police. 110 Having helped rescue his disturbed disciple, Sōseki then had to deal with Morita hiding out at his house, leaving his mentor to deal with Raichō’s angry parents and attempt to save face for all involved. In addition to trying to placate Raichō’s family and fend off reporters, Sōseki carefully took two steps to try and salvage his disciple’s career. First, he put an article in the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun just five days after the incident in an attempt to establish a “correct” (and more socially palatable) account of what had happened and calm the rumor mill. 111 Second, he set about convincing Raichō’s father to permit Morita – who had lost his job due to the scandal – to write a novel about the incident, a proposal that was grudgingly accepted, perhaps because both men had 109 Ibid., 116. “Curled up on the snow, Morita kept wailing about how he was a spineless coward, and how he was going to die in a ditch like a beggar as soon as he ran out of money. What had happened to the “artist,” who had vowed “to live out my days in a lone cell in a snowbound Sakhalin jail, observing the changes in myself”?” 110 Raichō had left a note for her parents indicating she was going to die, but did not say where, or with whom, she was going. Morita had mailed a postcard to Sōseki from Tabata on the previous night, however, indicating he was taking a sudden trip and his mentor suspected something was afoot with Raichō. The police were thus able to track the couple’s movements and carry out a search without delay. Raichō suggests that she soon figured most of this out for herself (117). 111 Sōseki, 「森田草平・平塚明子の失踪事件について」 “Morita Sōhei & Hiratsuka Raichō no Shisō Jiken ni tsuite,” 『東京朝日新聞』Tōkyō Asahi Shinbun, 26 March, 1908. Reprinted in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 25 (1996), 252. “明子” was an alternate form of Raichō’s given name Haru, but has customarily been read as “Raichō.” 151 formerly been instructors at the First Higher School together. 112 Morita’s fictional account, entitled Baien (煤煙, Sooty Smoke), was published in the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun from January 1 to May 16, 1909, thanks to Sōseki, who also provided an introduction for the work. 113 The plot revolves around Morita’s alter ego Yōkichi’s pursuit of Raichō’s, Tomoko, who responds coolly to his advances and is unable to return his passion. Feeling manipulated by her but unable to obtain the satisfaction of her love, he concocts a dual suicide whereby he will cause the couple to plunge off a cliff, but when the time comes he turns back from the edge and declares he will embrace life instead. 114 Raichō was unhappy with the novel, feeling that it only told – and idealized – Morita’s perspective, although she had no objection to him writing it: “I had not opposed his writing of this work and was well aware that he had never loved or understood me.” 115 Sōseki was not very impressed with the novel either, but he was even less impressed by the behavior of the couple in the first place, telling Morita soon after the incident “I cannot help 112 Raichō acknowledged this but asserted that the men were not friends, for “since Sōseki was a known eccentric and seldom spoke to anyone on the staff, they had never exchanged a word” (120). 113 The title was likely a reference to Ivan Turgenev’s Дым (Smoke, 1867). The novel concerns a doomed relationship in a resort town, while the title is a reference to the ephemeral and ultimately empty nature of things. Ikuho Amano argues that Morita’s Baien was strongly influenced by the Italian Decadent writer Gabriele D’Annunzio (Decadent Literature in Twentieth-Century Japan: Spectacles of Idle Labor (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013), 59-61). Morita would have known of D’Annunzio’s work through the translations done by people like his friend Ikuta. Amano makes several factual errors, such as stating that the work was published in the Tokyo Mainichi Shinbun (62). 114 Morita, 『煤煙』Baien (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1932), via Diet Library Digital Collection, <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/1118109>. 115 Raichō, 132. 152 but think that what the two of you did was in no way love but ultimately just playing,” and describing Raichō as an “unconscious hypocrite” – an English term that, he explained, meant not that she was a deceiver, but rather that she was subconsciously trying to be someone else. 116 Morita’s portrayal of the incident in Baien may have been self-serving, but the work did save him from social ostracism and establish him as an influential writer in his own right. It was still scandalous, however, and Sōseki needed to fight against attempts to censor the book edition in late 1909. 117 Due to the influence of Morita’s novel, the incident on the mountain came to be called “Baien Jiken” as well as “Shiobara Jiken.” Morita’s fanciful version became well-known, its greatest misrepresentation – that what had occurred was an attempted double suicide – becoming accepted as historical reality even by numerous literary scholars. 118 Morita went on to become a significant figure in the literary scene, and like Komiya was the author of an influential study of Sōseki. 119 The rest of the inner circle of the Mokuyōkai was an similarly varied group of young 116 Sekikawa, 78. Sōseki later used the same expression in reference to Mineko, the heroine of Sanshirō, who has been interpreted as modelled on Felicitas in Hermann Sudermann’s Es War (1894). For instance, see Yiu, 225-226, and Indra Levi, Sirens of the Western Shore: The Westernesque Femme Fatale, Translation, and Vernacular Style in Modern Japanese Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 198. 117 Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals, 135-137. 118 For example, Amano. Shiobara advertises its hot springs by using the story, framing it as romantic, which one imagines Morita would have found insulting and Raichō hilarious. 119 Natsume Sōseki (1942), op. cit. Morita also wrote several more works on Sōseki. He also lost none of his taste for scandalous affairs, such as one with his (married) one-time disciple Morita Tama (森田たま, 1894-1970), a writer and later a postwar politician. 153 intellectuals. Abe Yoshishige born in Ehime, was a prominent figure in the circle and went on to great successes as an educator and public intellectual. 120 Abe met Iwanami Shigeo at school and the two became close; they had much in common and remained lifelong friends. He was thrown out of school at one point when he had difficulty paying tuition, whereupon, like Sōseki, he went to work as a newspaper columnist. 121 After straightening out his education and entering Todai, he met Sōseki, whose work he had already encountered and come to admire. 122 Having studied in Heidelberg, he has been credited with introducing, or at least popularizing, Kantian philosophy in Japan. He was strongly influenced by Rudolf Christoph Eucken (1846-1926), a German idealist (and winner of the 1908 Nobel Prize in Literature) who firmly believed that 120 On Abe Yoshishige, see his autobiography, 『戦後の自叙伝』Sengo no Jijoden (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1959), and 山下一郎 Yamashita Ichirō, 『安倍能成先生―学習院中興の祖』 Abe Yoshishige-sensei: Gakushuin Chūkōnoso (Tokyo: Seikōdō, 2004), as well as the reflections of historian Kamei Takayoshi (亀井高孝 Kamei Takayoshi,「安倍能成君の憶い出」“Abe Yoshishige-kun no Omoide,”『心』Kokoro 25.8 (August 1972): 93-97, and the assessment of source materials by Aoki Ippei (青木一平 Aoki Ippei, 「安倍能成関係史料の全体像」“Abe Yoshishige Kankei Shiryō no Zentaizō,” 『近代史料研究』Kindai Shiryō Kenkyū 9 (2009): 51-67, and 10 (2010): 41-73). On Abe and Sōseki, see in particular 安倍オースタッド玲子 Abe Auestad Reiko,「安倍能成と夏目漱石」 “Abe Yoshishige to Natsume Sōseki,”『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 80-90. There is currently no set of complete works of Abe Yoshishige’s writings, which consist of numerous volumes on thought, education, and society, and a large body of essays on similar topics. Despite his prominence in the early postwar era, Abe Yoshishige has tended to be neglected by English-language scholarship. For example, despite dedicating a significant portion of his monograph to covering the monkasei, Marcus mentions him but once (and Iwanami Shigeo not at all). 121 Abe worked for the Tokyo Shinbun, Tokutomi Sohō’s paper. He was given the exercise beat, which was unfortunate since he had little enthusiasm for sports and exercise. 122 Abe Yoshishige’s writings on Sōseki include安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige,「人間としての漱石」“Ningen toshite no Sōseki,” 『展望』Tenbō 62 (1951.2): 20-34, and「若き日の讀書」 “Wakakihi no Dokusho”『改造文藝』Kaizō Bungei 1.6 (1949.12): 38-45, the latter being a reflection on the various books, including Sōseki’s, that he read in his youth. 154 intellectuals had a responsibility to engage with society, an ideal Abe was to follow all his life. 123 Abe spent his career as an educator, serving both as a teacher and school administrator. In this capacity, he often drew upon Sōseki and other members of the Mokuyōkai. For instance, he recruited Sōseki to give a talk at the First Higher School on December 12, 1913. 124 He also expanded beyond this network – his numerous influential acquaintances included, for example, the philosopher Nishida Kitarō, alongside whom he had studied philosophy under Professor Koeber. He was also connected to a degree to Shiki’s network, having studied Chinese classics under Shiki’s maternal grandfather and become close to the family. Abe was a professor at Keijo Imperial University in Seoul from 1926 to 1940, whereupon he became the President of the First Higher School. He entered the House of Peers after the war, and reached the height of his political success as the Minister of Education in the short-lived Shidehara government. He then was appointed rector of the Gakushuin Peers’ School, founded the university of the same name in 1949 (the current Gakushuin), and served as its president, while continuing to publish a wide range of articles on education, philosophy, and social issues. 125 He retained firm links with the 123 Eucken held that intellectuals needed to address social issues and work for change through what he termed Aktivismus, or ethical activism. 124 Sōseki was introduced to the crowd by a Hayami (速水), presumably Hayami Hiroshi (速水滉, 1876-1943), and Sōseki stated during his talk that both Abe and Hayami used to be his students. For the text of the speech, see Sōseki, 「模倣と独立」 “Mohō to Dokuritsu,” in Miyoshi, ed., Sōseki Bunmei ronshū, 139-175, also available at <http://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000148/files/1747_14970.html>. 125 Abe often published after the war in the journal 『心』Kokoro. Published by Heibonsha beginning in 1948, it was a literary/intellectual journal carrying numerous pieces of commentary, 155 other Monkasei in the postwar era, recruiting Komiya to be a dean at Gakushuin in 1950, for example. Abe Jirō was born in Kamigō Village (now Sakata City) in Akumi-gun, Yamagata Prefecture. 126 In 1901 he entered the First Higher School, and became friends with Iwanami Shigeo. In 1907 he entered Todai where he studied philosophy under Professor Koeber, as was the case with many other disciples and previously, of course, Sōseki himself. There, he became and often featured leading intellectuals like, in addition to Abe, Komiya, Mushanokōji Saneatsu, and Naka Kansuke. Examples of pieces by Abe in the journal include「平和を念願する一人として」“Heiwa wo Nengansuru Hitori toshite,” 『心』Kokoro 9.4 (April 1956): 2-10, and 「文化の滲透」“Bunka no Shintō,” in two parts (Kokoro 3.11 (Nov. 1950): 1-5, and 3.12 (Dec. 1950): 7-11). When the current Tennō was at Gakushuin while crown prince, he missed many classes due to trips around Asia, which enabled a professor critical of the royal institution to argue the crown prince should be held back and forced to repeat the year. This became something of a controversy which Abe himself had to resolve by enabling the crown prince to proceed, but only as an auditor: consequently, the Tennō does not actually formally hold a Gakushuin degree (see Kenneth J. Ruoff, The People’s Emperor: Democracy and the Japanese Monarchy, 1945–1995 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2001), 218). 126 For Abe Jirō’s collected works, see 阿部次郎 Abe Jirō, 『阿部次郎全集』Abe Jirō Zenshū (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1960-1966), 17 vols. In addition to his novels, Abe wrote on numerous topics, including producing a full-length study of art and society in the Edo period. On Abe, see the work by his daughter Ōhira Chieko (大平千枝子, 1920-2007), including 『父阿部次郎――愛と死』Chichi Abe Jirō: Ai to Shi (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1961), and『阿部次郎とその家族――愛はかなしみを超えて』 Abe Jirō to sono Kazoku: Ai wa Kanashimi wo Koete (Sendai: Tōhoku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2004), as well as青木生子 Aoki Takako, 原田夏子 Harada Natsuko, 岩淵宏子 Iwabuchi Hiroko, comps., 『阿部次郎をめぐる手紙』 Abe Jirō wo meguru Tegami (Tokyo: Kanrin Shobō, 2010), and 竹内洋 Takeuchi Yō,『教養派知識人の運命――阿部次郎とその時代』Kyōyō-ha Chishikijin no Unmei: Abe Jirō to sono Jidai (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 2018). On Abe and Soseki, see Abe Jirō, “Natsume-sensei no Danwa,” op. cit., and 佐藤伸宏 Satō Nobuhiro, 「阿部次郎に於ける漱石」“Abe Jirō ni okeru Sōseki,”『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 91-99. In English, see Piovesana, op. cit., 70-73, and Hijikata Teiichi, “On the Aesthetics of Abe Jirō,” in Michael F. Marra, trans. and ed., A History of Modern Japanese Aesthetics (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001), 197-203. 156 friends with Abe Yoshishige, Komiya, and several of the other individuals who would join the Mokuyōkai, including the philosopher Watsuji Tetsurō (和辻哲郎, 1889-1960), with whom he would eventually have a falling out, as well as other individuals such as future political theorist Yoshino Sakuzō (吉野作造, 1878-1933). While Sōseki was teaching at the time, Abe was unable to attend his classes but encountered him by chance. 127 The two did not meet properly until after Abe had already graduated, when along with some other people he visited Sōseki’s home to ask the writer to give a presentation at a meeting on aesthetics – he was surprised, and pleased, that Sōseki remembered him. 128 Although the two grew closer from the end of 1909, even after joining the Mokuyōkai Abe always remained somewhat more aloof from Sōseki and the more elite monkasei. He was especially sensitive to criticism, a point he readily admitted, and tended to take everything his mentor said as critical – often leading to embarrassment when others explained what Sōseki was driving at and how criticism had not been intended. 129 He was particularly hurt when on one occasion Sōseki, having arranged for Abe to publish a piece in the Asahi, edited it for him without asking – which befuddled Sōseki, who often did this for his 127 Abe later recalled his first meeting with Sōseki. He was unable to attend Sōseki’s lectures because they overlapped with his classes in the Department of Philosophy, but on one occasion when his regular class was cancelled he was able to sit in and hear Sōseki discuss Hamlet. He had originally come to the lecture not because he was interested in the content per se, but because his next class was in the same classroom. On his way out, Sōseki randomly asked Abe for the location of another classroom (“Natsume-sensei no Danwa,” 355). 128 Ibid., 355-356. 129 Ibid., 356-357. 157 disciples and failed to see what the problem was. 130 As discussed above regarding the relationship among members of the Mokuyōkai, Abe clearly had different expectations than his mentor or fellow monkasei. Abe Jirō’s interests lay primarily in aesthetics; he became the first chair of the Department of Aesthetics at Tohoku University when it was established in 1921, and continued teaching there after a sojourn in Europe during 1922. As a public intellectual he gave lectures to groups such as the Mantetsu thinkers (researchers connected to the Manchurian Southern Railway), and as a researcher dedicated to Japanese aesthetics and culture he founded the Abe Nihon Bunka Kenkyūjo in Sendai in 1954. 131 The site is now owned by the Faculty of Arts and Letters of Tohoku University, which runs an Abe Jirō Memorial Museum there and offers a prize in his name. 132 Abe, however, also had a more profound and direct impact on Japanese culture during the Taishō-era Kyōyōshugi self-cultivation movement, through his work Santarō no Nikki, which became one of the defining literary works of the era. 133 130 Ibid. 131 On Abe and Mantetsu, see 中山弘明 Nakayama Hiroaki,「満鉄の阿部次郎――第一次大戦・企業・教養」 “Mantetsu no Abe Jirō: Dai-ichiji Taisen, Kigyō, Kyōyō,” 『日本文学』 Nihon Bungaku 53.9 (Sep. 2004): 1-11, and on Abe’s work on Japanese classics, see, for instance, 古川久 Furukawa Hisashi,「阿部次郎の古典研究」 “Abe Jirō no Koten Kenkyū,”『東京女子大學附屬比較文化研究所紀要』 Tōkyō Joshi Daigaku Fuzoku Hikaku Bunka Kenkyūjo Kiyō 23 (June 1967): 1-14; 24 (November 1967): 1-15; and 25 (June 1968): 1-18. 132 There is also an Abe Jirō Memorial Museum in his hometown, Yamadera in present-day Sakata City. 133 阿部次郎 Abe Jirō,『三太郎の日記』Santarō no Nikki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1918). On the significance of the work in debates at the time, see 小室弘毅 Komuro Hiroki,「阿部次郎 158 Nogami Toyoichirō, like Yosano Tekkan, was a significant intellectual ultimately overshadowed by his wife, the major novelist and poet Nogami Yaeko (野上弥生子 , 1885-1985). 134 Born in Usuki in Ōita Prefecture, from whence also hailed his future wife, he joined the English Department at Todai alongside Abe Yoshishige and Iwanami, and joined the Mokuyōkai around the same time. 135 Nogami capped a long career at Hōsei University with a deanship, and took advantage of his position to invite some of his fellow monkasei, like Morita, 『三太郎の日記』における教養の問題――唐木順三の教養派批判の再検討」“Abe Jirō Santarō no Nikki ni okeru Kyōyō no Mondai: Karaki Junzō no Kyōyō-ha Hihan no Saikentō,” 『東京大学大学院教育学研究科紀要』 Tōkyō Daigaku Daigakuin Kyōikugaku Kenkyūka Kiyō 40 (2000): 17-26. On Abe’s life and thought, see 上山春平 Ueyama Shunpei, 「阿部次郎の思想史的位置――大正教養主義の検討」 “Abe Jirō no Shisōshiteki Ichi: Kyōyōshugi no Kentō,” 『思想』 Shisō 429 (March 1960): 99-109, 峰島旭雄 Mineshima Hideo,「大正期における倫理・宗教思想の展開（5）――阿部次郎の人格主義」 “Taishō-ki ni okeru Ronri, Shūkyō Shisō no Tenkai 5: Abe Jirō no Jinkakushugi,” 『早稲田商学』 Waseda Shōgaku 265 (July 1977): 29-51, Ōhira Chieko, Abe Jirō to sono Kazoku, op. cit., and Takeuchi Yō, Kyōyōha Chishikijin no Unmei, op. cit. For more on Kyōyōshugi, see, for example, 筒井清忠 Tsutsui Kiyotada,「近・現代日本における教養主義の成立と展開」“Kin/Gendai Nihon ni okeru Kyōyōshugi no Seiritsu to Tenkai,” 『社会科学研究』 Shakaikagaku Kenkyū 20.1 (January 2000): 1-20, and Takeuchi, Kyōyōshugi no Botsuraku, op. cit. 134 For a comprehensive list of Nogami’s work, see 関栄司 Seki Eiji, 「野上豊一郎博士著作目録」“Nogami Toyoichirō-hakushi Chosaku Mokuroku,” in 伊海孝充 Ikai Takamitsu, ed., 『能楽研究叢書４――野上豊一郎の能楽研究』 Nōgaku Kenkyū Sōsho, Vol. 4: Nogami Toyoichirō no Nōgaku Kenkyū (Tokyo: Nogami Kinen Hōsei Daigaku Nōgaku Kenkyūjo, 2015), 155-174. For Nogami’s reminiscences about Sōseki, see Nogami, 「大学講師時代の夏目先生」 “Daigaku Kōshi Jidai no Natsume-sensei,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 170-174. On Nogami’s work in general, see 稲垣信子 Inagaki Nobuko, 『野上豊一郎の文学: 漱石の一番弟子として』 Nogami Toyoichirō no Bungaku: Sōseki no Ichiban Deshi toshite (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 2015). 135 The marriage of Toyoichirō and Yaeko was not based on affection; rather, Yaeko indicated later in life that the union was a practical one enabling her to remain in Tokyo rather than return to Kyushu and risk an arranged marriage (Nogami Yaeko, “Tsuma to Haha,” 128, as cited by Eleanor Joan Hogan, “When Art Does not Represent Life: Nogami Yaeko and the Marriage Question,” Women’s Studies 33.4 (2004): 381-398, 384. This occurred about a year after graduation, capping an unusual period wherein Toyoichirō had been introducing her to people as his “sister.” 159 as professors. This decision appears to have ushered in bitter departmental politics and prompted his (brief) resignation in 1933, but eventually, in 1946 he became president of the university. Alongside his intellectual networks, Nogami also had some powerful friends, including statesman, career diplomat and wartime foreign minister Shigemitsu Mamoru (重光葵 , 1887-1957). Like several of the other monkasei, Nogami had varied interests, in his case being a specialist in English literature who also studied traditional Noh plays, which he sought to introduce to Western audiences as well. 136 Today he is best remembered as a trailblazing Noh scholar. Matsune Tōyōjō was one of the few members of Sōseki’s circle who originated in the Tokyo area, having been born in Tsukiji. 137 At school he was a year ahead of Abe Yoshishige, and, unlike many of the monkasei who contacted Sōseki after being inspired by his work or through employing connections, he encountered Sōseki directly when the latter was his haiku 136 His works included, for example, annotated collections of Noh texts and materials such as the six-volume 『解注謡曲全集』 Kaichū Yōkyoku Zenshū (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1935-1936), and English works such as Japanese Noh Plays: How to See Them (Tokyo: Board of Tourist Industry, Japanese Government Railways, 1934). 137 His birthname was Matsune Toyojirō (豊次郎). For Matsune’s collected haiku, see 松根東洋城 Matsune Tōyōjō, 『東洋城全句集』 Tōyōjō Zenkushū (Tokyo: Toyōjō Zenkushū Kankōkai, 1966), and on Matsune in general see Komiya’s reflections (Komiya, 「松根東洋城のこと」 “Matsune Tōyōjō no koto,” 『俳句』Haiku 3.2 (Feb. 1954): 34-37), as well as the December 1964 Matsune Tōyōjō special issue of Haiku (13.12), which includes三輪青舟 Miwa Seishū’s 「人としての松根東洋城先生」“Hito toshite no Matsune Tōyōjō-sensei,” 34-37. On Matsune and Sōseki see Matsune Tōyōjō,「先生と病気と俳句」“Sensei to Byōki to Haiku,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 243-247 and 鈴木章弘 Suzuki Akihiro, 「東洋城の「起源」」 “Tōyōjō no ‘Kigen’,”『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 48-56. 160 teacher. 138 Before participating in the Mokuyōkai, Matsune was already an outlying figure in Masaoka Shiki’s circle, and developed a lifelong love of haiku poetry. In fact, Matsune had been introduced to Shiki by Sōseki, and it was through the support of Shiki’s circle that Matsune was able to have his work published in Hototogisu. He achieved a measure of fame as a result, although he eventually fell out with Takahama there. Matsune joined the Imperial Household Ministry in 1906 and moved through a variety of positions, most prominently shikibukan (式部官, official in charge of ceremonies), until his retirement in 1919. This too contributed to his fame – he was known for having participated in a haiku event with Taishō Tennō in 1914, for instance – and other members of the Mokuyōkai often jokingly called him by his ceremonial title. Convinced that he needed to find his own way in the changing world of haiku, Matsune eventually became an influential modern Japanese poet in his own right and acquired many disciples of his own. Terada Torahiko was born in the same year as Matsune, and also like Matsune was one of the few monkasei born in Tokyo, but he spent most of his childhood in Kōchi. 139 From the start, 138 Later, Matsune was the one who suggested in June 1910 that Sōseki accompany him to Shuzenji to coalesce, and was with his mentor when the latter collapsed there. 139 Terada’s works have conventionally been separated into two broad sets, namely his literary and scientific work. His collected literary works were first published by Iwanami Shoten in 1938 ( 『寺田寅彦全集文学篇』 Terada Torahiko Zenshū: Bungaku-hen, 16 vols), with the 18-volume edition (1985-1987) being produced alongside a corresponding set of his scientific work (『寺田寅彦全集科学篇』 Terada Torahiko Zenshū: Kagaku-hen, 6 vols, 1985). There has also been a complete set (『寺田寅彦全集』Terada Torahiko Zenshū, 30 vols., 1996-1999). 161 Terada was inclined towards the sciences, but like many intellectuals of his era saw no conflict between a life of science and a life of literary pursuits. Again like Matsune, he encountered Sōseki when the writer was his teacher. Terada recalled that in his second year at higher school in Kumamoto he was one of several students sent by a group of his colleagues who, failing their classes, were seeking grade adjustments from teachers. One of the students failing Sōseki’s English class was a distant relative of Terada’s and faced the loss of financial support, but fortunately Terada found Sōseki willing to receive him and hear him out. 140 Afterwards, being aware that Sōseki was a haiku poet, Terada asked about haiku and found Sōseki encouraged his First-hand recollections of Terada include Tsuda Seifū, Torahiko to Miekichi, op. cit., 寺田東一 Terada Azuma’ichi, ed. by 太田文平 Ōta Bunpei,『父・寺田寅彦』 Chichi Terada Torahiko (Tokyo: Kumon Shuppan, 1992), and 中谷宇吉郎 Nakaya Ukichirō『寺田寅彦――わが師の追想』Terada Torahiko: Waga Shi no Tsuisō (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2014; originally published as Terada Torahiko no Tsuisō in 1947). Nakaya (1900-1962), one of Terada’s most successful students, was an influential physicist. An island chain in Antarctica is named after him. On Terada’s life and work, see Ōta Bunpei’s 『寺田寅彦の周辺』 Terada Torahiko no Shūhen (Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1975) and 『寺田寅彦――人と芸術』Terada Torahiko: Hito to Geijutsu (Chiba: Reitaku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2002); also see on Terada’s poetry 宇和川匠助 Uwagawa Shōsuke, 『寺田寅彦の連句の世界』Terada Torahiko no Renku no Sekai (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Shobō, 1983), and on his scientific significance see 池内了 Ikeuchi Satoru, 『寺田寅彦と現代――等身大の科学をもとめて』 Terada Torahiko to Gendai: Tōshindai no Kagaku wo motomete (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobō, 2005) and 小山慶太 Koyama Keita, 『寺田寅彦――漱石、レイリー卿と和魂洋才の物理学』 Terada Torahiko: Sōseki, Reirī-kyō to Wakon Yōsai no Butsurigaku (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronshinsha, 2012). For Terada’s recollections of his relationship with Sōseki, see Terada Torahiko,「夏目漱石先生の追憶」 “Natsume Sōseki-sensei no Tsuioku,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 66-78. The essay was originally published in 1932, and is also available in『寺田寅彦随筆集』Terada Torahiko Zuihitsu-shū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1947-1948), vol. 3. 140 Terada Torahiko, “Natsume Sōseki-sensei no Tsuioku,” 66-67. 162 interest in the form. 141 Before long Terada was a regular presence around Sōseki, as well as a participant in Shiki’s circle, making him one of the earliest disciples. In 1899 Terada entered the Faculty of Science at Todai, where he studied under the pioneering physicist Nagaoka Hantarō (長岡半太郎, 1865-1950). At the same time, he remained close to Sōseki, and Terada was one of the people Sōseki remained in touch with while in the United Kingdom. It is widely-known that the character of the scientist Kangetsu Mizushima from Wagahai wa Neko de aru was modelled on Terada. 142 Takamine Toshio (高嶺俊夫, 1885-1959), another student of Nagaoka’s (and who had also studied English with Sōseki at the higher school), remained a good friend of Terada’s – from around spring 1928 they had lunch together every week and chatted for hours – and observed that Terada had been very close to Sōseki and continued to be inspired by him throughout his life. 143 Terada participated in the Mokuyōkai while juggling his scientific career which saw him complete a doctorate in 1908, also at Todai. He went on to become a professor of physics at the university, and was involved in investigating the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 in this capacity. The disaster inspired him to pursue earthquake studies, a new field at the time. He also trained a 141 Terada’s literary name was Fuyuhiko Yoshimura (吉村冬彦), although he only began to use this around 1922. 142 See, for example, 小山慶太 Koyama Keita,「寺田寅彦と漱石」 “Terada Torahiko to Sōseki,” 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 57-64; 59. 143 Koyama, 58-59. Takamine completed his doctorate in 1916. He became quite well-known in the international scientific community; Niels Bohr visited him in 1937 two years after Terada’s death. 163 large number of scientific researchers. In addition to his research activities, he produced books explaining science to a general audience, as well as works discussing literature or the relationship between science and literature (publishing many such works through Iwanami Shoten). Terada remains one of the more well-known monkasei due to his publicly-recognized status as a pioneering modern scientist. Many of his works remain in print and there are memorial prizes in his honor, as well as a Terada Torahiko Museum in Kōchi. Akagi Kōhei was one of the younger members of the circle, and is less well-known today than the major disciples. 144 Born in Manzai Village, Atetsu-gun in Okayama Prefecture, he studied law at Todai where he encountered Sōseki’s other disciples. A late arrival to the Mokuyōkai, he was a background character in most accounts, but did not want for ambition. Equipped with a suitable literary name from his new mentor, he set out to make his mark as a literary critic. This did not prove particularly successful because Akagi tended toward extremes and lacked subtlety. He created a brief firestorm of controversy in the literary world when, in 1916, he wrote in the Yomiuri Shinbun a withering critique of contemporary love stories and red 144 Akagi’s birthname was Ikezaki Tadataka (池崎忠孝). His personal name has occasionally been misread in the scholarship as Tadayoshi or Chūkō. Japanese literary scholars tend to refer to him consistently as Akagi, while military historians use Ikezaki but usually at least give a nod to his literary name. There is little in the way of dedicated studies of his life or work, but see 澤田次郎 Sawada Jirō,『近代日本人のアメリカ観――日露戦争以後を中心に』Kindai Nihonjin no Amerika-kan: Nichiro Sensō igo wo chūshin ni (Tokyo: Keiō Gijuku Daigaku Shuppankai, 1999), and Naoki Inose, The Century of the Black Ships: Chronicles of War between Japan and America (San Francisco: VIZ Media LLC, 1999). 164 light tales as “self-indulgent literature” (遊蕩文学 yūtō bungaku), and called for their eradication. 145 Although he produced the first biography of Sōseki (1917), his efforts were overshadowed by the other monkasei until in the late 1920s he dramatically changed course. 146 Reverting to using his birth name Ikezaki Tadataka, he began to write about military matters, particularly those pertinent to naval policy and strategy in what he argued was an inevitable conflict with the United States. This shortly evolved into what might be described as war scare writings, replete with a strong flavor of celebrating Japanese discipline and denigrating America as a land of self-indulgent hedonism. 147 Akagi’s books dovetailed with military propaganda and earned him great popularity, as well as a degree of notoriety in the US when some of his work was translated. He eventually channeled his iconoclasm and critical impulses into politics, and was elected to the Lower House three times. Serving under the first cabinet of Konoe Fumimarō 145 赤木桁平 Akagi Kōhei, 「『遊蕩文学』の撲滅」“‘Yūtō Bungaku’ no Bokumetsu,” 『読売新聞』Yomiuri Shinbun, August 6 and 8, 1916. The article is often incorrectly stated as having appeared in the Asahi Shinbun. On the controversy, see 金子佳高 Kaneko Yoshitaka,「遊蕩文学撲滅論争のパラダイム」“Yūtō Bungaku Bokumetsu Ronsō no Paradaimu,” 『文学研究論集』 Bungaku Kenkyū Ronshū (Meiji University) 45 (September 2016): 171-183. 146 赤木桁平 Akagi Kōhei,『夏目漱石』 Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1917). Akagi also wrote a book on the writer and critic Takayama Chogyū (高山樗牛, 1871-1902), 『人及び思想家としての高山樗牛』Hito oyobi Shisōka toshite no Takayama Chogyū (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1918). Takayama had been originally supposed to go to Europe alongside Sōseki, but had turned down the government’s offer due to having developed tuberculosis. 147 See, for instance, 池崎忠孝 Ikezaki Tadataka, 『米國怖るに足らず』Beikoku Osoruru ni Tarazu (Tokyo: Senshinsha, 1929), 『世界を脅威するアメリカニズム』Sekai wo Kyōisuru Amerikanizumu (Tokyo: Tenjinsha, 1930), 『太平洋戦略論』Taiheiyō Senryaku-ron (Tokyo: Senshinsha, 1932), and 『日米戰はば――太平洋戰爭の理論と實際』Nichi-bei Tatakawaba: Taiheiyō Sensō no Riron to Jissai (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1941). 165 (近衛文麿, 1891-1945), he also became close to Kishi Nobusuke, Kido Kōichi, and other influential figures. After the Pacific War he was arrested as a Class A war criminal, likely more as a result of his influential anti-American writings than of his endeavors as a politician. 148 However, he was released from prison early due to poor health. Akagi, always something of a black sheep among the monkasei, remains one of the less-studied, but more controversial, members of the Mokuyōkai. Uchida Hyakken, on the other hand, was much more the sort of individual one would expect to find in an intellectual circle centered on an author, eventually himself becoming a widely-read author who made his mark as a novelist from the prewar through early postwar eras. 149 Born in Okayama City and encountering hardship when the family business went 148 He was one of the 59 individuals arrested under the third list of Class A war criminals, i.e. that issued on December 2, 1945. 149 His birthname was Uchida Eizō (内田榮造); his preferred rendering of the “uchi” when using his penname involved an unusual variant of the inner radical, while the “ken” is at times written today with the more conventional day radical instead of Uchida’s preferred moon radical. For many years the standard set of his works was the 10-volume 『内田百閒全集』Uchida Hyakken Zenshū (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1971-1973), although the late 1980s also witnessed the expanded 33-volume 『新輯内田百閒全集』 Shinshū Uchida Hyakken Zenshū (Tokyo: Fukubu Shoten, 1986-1989). Jissen Joshi Daigaku (実践女子大学) holds a collection of Uchida-related materials. On Hyakken, see 西口徹 Nishiguchi Tetsu and 滑川英達 Namekawa Hidesato, eds., 『総特集内田百閒』 Sōtokushū Uchida Hyakken (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 2003), the Uchida Hyakken volume (42) in the 『新潮日本文学アルバム』 Shinchō Nihon Bungaku Arubamu series (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1993), and the Uchida Hyakken special issue of the literary periodical 『鳩よ!』Hato yo! 114 (May 1993). On Hyakken and Soseki, see Uchida’s Sōseki Sanbō no Ki, op. cit., and 『私の「漱石」と「龍之介」』 Watashi no ‘Sōseki’ to ‘Ryūnosuke’ (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1993, original 1969), as well as内田道雄 Uchida Michio,「夏目漱石と内田百閒」 “Natsume Sōseki to Uchida Hyakken,” 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 110-121. In English, see Rachel DeNitto, Uchida Hyakken: A Critique of Modernity and 166 bankrupt, he joined the Mokuyōkai comparatively late, only meeting Sōseki in 1911 when the latter was convalescing. He soon became acquainted with the other members, and later was especially close to his kōhai Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, who himself became a member not long before Sōseki’s death. 150 Notoriously poor with finances, Uchida often borrowed money from Sōseki. 151 At Todai Uchida studied German literature. He then served stints as a German language professor at both the Army and Naval Academies before taking up a position at Hōsei University in 1920 (the same institution where his fellow member Nogami spent his career, as mentioned above). He proceeded to drift through a series of teaching positions at military schools, became involved in aviation, and captained a mailboat through the war, all while continuing to write. 152 Hyakken valued his history in the Mokuyōkai and his relationship with Sōseki, even writing a parody of Wagahai wa Neko de aru, but at the same time he was able to establish himself as a postwar novelist who benefitted from the reputation of his former mentor without depending Militarism in Prewar Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008). 150 In a short piece on Uchida, Akutagawa opened with “Uchida Hyakken is a monka[sei] of Natsume-sensei, and is a senpai who I respect” (芥川龍之介 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, 「内田百間氏」“Uchida Hyakken-shi,” 『文芸時報』Bungei Jihō 42 (Aug. 1927), republished in 『芥川龍之介全集』Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Zenshū, vol. 15 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1997), 292-293). 151 At one point he even borrowed money from Sōseki’s estate after the master had died, and later told Kyoko, when she sought to reclaim it, that it was too late. 152 Uchida was also known for a love of trains and has at times featured in popular consciousness in this capacity. 167 upon it. 153 He remained close to Natsume Shinroku, while also going onto become the center of a circle of his own – his relationship with his disciples was the subject of the 1993 film Mada dayo. His works remain relatively well-known and there is a literary prize named in his honor. The final major monkasei in many lists (as well as Tsuda’s picture), and one who has tended to be neglected because he produced little of his own work despite enabling so many others to get theirs into print, was none other than Iwanami Shigeo. 154 Born in Nakasu Village 153 内田百閒 Uchida Hyakken,『贋作吾輩は猫である』Gansaku Wagahai wa Neko de aru (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1950). 154 On Iwanami Shigeo, the standard biography for many years was 安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige, 『岩波茂雄傳』 Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1957). The work won the Yomiuri Literary Prize in 1958. Some noted writers who knew Iwanami, including several of his fellow monkasei, discussed the biography (see Komiya Toyotaka, et al., 「岩波茂雄伝をめぐって」“Iwanami Shigeo-den wo megutte,”『心』Kokoro 11.5 (May 1958): 39-56). This discussion was later republished in 『野上弥英子全集』 Nogami Yaeko Zenshū, bekkan 1 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1982), 350-378. Other early biographical treatments were 山崎安雄 Yamazaki Yasuo,『岩波茂雄』 Iwanami Shigeo (Tokyo: Jiji Tsūshinsha, 1961), and村上一郎 Murakami Ichirō,『岩波茂雄』 Iwanami Shigeo (Tokyo: Sunagoya Shobō, 1982), the latter of which was republished with an introduction and extended afterward by the eminent education scholar Takeuchi Yō as 『岩波茂雄と出版文化――近代日本の教養主義』 Iwanami Shigeo to Shuppan Bunka: Kindai Nihon no Kyōyōshugi (Tokyo: Kōdansha Gakujutsu Bunko, 2013). Iwanami’s son-in-law and successor Kobayashi Isamu (小林勇) published his own treatment, 『惜櫟荘主人―― 一つの岩波茂雄伝』Sekirekishō Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Kōdansha Bunko, 1993; originally Iwanami Shoten, 1963), and the hundredth anniversary of the founding of Iwanami Shoten has witnessed several other studies, most importantly 十重田裕一 Toeda Hirokazu,『岩波茂雄：低く暮らし、高く想ふ』Iwanami Shigeo: Hikuku Kurashi, Takaku Omou (Tokyo: Minerva Shobō, 2013), and中島岳志 Nakajima Takeshi, 『岩波茂雄：リベラル・ナショナリストの肖像』Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013). On Iwanami & Soseki, see 山本芳明 Yamamoto Yoshiaki,「岩波茂雄と夏目漱石」 “Iwanami Shigeo to Natsume Sōseki,” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000):176-187. In English, see J. Thomas Rimer, “Iwanami Shigeo’s Meiji Education: Encounters, Transmissions,” in Helen Hardacre and Adam Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 136-150. Iwanami Shigeo document collections include Iwanami Shigeo,『茂雄遺文抄』 Shigeo 168 (present-day Suwa City) in Suwa-gun, Nagano Prefecture in 1881, Iwanami was among the older members of the Mokuyōkai. From his childhood in Suwa he was connected to individuals who would later become prominent intellectuals, such as his good friend Sakuhei Fujiwhara (藤原咲平, 1884-1950), a meteorologist for whom the Fujiwhara Effect (the behavior of cyclones when their centers near one another) is named. 155 Both Abe Yoshishige and Terada were later to become close to Fujiwhara. 156 Fujiwhara and Iwanami were also classmates at Suwa Higher Elementary School with Nagata Tetsuzan (永田鉄山, 1884-1935), later to become a prominent figure in the Army General Staff, in which capacity he worked at several Japanese embassies in Europe, served as a military administrator, and was involved in Ibunshō, ed., 日本図書センター Nihon Tosho Sentā (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 岩波書店編集部 Iwanami Shoten Henshū-bu, ed., 『岩波茂雄への手紙』 Iwanami Shigeo e no Tegami (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2003), and also 竹田行之 Takeda Kōshi, ed.,『小泉信三書簡 ――岩波茂雄・小林勇宛百十四点』 Koizumi Shinzō Shokan: Iwanami Shigeo, Kobayashi Isamu ate Hyaku-jū-yon-ten (Tokyo: Keiō Gijuku Fukuzawa Kenkyū Sentā, 2010). 155 Fujiwhara wrote his name using English name order and consistently employed both a “w” and an “h” in the romanized version of his name (for reasons that are not entirely clear). For his recollections of Iwanami, see 藤原咲平 Fujiwhara Sakuhei, 「故岩波茂雄氏の思い出」 “Ko-Iwanami Shigeo-shi no Omoide,”『図書』 Tosho 95 (August 1957): 24-27. Other recollections of Iwanami, aside from the works by fellow monkasei addressed previously, include Natsume Shinroku’s (「岩波茂雄さんと私――世にも面白い男のはなし」“Iwanami Shigeo-san to Watashi: Yo ni mo Omoshiroi Otoko no Hanashi,” 『文芸春秋』Bungei Shunjū 35.3 (March 1957): 208-213), and those of the journalist Uramatsu Samitarō (浦松佐美太郎, 「岩波茂雄さんのこと」 “Iwanami Shigeo-san no koto,” 『図書』 Tosho 97 (October 1957): 18-20), and actress Yamamoto Yasue (山本安英,「岩波先生のこと」 “Iwanami-sensei no koto,”『図書』 Tosho 98 (November 1957): 16-19), who had been raised in Kanda. 156 Abe states that he befriended Fujiwhara through Iwanami. He describes talking to Terada sometime around 1917, who thought highly of Fujiwhara and stated that it was regrettable that the academic world did not hold him in higher esteem (Abe Yoshishige, 「藤原咲平君のこと」 “Fujiwara Sakuhei-kun no koto,”『心』Kokoro 3.12 (Dec. 1950): 44-46; 45. 169 planning national mobilization strategy before being assassinated in the 1935 Aizawa Incident. 157 Like his father, Iwanami liked reading and writing, but he most admired his mother, a strong-willed and active member of the community who headed a women’s committee in the village. 158 He was likely emulating her when to effect change at his elementary school he organized and headed a student committee. He remained active in events and as a student organizer throughout his early school years. A crisis occurred during his time in junior high school when his father died, prompting his relatives to push him upon graduation to succeed him. Iwanami, on the other hand, was determined to go to Tokyo to study at a higher school, an ambition that among his family members only his mother supported. In 1899 at around 18 years of age, he set out for Tokyo with his mother’s blessing, after she covered his departure from the family farmwork by claiming he had “eloped.” 159 157 Nagata had emphasized cooperation among corporate and military interests, a pragmatic approach to mobilizing a wartime economy in line with the thinking of his Tōseiha (統制派) faction in the Army. His rivals in the Kōdōha (皇道派) faction, however, interpreted his position as selling out Japanese military honor to the zaibatsu conglomerates. See, for example, 永田鉄山刊行会 Nagata Tetsuzan Kankōkai, ed.,『秘録永田鉄山』 Hiroku Nagata Tetsuzan (Tokyo: Fuyō Shobō, 1972), and 川田稔 Kawada Minoru, 『昭和陸軍の軌跡――永田鉄山の構想とその分岐』 Shōwa Rikugun no Kiseki: Nagata Tetsuzan no Kōsō to sono Bunki (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 2011). On the background of the Kōdōha/Tōseiha rivalry, see Sharon Minichiello, Retreat from Reform: Politics of Political Behavior in Interwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1984), and Leonard A. Humphreys, The Way of the Heavenly Sword: The Japanese Army in the 1920’ s (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995). 158 For a chronology of Iwanami’s life, see Kobayashi, 418-481. 159 Murakami, 92-94. 170 Iwanami failed the entrance exam on his first attempt but passed on the second, and in 1901 he entered the First Higher School. In addition to his new best friend Abe Yoshishige, he also became close friends with Abe Jirō, his dormitory roommate. 160 For the duration of their higher school careers, the three of them were inseparable. Iwanami also made other friends, one of the closest being Fujimura Misao, whose suicide in 1903 (discussed above) traumatized him. Devastated by the loss, Iwanami went into a self-imposed exile for forty days, wrestling with philosophical questions and suicidal angst. 161 This had two results. First, he became much more interested in religion, and while he never converted he studied Christianity and became inspired by the ideas of the major Christian writer Uchimura Kanzō (内村鑑三, 1861-1930). 162 Second, he was expelled, having failed to account for his absences to the school authorities. Later he was 160 See, for instance, 竹内洋 Takeuchi Yō, 『教養主義の没落』Kyōyōshugi no Botsuraku (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronshinsha, 2003), 136. 161 Dormitories were a common part of life at higher schools and students lived in very tight quarters, frequently doing everything together. Strong personal relationships were common, and it was not unusual for such friendships to last a lifetime. The suffering or death of a classmate could have a catastrophic impact on their friends who would have been reminded constantly of their friend’s absence from every aspect of daily life. This was one reason why social circles based on schools were so significant for many intellectuals. For more on life at the higher schools, see Donald T. Roden, Schooldays in Imperial Japan: A Study in the Culture of a Student Elite (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980). 162 For Uchimura’s collected works, see the forty-volume『内村鑑三全集』Uchimura Kanzō Zenshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1980-1984). For more on Uchimura’s life, see John F. Howes, Japan’ s Modern Prophet: Uchimura Kanzō, 1861–1930 (Vancouver, Canada: University of British Columbia Press, 2006), as well as the numerous essays on his thought, notably Ray A. Moore, ed., Culture and Religion in Japanese-American Relations: Essays on Uchimura Kanzō, 1861-1930 (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Center for Japanese Studies, 1981), John F. Howes, “Uchimura Kanzō: The Bible and War,” in Nobuya Bamba and John F. Howes, eds., Pacificism in Japan: The Christian and Socialist Tradition (Kyoto: Minerva Press, 1978), 91-122, and Shibuya Hiroshi and Chiba Shin, eds., Living for Jesus and Japan: The Social and Theological Thought of Uchimura Kanzō (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdsmans Publishing Co., 2013). 171 able to resume his studies, but at one point withdrew, leaving school for a second time – leaving or being thrown out of school was something else he had in common with Abe Yoshishige besides intellectual pursuits. Iwanami’s history of withdrawing from school prevented him from becoming a regular student at the university, although he was able to enter the Department of Philosophy as an elective student instead. His time at Todai overlapped with Komiya’s and by extension the fictional Sanshirō’s. Like Sōseki before him, and along with other monkasei, he took classes with von Koeber, whom he admired. Iwanami’s experiences and philosophical studies had a profound influence on him, but his attempt to funnel his intellectual energy into teaching did not bear fruit. In 1909 he had started teaching at the private Kanda Women’s Higher School, but he found it profoundly dissatisfying. He resigned in July 1913, “to escape from the anxiety and pain of fighting with children.” 163 Iwanami’s struggles with anxiety represent a significant point of comparison with Sōseki, a theme that is pursued in the following chapter. It was around this time that Iwanami became a member of the Mokuyōkai. Iwanami had known of Sōseki at the higher school but did not take his class. He was also close to many students and other individuals in Sōseki’s orbit, like Fujimura, whose death was also a great 163 As quoted in Murakami, 95. 172 source of grief to Sōseki. 164 However, Iwanami had never been formally introduced to Sōseki before. Although the proper introduction is occasionally credited to Abe Jirō, Natsume Shinroku held that it was more likely to have been Abe Yoshishige: […] Unlike other apprentices like Komiya Toyotaka-san or Suzuki Miekichi-san, Iwanami-san came to visit my father after he [Sōseki] became older. I assume that the person who introduced him was Abe Yoshishige-san, who had been especially close to him since their school years. 165 This would be an entirely reasonable view given the relationship between Iwanami and Abe Yoshishige. In fact, Iwanami himself credited Abe Yoshishige with the proper introduction. 166 For his part, Abe Yoshishige too stated that he was the one to first bring Iwanami to Sōseki’s residence. 167 Iwanami enjoyed the Mokuyōkai sessions, although naturally he did not get along with all of the monkasei as well as he did with his old friends Abe Yoshishige and Abe Jirō. Natsume Shinroku observed that Iwanami disliked people who were sloppy or negligent, and as a result he did not always get along with those disciples who struck him as too cavalier in their attitude towards work, like Suzuki Miekichi. 168 Generally, Iwanami had a reputation for being thoughtful 164 See, for example, Nakajima, 42-43. 165 夏目伸六 Natsume Shinroku,『猫の墓――父・漱石の思い出』 Neko no Haka: Chichi Sōseki no Omoide (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō, 1984), 49. 166 岩波茂雄 Iwanami Shigeo, 「回顧三十年」“Kaiko Sanjūnen,” in 日本図書センター Nihon Tosho Sentā, ed.,『岩波茂雄――茂雄遺文抄』Iwanami Shigeo: Shigeo Ibunshō (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 9-29; 16. 167 Abe Yoshishige, Iwanami Shigeo-den, 137-138. 168 Natsume Shinroku, Neko no Haka, 43-44. 173 but dour, and relatively quiet in contrast to some of his fellow disciples given to melodrama or bombast. Tsuda Seifū – who described Iwanami’s face as resembling “ a dark red potato” 169 – recalled Iwanami’s demeanor in the meetings: Most of the time when everyone was discussing or arguing about something, Iwanami just listened silently, and occasionally went through the motions of laughing. He never really laughed from the bottom of his heart. It was like he was unable to really express his emotions. He did not offer his own opinions either. […] Sōseki-sensei evaluated the taciturn Iwanami more highly than those who talked big. 170 While the major members of the Mokuyōkai all sought to contribute to their intellectual milieu in some capacity, Iwanami decided that his future lay not in writing or research, but rather in selling, and ultimately publishing, books. It was a decision that made extensive use of Sōseki and the other members of the Mokuyōkai, and was to have a major impact on Japanese intellectual culture. There were several other members of the Mokuyōkai who were not depicted in Tsuda’s picture and who do not feature in many of the contemporary accounts of the inner circle. This was not because they were insignificant, but because they simply joined late and missed the Mokuyōkai’s heyday. Further, their presence was overshadowed by the outpouring of grief across the literary scene in the wake of Sōseki’s death. First among these was Matsuoka Yuzuru. 171 A 169 Tsuda, Sōseki to Jū Deshi, 145. 170 Ibid., 147. 171 His birthname was Matsuoka Zenjō (松岡善譲). On him, see 関口安義 Sekiguchi Yasuyoshi, 『評伝松岡譲』 Hyōden Matsuoka Yuzuru (Tokyo: Ozawa Shoten, 1985), and 中野信吉 Nakano Shinkichi, 『作家・松岡譲への旅』 Sakka: Matsuoka Yuzuru e no Tabi (Tokyo: 174 younger member of the circle, hailing from Ishizaka Village in Koshi-gun, Niigata Prefecture, Matsuoka studied in the Department of Philosophy at Todai and like most of the other inner members of the circle encountered Sōseki and his disciples there at that time. Although he was a late addition to the circle he became a regular participant, and was one of the members present at the final session of the Mokuyōkai on 16 November, 1916. 172 Matsuoka was even more heavily emotionally invested, however, because he had fallen in love with Sōseki’s eldest daughter Fudeko (夏目筆子 , 1899-1989) whom he married in 1918. 173 Matsuoka had several breakthrough novels in the 1920s, continued to publish into the 1950s, and also produced numerous works about Sōseki and his circle. Also among the last of the figures near the center of the Mokuyōkai was Kume Masao (久米正雄, 1891-1952). 174 Born in Ueda, Nagano Prefecture, Kume was already known as an aspiring writer who had demonstrated skill in haiku composition before he arrived at Todai Rindōsha: 2004). 172 Also confirmed present were Morita, Abe Yoshishige, Kume, and Akutagawa. 173 Natsume Fudeko’s birth name was actually Fude, although she often went by Fudeko and used this as her penname when writing. Her second daughter with Matsuoka Yuzuru was Matsuoka Yōko McClain, who has taught Japanese language and literature to several generations of American students. For Fudeko’s perspective, see 「夏目漱石の『猫』の娘」 “Natsume Sōseki no Neko no Musume,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 516-534. 174 Kume Masao’s collected works have not been fully republished since the original Heibonsha edition (『久米正雄全集』Kume Masao Zenshū (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1930-1931), 15 vols.), although a facsimile was reprinted in the early 1990s. Kume is particularly well-known for his reflection on his student days, 『学生時代』 Gakusei Jidai. On his life and work, see in particular 小谷野敦 Koyano Atsushi 『久米正雄伝――微苦笑の人』 Kume Masao Den: Bikushō no Hito (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 2011). 175 where he met Sōseki and the others. Kume was to make his mark more as a novelist and playwright, however, beginning with a play in 1914 which became quite popular. He was deeply in love with Natsume Fudeko, and frustrated to lose her to his rival Matsuoka. Of the inner members of the circle he was one of those who stayed the least length of time in Tokyo, arriving late in the circle’s history and leaving in 1923 when the Great Kantō Earthquake prompted him to move instead to Kamakura. The one disciple among the late arrivals to become the most enduringly famous was undoubtedly Akutagawa Ryūnosuke. 175 While Komiya, Suzuki and Morita successfully achieved recognition throughout their lives as Sōseki’s chosen disciples, it was nevertheless Akutagawa who, in the conceptual world of literary scholars, inherited the mantle of literary successor to Sōseki. This led to a tendency in the scholarship to situate Akutagawa in the center 175 Among the many editions of Akutagawa’s collected works, the standard remains that by Iwanami Shoten (『芥川龍之介全集』 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Zenshū), which began with the 8-volume 1927-1929 edition published shortly after the author’s death. The most widely used editions are the 12-volume 1977 edition, and the expanded 24-volume 1995-1998 edition. First-hand reflections on Akutagawa include Uchida’s Watashi no ‘Sōseki’ to ‘Ryūnosuke’, op. cit., Akagi’s (under his birth name, Ikezaki Tadataka) 『亡友芥川龍之介への告别』 Bōyū Akutagawa Ryūnosuke e no Kokubetsu (Tokyo: Tenjinsha, 1930), and Abe Yoshishige’s 「芥川君の死」“Akutagawa-kun no Shi,” 『心』 Kokoro 21.3 (March 1968): 68-70. On Akutagawa’s life and work, see 宇野浩二 Uno Kōji, 『芥川龍之介』 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1975), 2 vols., 関口安義 Sekiguchi Yasuyoshi, 『芥川龍之介』 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1995), Sekiguchi, 『芥川龍之介とその時代』Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to sono Jidai (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1999), and中村真一郎 Nakamura Shin’ichirō, 『芥川龍之介の世界』 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no Sekai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2015). On Akutagawa and Sōseki, see Akutagawa’s Sōseki Sanbō no Aki and Sōseki Sanbō no Fuyu, both op. cit., as well as his 「山房の中」 “Sanbō no Naka,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 331-333. 176 of the Mokuyōkai with the others, even though the monkasei, with the exception of Akutagawa’s senpai Uchida, saw him as a late arrival and hardly a primary member, let alone Sōseki’s successor. Yet at the same time, Akutagawa was undeniably influenced by Sōseki and spent his short career striving to prove himself worthy of his mentor. 176 Born in Tokyo, Akutagawa entered the First Higher School in 1910 where he became friends with Kume, as well as Kikuchi Kan (菊池寛, 1888-1948), the latter of whom would go on to found Bungei Shunjū and the Akutagawa and Naoki Prizes. 177 Akutagawa, who entered Todai to study English literature in 1913, was already writing and idolized Sōseki. In addition to their education in English literature, the two shared men shared a love of Chinese classics – as well as, it could be argued, a degree of obsession with their mothers. 178 In December 1915 when he was 23, he finally had the chance to meet Sōseki when Kume took him along. 179 This became a transformative moment for his career, beginning with Sōseki helping him to republish Hana (鼻) which became his first popular hit. Sōseki’s support of Akutagawa enabled the latter to 176 On Sōseki’s influence on Akutagawa, see Carole Cavanaugh Ogawa, “1916: A Year in the Life of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,” Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1991. 177 On the prizes, see Mack, 181-222. 178 While Sōseki seems to have been driven by a futile bid to earn his mother’s affection, Akutagawa found his own mother a domineering presence threatening to overwhelm him. His deep-seated fear that he had inherited his mother’s psychological disorders caused Akutagawa great anxiety. 179 See Akutagawa, Sōseki Sanbō no Fuyu, op. cit. The exact date of Akutagawa’s first meeting with Sōseki is unknown. Some writers instead credit Hayashibara Kōzō (林原耕三, 1887-1975), a former student of Sōseki’s and a scholar of English literature, with the introduction. Hayashibara later wrote Sōseki Sanbō no Hitobito, one of the records of the Mokuyōkai. 177 establish his career and define himself as a writer – by the time of Sōseki’s death just a year later Akutagawa had become an immensely popular writer. What followed were three highly productive years, whereupon he became seriously depressed and ultimately committed suicide. 180 Finally, there was Watsuji Tetsurō, a monkasei who was not a regular presence at the meetings and whose subsequent career as a leading philosopher overshadowed his youthful association with Sōseki, a contrast to the upper-tier monkasei who continued to draw on Sōseki and the Mokuyōkai for their intellectual identity throughout their lives. 181 Watsuji studied 180 Some critics have argued that Akutagawa’s feeling of inadequacy when compared to Sōseki, who he idolized, contributed to his self-loathing. On this, and comparing the two writers, see for instance Martin LaFlamme, “Ryunosuke Akutagawa: Writing in the Shadows of Japan’s Literary Giants,” The Japan Times, Aug. 19, 2017. 181 For Watsuji’s complete works, see 『和辻哲郎全集』Watsuji Tetsurō Zenshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten). Both the 20-volume 1961-1963 edition and the expanded 27-volume 1989-1992 editions are standards in the field. The first half of Watsuji’s masterwork on ethics, Rinrigaku (倫理学), has been translated; see Seisaku Yamamoto and Robert Carter, trans., Watsuji Tetsurō’ s Rinrigaku: Ethics in Japan (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1996). Some of Watsuji’s other work has also been translated; see, for example, Steve Bein, trans., Purifying Zen: Watsuji Tetsurō’s Shamōn Dōgen (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2011). Major Japanese-language studies of Watsuji’s life and work include 湯浅泰雄 Yuasa Yasuo, ed.,『和辻哲郎――人と思想』 Watsuji Tetsurō: Hito to Shisō (Tokyo: San’ichi Shobō, 1973), Yuasa,『和辻哲郎』Watsuji Tetsurō (Tokyo: Minerva Shobō, 1981), 小牧治 Komaki Osamu, 『和辻哲郎――人と思想』 Watsuji Tetsurō: Hito to Shisō (Tokyo: Shimizu Shoin, 1986), 荘子邦雄 Shōji Kunio, 『和辻哲郎の実像――思想史の視座による和辻全体像の解析』 Watsuji Tetsurō no Jitsuzō: Shisō-shi no Shiza ni your Watsuji Zentaizō no Kaiseki (Tokyo: Ryōsho Fukyūkai, 1998), and 熊野純彦 Kumano Sumihiko,『和辻哲郎――文人哲学者の軌跡』 Watsuji Tetsurō: Bunjin Tetsugakusha no Kiseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2009). In English, studies on Watsuji began with Robert N. Bellah, “Japan’s Cultural Identity: Some Reflections on the Work of Watsuji Tetsurō,” The Journal of Asian Studies 24.4 (Aug. 1965): 573–594, and continued with David A. Dilworth, “Watsuji Tetsurō (1889–1960): Cultural Phenomenologist and Ethician,” Philosophy East and West 24.1 (Jan. 1974): 3–22, and William R. LaFleur, “A Turning in Taishō: Asia and Europe in the Early Writings of Watsuji Tetsurō,” in J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Culture and Identity: Japanese Intellectuals During the Interwar Years (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 234–256. Also see LaFleur, “Reasons for the Rubble: Watsuji Tetsurō’s 178 philosophy under Professor Koeber at Todai, and enjoyed a long friendship with Abe Jirō and Abe Yoshishige before being introduced to Sōseki in 1913 and visiting a Mokuyōkai session later that year in November. 182 After Sōseki’s death, Watsuji drifted from his earlier fascination with Western literature and philosophy to pursue studies of Japanese thought, in particular ethics and Zen Buddhism. He took up a position at Kyoto Imperial University, studied abroad in Germany, and soon became prominent as one of the younger generation of Kyoto School philosophers. Around the inner circle of the Mokuyōkai composed primarily of Sōseki’s loyal monkasei was a series of looser “outer rings” containing a range of intellectuals from different walks of life who were strongly connected to Sōseki and his disciples but not as fundamentally oriented around them. These included the writer Naka Kansuke, who was in the same year at the First Position in Japan’s Postwar Debate About Rationality,” Philosophy East and West 51.1 (Jan. 2001): 1–25, and Graham Mayeda, Time, Space and Ethics in the Philosophy of Watsuji Tetsurō, Kuki Shūzō, and Martin Heidegger (New York: Routledge, 2006). On Watsuji and Sōseki, see 吉沢伝三郎 Yoshizawa Denzaburō 「和辻哲郎の漱石体験」 “Watsuji Tetsurō no Sōseki Taiken,” 『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 155-165. 182 Watsuji recalled his first Mokuyōkai session in 「漱石の人物」 “Sōseki no Jinbutsu,”『新潮』 Shinchō 47.12 (Dec. 1950): 16-25. He noted that the weather was fine that afternoon, and that other attendees included “elders” Morita, Suzuki, Komiya, Nogami, and Matsune, and “youngsters” Akagi, Uchida, Hayashibara Kōzō and Matsuura Kaichi (18). Hayashibara and Matsuura (松浦嘉一, 1891-1967) were both students who went on to become scholars of English literature. While Watsuji only met Sōseki in 1913, he claimed that he had long been interested in the writer, ever since Haruyama Takematsu (春山武松, 1885-1962), later a prominent painting critic, took him – only half a year after he had arrived in Tokyo – for a walk in the vicinity one evening around October 1906. Haruyama, originally from the same town as Watsuji, had been living in the area for quite some time and had graduated from a junior high school located behind Sōseki’s house (Watsuji, 「漱石に逢ふまで」 “Sōseki ni Au made,” 『新潮』 Shinchō 47.11 (Nov. 1950) 154-159; 156). 179 Higher School as Iwanami, Komiya, and Abe Yoshishige. 183 Through Sōseki Naka was able to to publish his first novel serialized in the Asahi Shinbun from 1911 to 1913, and he went on to publish several other works. The artist Tsuda Seifū, mentioned above, became a semi-regular presence, as did figures like English literary scholar Nakagawa Yoshitarō (中川芳太郎, 1882-1939), who had attended Sōseki’s lectures at Tokyo Imperial University and been asked by Sōseki to compile his lectures into manuscript form; the writer and critic Eguchi Kan (江口渙, 1887-1975), who met Sōseki shortly after the former entered Tokyo Imperial University’s English Department in 1912, and thereafter attended numerous Mokuyōkai sessions; the journalist Ikebe Sanzan (池辺三山, 1864-1912), who had recruited Sōseki for the Asahi Shinbun; and the aforementioned Kikuchi Kan, Akutagawa’s friend. Finally, at the outer edges of the circle were those who associated with Sōseki and/or Mokuyōkai members but could not be said to be members of the circle itself. Rather, these comprised a broader group of intellectuals who admired or were inspired by Sōseki, and moved in many of the same circles as his disciples, but did not constitute part of the Mokuyōkai circle per se. They included Yosano Tekkan, mentioned earlier, and Nogami Yaeko, who through her husband sought Sōseki’s advice on her writing and later referred to his letter back to her as her 183 On Naka Kansuke and Sōseki, see Naka’s own 「漱石先生と私」 “Sōseki-sensei to Watashi,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 295-319, and 十川信介 Togawa Shinsuke, 「漱石と中勘助」 “Sōseki to Naka Kansuke,” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 122-130. 180 most precious treasure. 184 As Eleanor Joan Hogan rightly observes, Despite the lack of love, the marriage to Toyoichirō proved to be good for Yae’s literary career. Toyoichirō was a member of the famous writer Natsume Sōseki’s Mokuyōkai or “Thursday night meetings.” Through the auspices of her husband, she was able to have Sōseki read and comment on her early works. This connection with Sōseki was influential in Nogami’s access to print. 185 There was all-around versatile writer Nagai Kafū (永井荷風, 1879-1959), who impressed Sōseki with his early work sufficiently that Sōseki asked him to write a serial work for the same newspaper in 1909-1910. 186 There were also author and critic Nagayo Yoshirō (長與善郎, 1888-1961), and novelist Arishima Takeo (有島武郎, 1878-1923). Alongside these some have suggested Mori Ōgai or Mushanokōji Saneatsu (武者小路実篤, 1885-1976), which borders on exaggeration since neither were even especially close to Sōseki. 187 Under the watchful eyes of the monkasei, the Mokuyōkai quickly came to function as an 184 松岡陽子マックレイン Yoko Matsuoka McClain, 『漱石夫妻愛のかたち』Sōseki Fusai: Ai no Katachi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2007), 39. 185 Hogan, 384. On Nogami Yaeko and Sōseki, see Nogami’s own recollection「思ひ出二つ」 “Omoide Futatsu,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 382-385, and飯田祐子 Iida Yūko,「野上弥生子の特殊性――「師」の効用」 “Nogami Yaeko no Tokushusei: ‘Shi’ no Kōyō,” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 131-139. 186 Kafū participated in another Mokuyōkai, a literary (especially poetry) circle active in the 1910s and 1920s that centered on Nagai's mentor, Iwaya Sazanami (巌谷小波, 1870-1933). For more on Kafū, see Edward Seidensticker, Kafū the Scribbler: The Life and Writings of Nagai Kafū, 1879-1959 (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 1990 reprint; originally 1965). Seidensticker notes that the work Kafū produced for the newspaper was criticized at the time as “irresponsibly fleshly and voluptuous” (35). 187 Some of the Shirakaba writers drew inspiration from Sōseki, but they were not associated with him and distanced themselves from his style of literature after his death. Mushanokōji, for example, looked up to Sōseki but sought more attention than Sōseki was prepared to give him. Mortimer also suggests that Mushanokōji may have felt Sōseki preferred Shiga Naoya to him, a notion that would have been intolerable for his pride (96-98). Also see Mushanokōji,「夏目さんの手紙」 “Natsume-san no Tegami,” in Sōseki Zenshū, bekkan, 444-453. 181 axis around which Sōseki orientated much of his social life. For the reasons discussed earlier, this arrangement brought satisfaction to both master and disciples. However, Sōseki’s network included other components – both individuals and other intellectual circles – that were not connected to the primary hub represented by the Mokuyōkai. These components need to be briefly touched upon because they were relevant to Mokuyōkai members at times, in that they represented an extended set of potential connections. For example, Sōseki had acquaintances who moved in their own orbits, such as contemporary Futabatei Shimei (二葉亭四迷, 1864-1909). 188 He also had some friends among the foreign scholars working at Todai, notably Serge Elisséeff (1889-1975), a Russian scholar of Japan who had been studying there since 1908. 189 188 Futabatei’s birthname was Hasegawa Tatsunosuke (長谷川辰之助). His penname Futabatei meant something along the lines of “go to hell!” (uttered, apparently, by his father upon hearing of his son’s desire to be a writer) and reflected his iconoclastic personality. His novel 『浮雲』 Ukigumo is widely regarded as the first, or one of the first, modern Japanese novels, and he was also well-known in his own time for his translations of Russian literature. On Futabatei and his contributions to Japanese literature and translation, see Hiroko Cockerill, Style and Narrative in Translations: The Contribution of Futabatei Shimei (New York: Routledge, 2006). 189 Elisséeff was one of the first Western students at a Japanese institution of higher learning, and upon graduating from Todai in 1912 he became the university’s first Western graduate student. He returned to Russia in 1914, struggled through the 1917 Revolution and escaped in 1920, eventually pursuing a career at Harvard. He was the first director of the Harvard-Yenching Institute, founded the Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, and mentored a generation of students, including the future scholar-diplomat Edwin O. Reischauer. See the piece by Elisséeff and several monkasei, 「エリセーフ君を迎へて」 “Erisēfu-kun wo Mukaete,” 『心』 Kokoro 6.7 (July 1953): 13-25, and in a similar vein, Elisséeff, et al., 「エリセエフを圍んで」“Erisēfu wo Kakonde,” 『図書』Tosho 43 (April 1953): 17-20. 182 Sōseki’s Relations with Institutions and Other Networks The members of the Mokuyōkai, being orientated around the master figure Sōseki, were strongly influenced by his personal and social tendencies, as has been illustrated. Moreover, Sōseki’s relationships with institutions warrants consideration because they shaped the channels available to Mokuyōkai members to advance their careers, and they can shed light on the oft-contradictory nature of some intellectual networks. This may be most obvious when considering the Asahi Shinbun: his position as a columnist gave Sōseki direct access to a large readership, enabling him to introduce or heap praise upon a young writer. In numerous cases Mokuyōkai members rose to fame on the strength of such endorsements or the maiden works that Sōseki enabled them to run in the newspaper. Sōseki’s relationships with institutions, however, were often bumpy. The best example may be his relationship with the academy. On the one hand, Todai represented the major source of key Mokuyōkai members, not all of whom originally studied under Sōseki but the bulk of whom knew those who had. Indeed, the overwhelming majority of Mokuyōkai members graduated from Todai and first came into contact with the circle through other individuals at the university. Sōseki’s time at the university, though brief, also represented a source of authority that contributed to his reputation among the students there long after he had left. Furthermore, Sōseki was deeply committed to the study of literature, and in particular worked to encourage 183 and develop studies of both English literature and Chinese poetry. He was also involved in the Teikoku Bungakkai and published on numerous occasions in their journal, Teikoku Bungaku. 190 Yet on the other hand, he was skeptical about academia itself, and distrusted the institutions of higher learning. Conventionally, many scholars have explained this by suggesting Sōseki simply disliked officialdom. For example, Edwin McClellan states that “Sōseki had a deep-rooted dislike of anything that smacked of officialdom, and perhaps to him the Imperial University seemed to possess too much of the character of an official institution.” 191 However, it is plausible that behind this lurked a more fundamental distrust of authority – whether it be the government, universities, or institutions in general – due to Sōseki’s psychological makeup. His hatred for his father, and the pain inflicted by his foster parents who only saw the boy as a means to material gain, had resulted in a thoroughly miserable childhood that no doubt led him to harbor a deep-seated suspicion of authority figures. Sōseki’s dislike of authority naturally encompassed the government. He was especially resentful, or even hostile, to government involvement in the intellectual sphere. This explains why Sōseki welcomed adoring fans but refused government honors and official invitations, at times prompting a public backlash for his attitude. The most (in)famous case of this occurred 190 Teikoku Bungaku (帝国文学) began in 1895 and ceased publication in 1920, four years after Sōseki’s death. 191 Edwin McClellan, “An Introduction to Sōseki,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 22 (Dec. 1959): 150-208; 165. 184 when he refused an honorary doctorate offered by the Ministry of Education, a decision that, as mentioned earlier, prompted an impressed Murdoch to send him a letter. Murdoch disliked governments and had himself turned down a decoration. His support – arriving amidst a sea of criticism after Sōseki publicly declared he was content with being “Natsume Sōseki” and had no need of titles – made Sōseki happy and he discussed it with others. 192 Etsuko Nakayama interprets Sōseki’s decision as the result of Sōseki’s suspicion of authority and government, while Kitagaki Ryūichi suggests Sōseki was expressing his desire to behave like a brash youth rebelling against social superiors. 193 Sōseki’s suspicion of the government and academy goes a long way to explaining why he favored the Asahi Shinbun over the Yomiuri Shinbun, and chose to work for the former. While Sōseki had early on shown interest in submitting pieces to the Yomiuri as well, he soon changed his mind. The newspaper supported both academism and government efforts in the intellectual realm, perhaps best expressed by its support for the Useikai (雨声会) in 1907. This was a major gathering of literati arranged by Premier Saionji Kinmochi (西園寺公望, 1849-1940), lasting three days (June 17 to 19) at his residence in Kanda Surugadai. 194 It was the first time that a 192 See, for instance, Nakayama, 60-70. 193 Ibid., and 北垣隆一 Kitagaki Ryūichi,『漱石の精神分析』Sōseki no Seishin Bunseki (Tokyo: Kitagawa Shoten, 1968), 194, respectively. 194 On the Useikai, see 高橋正 Takahashi Tadashi, 『西園寺公望と明治の文人たち』 Saionji Kinmochi to Meiji no Bunjin-tachi (Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan, 2002), which devotes two chapters to it. 185 premier had invited intellectuals from across the country for an event, and the twenty or so attendees included Mori Ōgai, Uchida Roan, and other leading writers. 195 Saionji likely got the idea from the naturalist author Kunikida Doppo (国木田独歩, 1871-1908) and the Ryūdokai (龍土会), but, as Kuroiwa Hisako suggests, there would likely have been controversy were the premier to just invite a clique of naturalists. 196 He therefore turned to a confidant, the scholar and politician Takekoshi Sansa (竹越三叉, 1865-1950), who amidst his other activities was editor-in-chief of the Yomiuri Shinbun. 197 Takekoshi then entrusted a subordinate, the writer Chikamatsu Shūkō (近松秋江, 1876-1944) with drawing up a list of invitees. 198 Takekoshi’s hand in the matter was significant because it was he who had earlier sought to recruit Sōseki for the Yomiuri, only to fail spectacularly by losing him to the rival Asahi Shinbun. As an influential conservative writer, critic for the Yomiuri, editor-in-chief, and powerful political figure, Takekoshi represented a total union of political and intellectual authority. One would be hard-pressed to find a better embodiment of everything Sōseki despised, and his rejection of the 195 A generation later Saionji’s grandson, Saionji Kinkazu (西園寺公一, 1906-1993) was also involved in intellectual culture, moving in Marxist circles and participating in the prewar Shōwa Kenkyūkai. Implicated in the Sorge spy ring, he was disinherited and in the years after the war immigrated to the PRC. See his memoir, 『西園寺公一回顧録「過ぎ去りし、昭和」』Saionji Kinkazu Kaikoroku: Sugisarishi, Shōwa (Tokyo: Aipekkupuresu, 1991). 196 黒岩比佐子 Kuroiwa Hisako, 『歴史のかげにグルメあり』 Rekishi no Kage ni Gurume ari (Tokyo: Bunshun Shinsho, 2008), 200. On the emergence of naturalism, see Kenneth G. Henshall, trans., Literary Life in Tōkyō, 1885-1915: Tayama Katai’ s Memoirs (‘Thirty Years in Tōkyō’) (Leiden: Brill, 1987). 197 Sansa’s birthname was Takekoshi Yosaburō (竹越與三郎). 198 Kuroiwa, 200-201. 186 invitation to the Useikai, with its state-sanctioned academism and Yomiuri backers, was thus entirely logical. Naturally, Sōseki’s decision was rather gleefully reported in the Asahi on June 15. 199 Kuroiwa observes that on the second day of the Useikai Saionji wrote a brief line that responded to the expression used by Sōseki when the latter turned down the invitation, suggesting that Saionji keenly felt Sōseki’s absence. 200 Saionji may have been telling the truth when he stated that he was uninterested in state honors, but it is just as likely that the newspaper rivalry and his underlying suspicion of authority, particularly state involvement in the intellectual world, played a role. 201 The Mokuyōkai membership, filled with scholars who often had love-hate relationships with the academic and political worlds and depended upon Sōseki’s influence at the Asahi, were directly affected by their master’s relations and structured their alliances and rivals accordingly. 199 For his part, Takekoshi seems to have deeply respected Sōseki and still hoped to draw him into the Yomiuri orbit, as Wada Toshio suggests (和田利夫 Wada Toshio, 『明治文芸院始末記』 Meiji Bungei-in Shimatsu-ki (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1990), 30-31). It may have been the case that Sōseki also suspected that Takekoshi’s power and ambition made him unlikely to remain at the Yomiuri, meaning that the Asahi post would have offered greater job security. This could also have been a potential motivation for Sōseki, even if his ideals were a more primary concern. Along with Sōseki, Futabatei Shimei and Tsubouchi Shōyō declined to attend the Useikai. Futabatei and Tsubouchi, influential realist writers in the mid-Meiji period, were rivals to Ōgai and many of his contemporaries. Being friends, the two may have decided to decline together. 200 Kuroiwa, 203-204. 201 The nexus of factors is significant because on an earlier occasion premier Katsura had invited Sōseki to a meeting and met with success. The differences between Katsura’s meeting and Saionji’s Useikai are instructive: Katsura’s was a low-key affair, it lacked Yomiuri backing, and Katsura had approached Sōseki through people close to him in his network rather than by just formally sending out an invitation. Sōseki’s dislike of authority figures could therefore be circumvented by establishing a personal connection rather than a formal one, perhaps because he could rationalize it as assisting a friend of a friend instead of answering a premier’s summons. 187 Of course, as time passed, the members emerged as intellectuals in their own right and developed their own circles which also overlapped with those of the other members and Sōseki. It is possible to map out all these circles and sets of relations on top of the main Mokuyōkai core graphically, with the disciples positioned nearer the center, with gradually decreasing degrees of intimacy as one moves towards the outer rim (see Figure 3-4). However, as Sōseki was also close to some of these outlaying figures even though they were not disciples or Mokuyōkai members proper, a better option may be to employ something akin to a venn diagram with overlapping social groupings instead (see Figure 3-5). This sort of framework has its own problems, most obviously that it is not possible to chart all the members of each circle, but this kind of graphical formulation stands to offer at least a sense of how individuals are connected to the central figure within these various networks. 188 Fig. 3-4: Sōseki’s Circles, c. 1914, conventional model (source: original creation) Fig. 3-5: Sōseki’s Circles, c.1914, overlapping spheres model (source: original creation) 189 Conclusion This chapter has sought to sketch out the Mokuyōkai, by considering some of its key characteristics and carrying out a prosopographical study of its core membership. Clearly, intellectual circles in played a practical role for participants: circles loosely defined the boundaries of intellectual life, and functioned as sounding boards for participants to present their ideas and works, conduct debate, and engage in collaborative projects. They also provided valuable connections which opened doors for members setting out to make a mark in the literary world. For Sōseki, the Mokuyōkai provided self-affirmation from his loyal disciples, a reliable source of affection for someone who had long been denied it. At the same time, it gave him control over his social life, enabling him to enjoy meeting his disciples and visitors without the pressure of having to deal with this almost every day. It was likely for this reason that he acquiesced to having his disciples act as gatekeepers in this way, a role that they embraced because it ensured them a regular allotment of the master’s time and brought with it the enviable cachet of being a recognized doorway to Sōseki. For some monkasei, primarily the young writers, the Mokuyōkai was a chance to borrow the authority of the master to help them get their work printed and recognized in a highly competitive environment. Other monkasei drew on the circle more for the chance to network with fellow writers and partake in a shared sense of intellectual 190 community. For Iwanami Shigeo, this sense of community as an intellectual was no doubt important, but his connection to Sōseki and his fellow disciples also played a key role in the establishment of his business, for it provided him with a foundation upon which to build his own network, as shall be seen in the subsequent chapters. This made him a far more conventional figure in a way, in contrast to Sōseki who was more of a loner in his youth and prior to the Mokuyōkai had not been committed to an enduring circle that brought him to influence. The Mokuyōkai shaped not only the careers but the identities of its members as intellectuals. Even after many of them had moved on to build their own networks they not only retained their links with their former Mokuyōkai colleagues but moreover continued to be associated with the Mokuyōkai as a key part of their public identity. For example, long after he had become a major public intellectual, influential postwar educator, university president, and even Minister of Education in the Shidehara Cabinet, Abe Yoshishige was still identified with Sōseki’s circle. Virtually every scholarly treatment that covers him not only mentions his status as a Sōseki disciple, but posits it as a fundamental aspect of his identity as an intellectual. The very fact that intellectual circles like the Mokuyōkai could play such a defining and enduring role in the lives of intellectuals in modern Japan testifies to their significance in the culture of the time. 191 Chapter IV The Birth of Iwanami Shoten: From Selling Books to Printing Them Introduction This chapter and the following two are concerned with articulating Iwanami Shigeo’s trajectory into the world of publishing, and the key role in that process played by his social network, primarily consisting of his colleagues in the Mokuyōkai, the social circle orientated around Natsume Sōseki that was discussed in the previous chapter. Of first and foremost significance was the pivotal role played by Sōseki himself, without whose intervention and continued support (both financially and in terms of cultural capital) Iwanami would have been unable to succeed, first in establishing a bookstore, and second in transforming that business into a successful publishing enterprise. In addition to making effective use of his social network, Iwanami also took advantage of other opportunities, particularly innovations that he observed in other businesses. This chapter sets the scene of bookstores in the late Meiji period, charts how Iwanami launched his bookstore, and follows his first ventures into publishing. The following chapter, meanwhile, builds on this to consider how Iwanami firmly entrenched himself as a publisher through Sōseki’s landmark Kokoro and the ongoing, skillful use of his network. Setting Up Shop: Bookstores in the Late Meiji World Iwanami Shigeo’s direction as a late-Meiji intellectual had, at a glance, changed course 192 quite dramatically. After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University’s Department of Philosophy, he had taken up a promising career as a teacher at Kanda Women’s Higher School in March 1909, but despite his unsteady financial situation resigned only four years later, suffering from not only intellectual frustration but also anxiety from dealing with youth. He had already by this time developed a social network incorporating but extending far beyond his friendships with Abe Yoshishige and Abe Jirō, with whom he had run something of a mini-intellectual circle while a student. Already familiar with Sōseki and various members of the Mokuyōkai, it was from around this time when he became more directly acquainted with Sōseki and a regular visitor remembered by the family. 1 To some extent, as suggested in the previous chapter, young Iwanami appears to have suffered from some of the same frustrations as Sōseki, eager to influence society, motivated by idealism, but beset with anxiety and doubt. However, Iwanami was also a fastidious planner: by the time he resigned his teaching post in July 1913, he had already been laying the groundwork for a new career as the owner of a used bookstore. When, less than a month later, Iwanami opened the bookstore that bore his name, he was venturing into another side of late Meiji intellectual culture beyond, yet intrinsically bound up 1 See, for example, 夏目伸六 Natsume Shinroku,『猫の墓』Neko no Haka (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1960), 49-53. As indicated previously, many of the monkasei had known Sōseki for a substantial length of time, particularly as a teacher, but only gradually grew closer and became disciples. Iwanami’s rather late emergence as a monkasei proper was by no means unusual. 193 with, his experience as a university-educated and well-connected intellectual. With the expansion of the school-going public and the vital role of printed materials for students – textbooks, journals, and works of scholarship both domestic and translated – bookstores represented a growth industry. 2 In addition to selling works for entertainment and study, bookstores also became firmly entrenched as part of the modern urban experience, so that regular visits to the bookstores became a popular activity, especially among students and intellectuals. This phenomenon operated on a worldwide scale, common not only in major European centers like London and Paris, but also in Asian cities like Shanghai. Leo Ou-Fan Lee observes that, “For Shanghai writers the most important pastime, aside from going to the movies, was going to the bookstores.” 3 Bookstores also functioned as outposts of urban intellectual culture, regardless of whether they were located in the metropole itself or in smaller cities. Intellectuals frequented bookstores both to acquire works and to participate in this culture, in which the very act of purchasing books 2 For more on the situation of bookstores and the book trade in Meiji Society, see for instance管聡子 Kan Satoko,『メディアの時代――明治文学をめぐる状況』Media no Jidai: Meiji Bungaku wo meguru Jōkyō (Tokyo: Sōbunsha Shuppan, 2001), and小田光雄 Oda Mitsuo, 『書店の近代――本が輝いていた時代』Shoten no Kindai: Hon ga Kagayaiteita Jidai (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2003). 3 Leo Ou-Fan Lee, Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China, 1930-1945 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 120. Also see, for instance, the section on print culture in interwar Shanghai in Shu-mei Shih, The Lure of the Modern: Writing Modernism in Semicolonial China, 1917-1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), esp. 239-248, and on Korea see Michael Kim “Literary Production, Circulating Libraries, and Private Publishing: The Popular Reception of Vernacular Fiction Texts in the Late Chosǒn Dynasty” Journal of Korean Studies 9.1 (Fall 2004): 1-31. 194 represented a social performance marking one as educated and intelligent. When travelling, bookstores were one of the first locations modern intellectuals would visit, not just to scope out local offerings, but also to connect to the local intellectual hub and perhaps make some new acquaintances. Sōseki himself, despite his struggles with anxiety and depression that left him almost a shut-in, still frequented bookstores during his time in London. 4 While in the 1920s Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company in Paris and Uchiyama Kanzō’s Uchiyama Shoten in Shanghai were outstanding exemplars of the role of bookstore as core of intellectual network and owner as intellectual mediator, as touched on previously, these were not unique. 5 In Kyoto, Nishikawa Seikōdō (西川誠光堂) began as a rental bookstore in 1903, but evolved into a wide-ranging bookstore that served as a salon for many students at Kyoto Imperial University. The proprietor, Nishikawa Haru, had soon established herself as the center of a student network and an essential part of local student culture. 6 Similarly, elsewhere in Kanda-Jinbōchō, Tokyo, one finds Yūshikaku Shoten (有史閣書店, later the publisher 有斐閣 Yūhikaku), founded in 4 See, for example, 恒松郁生 Tsunematsu Ikuo,「倫敦消息――漱石とロンドンの古本屋― ―今昔」“Rondon Shōsoku : Sōseki to Rondon no Furuhonya, Konjaku,”『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 8 (May 1997): 215-221. 5 See Chapter 1. 6 Nishikawa often lent money to students, at times resulting in situations where she had to essentially stake out the street for those who might renege on their debts. Some of the students returned later in life with successful careers and paid her back and then some. For a brief outline of Nishikawa Seikōdō, see Oda Mitsuo, 184; for an in-depth treatment, see the account by松本貞夫 Matsuki Sadao,『本屋一代記――京都西川誠光堂』Honya Ichidaiki: Kyōto Nishikawa Seikōdō (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1986). 195 1877 by Egusa Onotarō (江草斧太郎, 1857-1908). Egusa and his wife, both in their twenties, saw their store become popular with students and morph into a salon of sorts. The proprietors embraced this identity and became almost parental figures for the students, operating an ad hoc pawn service and lending money to students in need. 7 To some extent in the early twentieth century many bookstores around the world fulfilled such combination roles, providing intellectual sustenance in the form of both print and socialization. This did not necessarily mean that every bookstore owner was themselves bound up in the trappings of intellectual culture. Kanehara Isekiten (金原医籍店, later to become Kanehara Shuppan) founder Kanehara Torasaku (金原寅作 1843-1908) ended up falling into the trade largely by accident, after opening a pawn shop near Tokyo University in 1875 and noticing a demand for German books among his clientele, largely consisting of students and faculty in medicine. 8 Despite being ignorant both of German and the study of medicine, he consulted with would-be customers to ascertain demand and then sought out needed books from German publishers, eventually gaining prominence in this niche market. 9 A literal as well as figurative outsider, he was successful because of convenient access to readers and a willingness to target a 7 鈴木省三 Suzuki Shōzō『日本の出版界を築いた人びと』Nihon no Shuppankai wo Kizuita Hitobito (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 1985), 46. 8 Suzuki, 22-24. 9 Ibid. Eventually he expanded his business into publishing as well. Kanehara Shuppan remains a respected publisher of Japanese medical texts today. 196 specific area of the trade in which there was little to no competition (the well-established bookstore Maruzen being known more for Western works in the arts and general sciences than highly-specialized works in areas such as medicine). 10 While his business was in all likelihood a valued part of the medical research scene, he made no pretensions of directly participating in the social and cultural world of his customers. In the case of Iwanami Shoten, the situation was quite different. Iwanami Shigeo was focused on offering books primarily in Japanese, and largely in the areas of the humanities and social sciences, areas in which competition was stiff and expanding. Moreover, geographically he was choosing to begin his business not in an emerging outpost of the intellectual scene where a young upstart might have had a chance to corner a new market, but right in the middle of the book trade establishment in Kanda-Jinbochō. This was, however, also Iwanami’s home territory by now: he had begun rooming in the area with a local family while a student, ultimately marrying the daughter of the household, Akaishi Yoshi (赤石ヨシ) in March 1907 when he was 26. 11 Unlike Kanehara, he was not a savvy merchant with experience under his belt when he 10 On Maruzen (丸善), see 丸善株式会社 Maruzen Kabushiki-gaisha, ed., 『丸善百年史―日本近代化のあゆみと共に』Maruzen Hyakunenshi: Nihon Kindaika no Ayumi to tomo ni (Tokyo: Maruzen, 1980), and “Maruzen and the Foreign Book Trade,” in Olive Checkland, Japan and Britain after 1859: Creating Cultural Bridges (New York: Routledge, 2003), 59-72. 11 On Iwanami Yoshi, see 安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige,『岩波茂雄傳』Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1957), and also his「岩波ヨシさんを弔ふ」“Iwanami Yoshi-san wo Toburau,”『心』Kokoro 9.5 (May 1956): 61-64. 197 began his venture. That being said, he also had two distinct advantages: first, he was an intellectual himself, moving freely within the world of his clientele, and second, he began his bookstore with a network already at his disposal. Situating Iwanami Shoten: Kanda Book Town, Business Practices, and Patronage One of the first problems Iwanami Shigeo faced was what to call his new enterprise. Names were serious business: a store could be called after the proprietor, a patron, neighborhood, or literary allusion. Some were even named for famous figures: Hakubunkan (博文館), for example, founded in 1887, was named after Itō Hirobumi. 12 Iwanami consulted his wife, who suggested “Iwanami Shoten” with the reasoning that it might be problematic if people did not know who the owner was. 13 The store was set up at #16 Minami-Jinbochō (南神保町 16番地), on 5 August, 1913. The area had suffered from a major fire back on 20 February that had damaged large parts of Kanda. 12 Suzuki, 102. 13 小林勇 Kobayashi Isamu,『惜櫟荘主人―― 一つの岩波茂雄伝』Sekirekishō Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Kōdansha Bunko, 1993), 454. Iwanami Yoshi tends to appear in the background in treatments of Shigeo, but it is possible to see behind depictions of her gentle posture a person of considerable strength and confidence. When Shigeo asked her to marry him, she calmly replied, “You’d better take that up with my mother.” When an exasperated Iwanami pushed on with “But how do you feel about it?” her response was “Well, it’s all right by me” (e.g. 中島岳志 Nakajima Takeshi,『岩波茂雄――リベラル・ナショナリストの肖像』Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 54). In addition to helping run the business, she exerted considerable influence behind the scenes at Iwanami Shoten, at times influencing Shigeo’s network by encouraging or discouraging relations with particular authors or other individuals (for example, see the case of Hiratsuka Raichō covered in Chapter 6). 198 The main source of capital came from 8,500 yen that Iwanami had gained from selling fields in his hometown. 14 “A used bookstore could be run with even a little capital,” he explained thirty years later, but the money was no mere trifle. 15 He had essentially decided to gamble his inheritance on the venture. Through his friends, Iwanami was able to rent an empty shop next to Shōbundō (尚文堂), another bookstore that had been rebuilt. 16 Iwanami had kept his ears open looking for such an opportunity, as Kōno relates: When the used bookstore Shōbundō, which had had business with Kanda Women’s Higher School, burned down in the great fire, next to the newly-rebuilt store they [the owners] built another store to lease. People around Iwanami knew, even when he was still working at the school, that he wanted to start a bookstore, so word of this store-for-rent reached his ears before too long. 17 The store originally had four employees (five if one counts Iwanami himself), and the proprietor was assisted with the setting up by his friends. 18 Iwanami’s close friends, consisting of Mokuyōkai members and others, particularly those who he had been close to from his First Higher School days (and especially his best friend Abe Yoshishige), donated books and helped 14 See for example 塩沢実信 Shiozawa Minobu『出版社大全』Shuppansha Taizen (Tokyo: Ronsōsha, 2003), 164. 15 岩波茂雄 Iwanami Shigeo, 「回顧三十年感謝晩餐会の挨拶」“Kaiko Sanjū-nen Kansha Bansankai no Aisatsu,” in 日本図書センター Nihon Tosho Sentā, ed.,『岩波茂雄――茂雄遺文抄』Iwanami Shigeo: Shigeo Ibunshō (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 68. 16 See, for example, 脇村義太郎 Wakimura Yoshitarō,『東西書肆街考』Tōzai Shoshi Gaikō (Tokto: Iwanami Shoten, 1979), 136. For Iwanami Shigeo’s own brief recollection, see his aforementioned speech in Shigeo Ibunshō, 68. 17 紅野謙介 Kōno Kensuke,『物語――岩波書店百年史１：「教養の誕生」』Monogatari: Iwanami Shoten Hyakunen-shi, 1: Kyōyō no Tanjō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 37. 18 Iwanami Shoten, ed., 『岩波書店八十年』Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996), 3; 岩波書店編集部編 Iwanami Shoten Henshūbu, ed.,『写真でみる岩波書店８０年』Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993), 18. 199 him get settled into the new business. 19 Iwanami himself often credited his friends from the First Higher School in particular for helping him both then and throughout his career. 20 When Iwanami Shigeo started his store the town of Kanda-Jinbōchō was already the core of the book trade, but this was not always the case. Celebrated today as Tokyo’s “Town of Books” (本の街) and offering over two-hundred bookstores specializing in used and new books of various genres, Kanda-Jinbōchō did not start out as a book town at all. 21 During the Edo period, which was already witnessing a flourishing print culture, the area was instead known for its many daimyō (regional warrior-aristocrat rulers) residences. Large sections of the town were taken up by these large residences as well as the smaller residences of the hatamoto (shogunal retainers) and various shogunal facilities. 22 After the Meiji Restoration of 1868 and the subsequent abolition of both the domains and the samurai as a social class, the families of the daimyō simply returned home, leaving the buildings dormant. Former hatamoto residences and 19 Taking donations from friends of books that were no longer needed was not an uncommon way to establish a starting inventory as a seller of used books. The founder of Meiji Shoin, who entered the trade in 1896, also recalled receiving a bounty from a friend, who said, “I have a lot of books, so why don’t you start a used book store with these? I’ll mark the ones I don’t want you to sell” (Suzuki, 146). 20 Iwanami Shigeo,「回想二題」“Kaisō Nidai,” in Shigeo Ibunshō, 54. 21 For a brief outline of the history of Kanda-Jinbōchō book town, see Wakimura Yoshitarō, op. cit., especially the second part beginning on page 69. I am also drawing here on my own research for “Kanda Jinbōchō: Tracing the Historical Contours of a “Town of Books” in Tokyo,” presented at the “Book Cultures, Book Events” conference (University of Stirling, UK, 24 March 2012). 22 The name “Kanda-Jinbōchō” comes from the area being labelled “Kanda town” in 1872 during the capital’s re-organization, and Jinbō Hōkinokami, a hatamoto who resided in the area at some point between the end of the 17th and the start of the 19th century. Reflecting this origin, the symbol used by the Kanda-Jinbōchō neighborhood association today is a hatamoto jacket. 200 small offices became the homes of modern statesmen, while the large residences were replaced by schools and hospitals, eventually including among their number Juntendo University, Ochanomizu University, Tokyo University of Science, Hosei University, and Meiji University. Fueled by the expansion of the new education system and the rapid growth of the reading population, the neighborhood rapidly became an unparalleled locus of higher learning, attracting scholars and students from across the country. 23 This created a demand for a wide range of books in the area, as well as a means to meet this need because the high cost involved in purchasing many specialized and foreign-language texts (primarily Western texts, 洋書 yōsho) prompted people to sell these works when they were finished with them. New arrivals sought out second-hand copies to cut down their expenses, perpetuating the cycle, and bookstores, acting as natural mediators in this exchange, rapidly increased as a result. A map of the area in 1903 (see below) indicates a large number of bookstores. Small black squares denote a bookstore or publisher, while the circles inscribed with “文” indicate schools. Already by this date one sees a large number of educational institutions and attendant clusters of publishers and bookstores growing up around them. In other words, before Kanda-Jinbōchō was a book town, it was a school town. 23 See, for example, Suzuki, 71. 201 Fig. 4-1: Kanda-Jinbōchō, 1903 (Source: “Koshotengai no Ikijibiki: Yagi Fukujirō ni Kiku,” http://go-jimbou.info/hon/special/071020_01.html) 24 24 「特集神保町を見守り続けて 70 年 “古書店街の生き字引” 八木福次郎さんに訊く」 202 The feel of the town was changed considerably early in the twentieth century by two events. The first of these was the implementation of municipal electricity. Around 1908 the town was added to the electrical grid and streetcars were soon trundling down Yasukuni Road, which subsequently became the main street of the town and has remained so to this day. 25 The second was the aforementioned blaze that ripped through the town in early 1913, laying waste to many stores which were then replaced with more modern architecture. By then, however, the area had already become indelibly identified with the book trade. The oldest store dedicated to books in the area appears to have been Takayama Honten (高山本店), founded in 1875. The founder had previously been employed as a bowyer for a daimyō, only to see his lord return to his home region, leaving the former employee without a job. One surmises that the latter assessed the local market and opened a book store. Takayama Honten survives to this day, and is a used bookstore specializing in Japanese history and subjects like traditional martial arts and theater. 26 In 1881, Hayashi Yūteki (早矢仕有的, 1837-1901), colleague of Fukuzawa Yukichi and founder of Maruzen (which had opened in Yokohama in “Tokushū Jinbōchō wo Mimamori-tsuzukete nana-jū nen – ‘Koshotengai no Ikijibiki’: Yagi Fukujirō-san ni Kiku,”「神保町へ行こう」 “Jinbōchō e Yukō” website, c. 2010, <http://go-jimbou.info/hon/special/071020_01.html>. 25 Electricity was introduced to Tokyo in the 1880s. Streetcars were introduced first in Kyoto, in 1895, and first ran in Tokyo in 1903. 26 See 「高山本店」“Takayama Honten,”「Jimbou「本の街」神田神保町オフィシャルサイト」 Jimbou: Hon no Machi Kanda Jinbōchō Ofisharu Saito, 2015 <http://jimbou.info/town/ab/ab0099.html>. 203 1869, with a Tokyo branch in Nihonbashi opening the following year), opened a used bookstore in Kanda-Jinbōchō called Nakanishi-ya, taking advantage of the student demand in order to sell remainders and damaged books which could not be moved at Maruzen. 27 It is still in business today. Sanseidō Shoten (三省堂書店), today a chain comprising more than 50 stores throughout the country and stocking some 1.4 million volumes in its 6-story building in Kanda-Jinbōchō, was founded in 1881 by the family of a hatamoto who lived around what is today Meiji University. 28 It entered the publishing industry 1884. One of its most famous competitors, Tōkyōdō Shoten (東京堂書店) was founded in the area in 1891. Even Kōdansha, today Japan’s largest publisher, got its start in the vicinity. Noma Seiji (野間清治, 1878-1938) was a staff member at Tokyo Imperial University, which, after having been cobbled together from Tokyo Kaisei School, Tokyo Medical School, and other schools in the Kanda area, had settled in the Hongō district nearby. 29 Noma recruited students from a debate society – rather grandiosely titled the Dai-Nippon Yūbenkai (大日本雄辯會) – to publish a 27 植村清二 Uemura Seiji,「貿易商会の設立と中西屋の開店」“Bōekishōkai no Setsuritsu to Nakanishi-ya no Kaiten,” in Maruzen, op. cit., 94-96. Hayashi has also been credited for the name of the dish “Hayashi Rice.” 28 Sanseidō actually started out as a geta shop, then re-emerged as a bookstore after being destroyed in a fire (Suzuki, 70). In an era when store assistants sometimes struggled to read foreign titles, founder Kamei Tadakazu’s wife, Kamei Makiko, went to a language school to learn German, English and French one after another to help with the business. She was apparently quite good and highly motivated, impressing her teachers (ibid.). 29 The famous “Red Gate” (赤門 akamon) of Tokyo University was a remnant left over from the residence of the powerful Maeda daimyō family of Kaga Domain. 204 journal called Yūben (雄辯, Eloquence). Unable to interest any publishers in supporting the venture, he instead managed to convince the major printing company Dai Nippon Tosho (大日本図書) to help with the project in early 1910, a successful outcome that Suzuki Shōzō suggests was due to Noma’s affiliation with the university’s Faculty of Law. 30 While the printer had already produced many books written by humanities professors at the university, Noma represented a chance for them to expand their network beyond this circle and make a connection with the law professors. Later his operation merged with the debate society proper and published a journal called Kōdan Kurabu (講談倶楽部, Story Club), from which it took the name Kōdansha, although it truly ascended to the top of Japan’s publishing world only after the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923. 30 Suzuki, 225-226. 205 Fig. 4-2: Used Bookstores in Kanda-Jinbōchō, 1921 (Source: Kanda Koshosekishō-shi, given in Wakimura Yoshitarō, Tōzai-shoshigai-kō, 128-129) 31 31 「神田の古書店」 “Kanda no Koshoten,” in 脇村義太郎 Wakimura Yoshitarō, 『東西書 Iwanami Shoten 206 In other words, by the time Iwanami Shigeo rolled into town, Kanda-Jinbōchō was already established as the center of Japan’s book trade, and was home to many influential bookstores and publishers. It is clear that he was able to open his used bookstore in such a competitive area because of the invaluable support of his friends and family. Yet while he did acknowledge this support in later life, the proprietor also ensured that he was the center of the story – a narrative that was to be shaped not in terms of an anxious young merchant supported by his wife and colleagues, but in terms of an upright and ambitious intellectual with grand visions. A hint of this was provided immediately after the store opened. He drew up a greeting card proclaiming the start of his business, to distribute to customers. It included the following series of aphorisms: 桃李伝はざるも下自ら蹊をなす。低く暮し高く思ふ。天上星辰の輝くあり、我衷に道念の蟠るあり。此地尚美し人たること亦一の喜なり。 32 正しき者に患難多し。正しかる事は永久に正しからざるべからず。正義は最後の勝利者なり。 33 Peaches and plums do not have to talk, yet the world beats a path to them. 34 肆街考』 Tōzai-shoshigai-kō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1979), 128-129. Originally from 『稿本神田古書籍商史 : 年表』 Kōhon Kanda Koshosekishō-shi: Nenpyō (Tokyo: Tōkyō-to Koshosekishō-gyō Kyōdō-kumiai Dai-ichi-shibu, 1964). 32 Logic suggests a comma be inserted after 「美し」 , and indeed in some later renderings Shigeo did precisely that. 「喜び」in place of 「善」also occurs in some renderings. 33 Abe Yoshishige, Iwanami Shigeo-den, 120-121. Also see Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 3. Iwanami Shigeo: Shigeo Ibunshō also includes the text of the main greeting (92), but leaves out the aphorisms; that being said, they appear elsewhere in the same collection because of the inclusion of Shigeo’s 30th anniversary speech which includes them (68-69). 34 A line from Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian. Sima means that the virtue of 207 Plain living and high thinking. 35 As the stars shine in the sky, so does virtue hold sway in my heart. 36 This land is beautiful, and as a human to be part of it is a joy. 37 Many are the afflictions of the righteous. 38 That which is good must be eternally so. 39 Righteousness will triumph in the end. 40 upright individuals, like the fruit of a tree, is naturally appealing and draws the respect of others. Like a peach or plum tree, a virtuous person does not need to proclaim their virtue because others will recognize it instinctively. This suggests that those who proclaim their virtue are in reality lacking. One might question if Iwanami’s use of the phrase in the context of celebrating his new business does not constitute, in fact, the very proclamation of one’s own virtue that the line implicitly warns against. 35 From an 1802 poem by William Wordsworth, entitled “Written in London, September, 1802.” Wordsworth’s poem bemoans the loss of a simple, traditional contemplative way of life in the face of the industrialization and urbanization of the modern era. The phrase “plain living and high thinking,” as an ideal injunction rather than a lament for a lost way of life, was later popularized by Emerson and Thoreau. It became one of Iwanami Shoten’s mantras and is also identified with the company logo based on Millet’s The Sower (see Chapter 6). Toeda Hirokazu (十重田裕一) employs the phrase as the subtitle of his biography of Iwanami,『岩波茂雄：低く暮らし、高く想ふ』Iwanami Shigeo: Hikuku Kurashi, Takaku Omou (Tokyo: Minerva Shobō, 2013). 36 This line recalls tropes in classical Chinese poetry, but thematically was likely inspired by Daniel 12:3 (“And they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever”). The verse celebrates people of wisdom, particularly those who lead others in the right direction, and suggests eternal rewards for those engaged in such activity. The implications for a bookseller, as a would-be font of wisdom for the populace, would be both immediately apparent and highly appealing. 37 A line from Friedrich Schiller, celebrating the tie between humanity and nature rather than a struggle between the two. Given that Schiller’s work was strongly informed by an association between the beautiful and the moral, Iwanami is likely here simply celebrating the pursuit of literary and artistic ends (that is, seeking the beautiful in human creative output) as both natural and as a form of moral cultivation. 38 A line from Psalm 34:19. The context of Iwanami’s invocation of this line suggests he self-identified with it rather than intending to simply convey a statement of fact that good people face many trials. Is Iwanami attempting to praise his customers through reference to their struggles, or hold up his own as an example? 39 In other words, that which is truly good cannot be anything other than good: a rejection of moral relativism. Possibly inspired by Immanuel Kant’s The Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals, wherein Kant states that something good-in-itself (an unqualified good) is constantly and eternally so and never merely good insofar as it is a means to an end. A good will is the only thing that can possibly meet this criteria. 40 From a piece by Uchimura Kanzō (specifically, the section entitled「有神論の証明」 “Yūshinron no Shōmei”) in the 20 October 1901 issue (#14) of his『聖書之研究』Seisho no 208 Aphorisms were often instilled in Meiji-era youth in classes both for language instruction and as didactic exercises. Some were no doubt encountered by Iwanami in such circumstances; Abe noted that Iwanami had long been fond of these particular sayings. 41 His enthusiasm was clearly not lessened by the passage of time, for he repeated them all again in a speech at a dinner celebrating the 30th anniversary of the store’s opening. 42 Iwanami stated (in the same speech) that these sayings reflected his hopes for his store, and this bears a little consideration. One would normally not expect the opening of a business to be framed in the terms of a righteous mission. Yet here we have the enterprise in question – a used bookstore, recall – associated with an idealistic moral vision. Iwanami Shigeo’s articulation of his store in such terms, and by extension himself as a constant, virtuous man beset by difficulty, may seem at odds with the image of a sensitive and anxious intellectual seen in Iwanami’s student days, or the practical realities of a businessman entering a new and competitive market. One is tempted to suggest that Iwanami was seeking to present himself as how he wished to be – a confident and worldly intellectual – rather than how he was. Clearly this Kenkyū journal. The original line runs「世は誠実を以ってのみ勝つことが出来ます。世に虚偽多しと雖も、虚偽を以って之に勝つことは出来ません。正義はやはり最後の勝利者であります」 ( 『内村鑑三全集』 , Uchimura Kanzō Zenshū, vol. 9 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1981), 368). Uchimura treats the notion that righteousness, or (true) justice, will ultimately triumph as a common one and suggests that holding such a notion is proof that one believes in God, given that righteousness is determined by the divine and not the human. 41 Abe, op. cit., 121. 42 Iwanami Shigeo, “Kaiko Sanjū-nen Kansha Bansankai no Aisatsu,” 69-70. The speech was first published in the December 1942 issue of 『図書』Tosho. 209 connects to the conventional portrayal of him as an upright and thoughtful fellow driven by high ideals rather than base profit, a public portrayal Iwanami himself carefully cultivated and one that was then continued by Abe Yoshishige and subsequent generations of Iwanami Shoten staff. 43 At the same time, the aphorisms may be taken as serving a more practical purpose. In an era when business people generally, and those in the book trade in particular, were looked down upon by intellectuals, Iwanami’s portrayal of himself as a sort of honest, moral merchant may be construed as an attempt to deflect such negative assumptions. Similarly, the mixed origins of the seven aphorisms – West and East, ancient and modern – suggest a show of worldly learning, a type of shibboleth of sorts to convey to his would-be intellectual clients that he was one of them. Although Iwanami Shoten primarily sold used books, it also began stocking new books and journals, quickly morphing into a general-purpose bookstore aimed at an educated market. By early 1914 it was selling the prestigious Tetsugaku Zasshi among other major intellectual journals. Right from the start, however, Iwanami Shigeo was not interested in following the conventional bookstore practices followed by other sellers in town. The most important innovation to consider is the “set price” system (正札販売 shōfuta hanbai), referring to a 43 This is particularly interesting in light of how while Abe Yoshishige has immense respect for his friend he makes it clear that Shigeo was no saint, mentioning, for instance, the affairs that he carried on in his later years. Yet the public image of Shigeo today tends to be even more sanitized, depicting him simply as an idealistic and moral man who profoundly shaped intellectual society – an image that, as this project has delineated so far, was no doubt true to some extent, but which obscures the more complex and nuanced individual behind it. 210 pricing scheme wherein merchandise was accorded a set price by the merchant that varied neither by customer nor by time. Previously, books did not carry set prices, and customers expected, and were expected, to haggle with the proprietor. This aspect of merchant culture was common and did not apply only to books by any means. By the end of the nineteenth century, department stores had begun to introduce limited set prices, but the Japanese retail world was overwhelmingly still one of customers and merchants routinely haggling. Iwanami’s decision to dispense with this and assign set prices to his entire inventory ended up causing a ripple effect that led to other proprietors implementing fixed prices as well. Consequently, Iwanami Shigeo has often been given at least partial credit for pioneering this system in Japan’s retail world. Almost all accounts of Iwanami Shigeo’s life and Iwanami Shoten as an institution specifically mention set prices, and often credit Iwanami with the innovation. 44 This decision is often explained not as a strategic business decision, but in terms of fairness and responsibility to one’s customers. Historian Nakajima Takeshi’s assessment is a typical example, drawing on Iwanami’s own statements: 44 See, for example, Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 3, which notes the innovation and also the opposition to the practice before it caught on elsewhere. See also Abe, Iwanami Shigeo-den, 123. Iwanami Shigeo too tended to credit himself for the set price system, at least among bookstores, such as in one speech where he stated that he picked up the idea from department stores because as a student he hated how prices changed (岩波茂雄 Iwanami Shigeo, 「回顧三十年」“Kaiko Sanjūnen,” in 日本図書センター Nihon Tosho Sentā, ed.,『岩波茂雄――茂雄遺文抄』 Iwanami Shigeo: Shigeo Ibunshō (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 9-29; 14). 211 For Iwanami, the pursuit of profit through negotiation with customers was a guilty act. For him, the pursuit of a “true life without lies” meant setting a proper price and conducting business sincerely. He eliminated all negotiation with customers, and kept his style of “doing business only with those who trust my store.” Iwanami said, “I want my store to be a third empire 45 in business. I want my store to be a castle built on my own personality 46 .” 47 Iwanami’s references to his store as a “third empire” or “a castle built on my own personality,” taken from an essay he wrote, continue the theme of business as a virtuous endeavor and take it to the extreme, associating the bookstore with the pursuit of moral perfection that would usher in a new enlightened age. 48 As someone who was not only a monkasei but also a long-time member of Christian thinker Uchimura Kanzō’s circle, and someone well-versed in Christian thought, Iwanami Shigeo’s use of such imagery appears not only dramatic but almost pretentious. However, without detracting from the significance of the ideals motivating Iwanami 45 第三帝国 daisen teikoku. In contemporary times this usually refers to the Nazi Third Reich, but Iwanami was referring to the Christian concept of an ideal state that was yet to come. It is rooted in the work of medieval Italian philosopher and mystic Joachim of Fiore (1135-1202), who divided history into three great ages: the Age of the Father (corresponding to the era of the Old Testament), the Age of the Son (associated with the New Testament, and lasting from the advent of Christ until 1260), and the Age of the Holy Spirit (from 1260 onward). This third age was to be characterized by rule by the virtuous and just, making the Church obsolete, and by the direct experience of God, bringing believers into an unparalleled realm of love, peace and freedom. For more on Joachim, see Marjorie Reeves, Joachim of Fiore & the Prophetic Future: A Medieval Study in Historical Thinking (Stroud : Sutton Pub. Ltd., 1999), 2nd ed. 46 An expression that suggests a total self-identification with the business, but one that also recalls the two builders in Matthew 7:24-27. Iwanami is suggesting that his own character, identified (by him) as grounded in strong moral principles, presents a worthy foundation upon which to build a strong, enduring business. 47 Nakajima, 62. 48 As to the essay in question, see Iwanami Shigeo, 「教師より本屋に」 “Kyōshi yori Honya ni,” circulated but apparently not published until the appearance of 栗田書店 Kurita Shoten, ed., 『岩波書店岩波茂雄』Iwanami Shoten, Iwanami Shigeo (Tokyo: Kurita Shoten, 1968) in the 「出版人の遺文」 Shuppanjin no Ibun series, and republished in 書肆心水 Shoshi Shinsui, ed., 『出版巨人創業物語』Shuppan Kyojin Sōgyō Monogatari (Tokyo: Shoshi Shinsui, 2006). 212 Shigeo to introduce set prices, it was also just as likely that he was seeking to distinguish himself from his more established rivals by offering consistent prices and consequently faster service. His anxiety may also have played a role, since fixed prices eliminated the need to verbally wrestle with aggressive customers set on getting the best deal. In any event, Iwanami was not actually the first proprietor to implement a fixed-price system. That credit likely belongs to Nakamura-ya (中村屋), a confectionary and bakery established by Sōma Aizō (相馬愛蔵 1870-1954) and his wife Kokkō (相馬黒光 1876-1955) in 1901. 49 Sōma later offered advice to Iwanami, but his case is also worth considering because it helps shed light on some of the issues faced by entrepreneurs at the time who, like Iwanami, may have struggled to reconcile their ideals with the realities of running a business. The Sōma couple were motivated by Protestant Christianity, Aizō especially: he firmly 49 Aizō and Kokkō had previously been engaged in silkworm production in Sōma’s hometown of Azumino, Nagano, before coming to Tokyo in 1901. Originally their store, located across from Tokyo University’s akamon, was a bakery run by someone by the name of Nakamura, but when it faltered and was going out of business Sōma bought it and took it over (a business practice called inuki). It subsequently retained the original name despite the change in ownership. In 1904 the store became famous for being the first to introduce kuriimu pan (custard brioche) in Japan. It moved to Shinjuku in 1907, finally settling into a building there two years later that it still occupies today. For more on Nakamura-ya, see Aizō’s memoir, 『一商人として――所信と体験』 Ichi Shōnin toshite: Shoshin to Taiken (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972; originally published in 1938), and Kokkō’s autobiography,『黙移――相馬黒光自伝』Mokui: Sōma Kokkō Jiden (Tokyo: Josei Jidaisha, 1936; reprinted by Heibonsha in 1999). As a businesswoman and spirited presence in an intellectual circle, Kokkō has attracted a degree of scholarly attention. See 臼井吉見 Usui Yoshimi, 『安曇野』 Azumino (Tokyo: Chikuma Bunko, 1987 ), 5 vols., and in English, see Okuda Akiko, “The Conflict of Tradition and Modernity,” in Okuda and Okano Haruko, eds., Women and Religion in Japan, trans. Alison Watts (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998), 103-124 esp. 112-119. 213 believed that businessmen needed to manifest Christian virtue in their endeavors. Upon learning from the account records that the previous owners of Nakamura-ya had been living beyond their means, enjoying luxuries while underpaying their employees, he was unimpressed, having decided that employer and employee should enjoy the good times together and share the struggles in the bad. 50 While Sōma acknowledged his predecessors’ hard work, he also implicitly criticized their sharp demarcation between business owner and employee, regularly indulging in luxuries while their employees struggled to eat. In a similar manner he framed his decision to implement set prices as the result of a strong desire to treat all his customers equally and ensure they could count on a consistent price, a notion that was echoed in descriptions of Iwanami’s price policy, as seen above. 51 Sōma took this thinking to extremes. Having preset prices alone was not sufficient for him. He came to find the very notion of discount sales not only undesirable but morally unacceptable. At one time his staff had begun to imitate a department store by launching a discount sale, but even with the coupon advertisements printed and ready to go Sōma was overcome with doubt, fearing the sale would be unfair to people who had made purchases at the normal price. Wracked with feelings of guilt, he destroyed all the coupons (by dramatically casting them into the baking 50 Sōma Aizō, Ichi Shōnin toshite, 14-15. 51 Ibid., 56-59. Sōma uses the term “regular price” (正価販売 seika hanbai) but the meaning here – pre-determined, unnegotiable prices not subject to discount – is identical. Hence my decision to render this term too as “set price.” 214 oven fire, no less), called off the sale, and prohibited any future sales as well. 52 Reflecting on the policy in his 1938 memoir, in a section appropriately titled “Burning the Discount Coupons,” Sōma wrote, In December 1906, it had been fully five years since my wife and I had taken over Nakamura-ya. […] Thirty years on, my thinking has not changed even a little. No matter how much the world pursues fads of bargain sales, and no matter how much customers’ hearts may be swung in that direction, our Nakamura-ya will never give discounts. Through thick and thin, we have consistently operated by standing on set prices. In other words, the set prices mean counting on truly set prices that Nakamura-ya simply cannot discount, not even for a moment. Diligence to these set prices is the very life of our Nakamura-ya. 53 This was not the only time when practical business sense ran up against Sōma’s religious convictions. On another occasion he observed a neighboring business, a grocery store, selling foodstuffs almost at cost, and was flabbergasted as to how they could turn a profit. He mentioned it to a trader who happened by both shops, and learned that the store worked by drawing in customers with a cheap offering, then encouraging them to buy more once they were inside – a typical sales tactic still employed by businesses around the world today. Learning that the store made the bulk of its profit hawking alcohol to customers at twice the wholesale price, Sōma, despite his reservations about alcohol, followed suit and began selling liquor – only to be chastised on the following day by an even more stringent Uchimura Kanzō, who said alcohol was the “devil’s drink” and complained that he had only been patronizing Sōma’s establishment 52 Ibid., 56-58. 53 Ibid., 56, 58. Emphasis mine. 215 in the first place because of the latter’s heretofore excellent ethics. So rebuked, Sōma promptly gave up selling alcohol as well. 54 This was several years before Iwanami Shigeo opened his own store, and it was not by coincidence that Iwanami Shoten was soon implementing a set price system like Sōma had been running. Both Iwanami and Sōma hailed from Nagano, and shared an admiration for Uchimura Kanzō. 55 When Iwanami started his own business, he went to consult Sōma, seeking advice from the experienced proprietor. 56 A modern merchant who was clearly both idealistic and interested in intellectual pursuits – he himself oversaw an artistic and literary circle – Sōma, eleven years Iwanami’s senior, was a natural inspiration for the younger merchant. 57 Iwanami himself even admitted in his thirtieth anniversary speech that he had been inspired by Nakamura-ya and Sōma, but he never specifically gave the shop or its proprietor credit for the set price policy, enabling him (without necessarily any duplicitous intent) to take credit himself. 58 54 Ibid., 28-31. 55 Toeda, 31-32. 56 Ibid., also see Kōno, op. cit., 32-33. 57 Sōma is also known to have supported other ambitious younger people from Nagano associated with Uchimura Kanzō’s circle, such as Iguchi Kigenji (井口喜源冶 1870-1938), who established the Christian private school Kenseigi Juku. See葛井義憲 Fujii Yoshinori,『闇を照らした人々―相馬黒光・山室軍平・石井十次・井口喜源治論』Yami wo Terashita Hitobito: Soma Kokkō / Yamamuro Gunpei / Ishii Jūji / Iguchi Kigenji Ron (Tokyo: Shinkyō Shuppansha, 1992). 58 Iwanami Shigeo, “Kaiko Sanjū-nen Kansha Bansankai no Aisatsu,” 68. 216 While Iwanami Shoten was not the first establishment to implement a fixed-price policy in twentieth-century Japan, it was nevertheless one of the earliest, and may likely have been the first bookstore with such a policy. Initially this actually made things difficult for Iwanami: customers who felt they could haggle for a better price simply went elsewhere. Over time, however, the policy became seen as a sign of consistency, and was embraced by customers and the industry. It should be remembered that Nakamura-ya too, for all Sōma’s eccentricities, was enormously successful, its proprietor “achieving success as a businessman by not abiding by the usual commercial practices of the time and following through with set prices,” in the words of literary scholar Kōno Kensuke. 59 As other bookstores and then publishers adopted a set price policy, eventually there was an impetus to develop a shared system of price controls, leading to the price being printed on the book itself, as continues to be the case with Japanese books today. Iwanami Shigeo’s implementation of a set price policy foreshadowed how he would proceed with many other elements of bookselling and publishing: he was not a great innovator himself, but could recognize a good idea when he saw one, and was skilled at adapting innovations from elsewhere to suit his own business. When Iwanami was building his business, Sōseki acted as something of a patron for the operation. One of the ways the writer supported Iwanami’s endeavor was financial, with a 59 Kōno, 32. 217 considerable amount of the bookseller’s capital being borrowed from his mentor. While the specifics of these transactions, if ever recorded – not always likely given Sōseki’s notoriously bad grasp of his own finances – are not extant, it is well-known that Iwanami borrowed money from Sōseki on several occasions during the early days of his business. As Kōno observes, “In a way, one could say Sōseki lent the working capital to Iwanami Shoten in the early days of its business. He gave the new bookstore both the capital and the opportunity to become a big business.” 60 Although this financial support was essential, the greatest asset Sōseki had to offer Iwanami was the former’s cultural capital as a leading literary figure. The most obvious way he did this was in the form of creating the sign for the bookstore, writing the calligraphy for the four characters comprising “Iwanami Shoten” that were then used to construct the physical sign itself. In fact, according to Abe Yoshishige, it was to ask Sōseki for this favor that Abe first took Iwanami along to the Sōseki Sanbō. 61 After all, although he already knew several members of the Mokuyōkai, it was only from around this time that Iwanami could be said to have genuinely become a figure in the Sōseki-centered circle. Abe portrays Sōseki as enthusiastically agreeing and making the sign, but the process did not proceed so smoothly. In fact, while a touching gesture, the sign was nearly a cause of friction 60 Kōno, 53. 61 Abe, op. cit., 137-138. 218 because despite having promised to write it, Sōseki struggled to complete the project to his satisfaction: he produced one version after another in a heap, his relentless perfectionism preventing him from passing any of them to Iwanami. A frustrated Shigeo, short on time and patience, paid a visit to Sōseki’s residence and stumbled upon the drafts. He surreptitiously chose a version he liked, and ran off with it to craft the sign, an act that initially angered Sōseki but that he soon came to forgive and accept in good humor. 62 The outcome of the incident clearly showed how close Iwanami and his mentor were. It was also well worth the trouble, because the sign became a major selling point for the store, even featuring in the press: Mr. Iwanami Shigeo, who had been the vice principal at Kanda Girls’ Higher School, suddenly resigned about one month ago, and opened a second-hand bookstore in Jinbochō. He had asked Natsume Sōseki, to write the four characters “Iwanami Shoten” of the store sign, and he obliged. Among the four characters, the character for “book” [sho] is very well-done, but the character for “store” [ten] is not very good. Someone who examined this said that it is because Sōseki always hates the character for store, so it turned out badly because of that. (Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, 12 September 1913) 63 It is impossible to avoid seeing how even the sign was understood in the dynamics of the presumed dichotomy between culture and commerce: as a great writer, it was taken for granted that Sōseki loved books and disparaged business, and this is offered – based on no evidence 62 竹内洋 Takeuchi Yō, 『教養主義の没落』Kyōyōshugi no Botsuraku (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronshinsha, 2003), 138-139. Takeuchi gleaned the story from critic 塩沢実信 Shiozawa Minobu, a friend of Sōseki’s grandson 夏目房之介 Natsume Fusanosuke (incorrectly referred to by Takeuchi as 夏目房之助), via Shiozawa’s piece「岩波書店と漱石の『こころ』」“Iwanami Shoten to Sōseki no Kokoro,” 『流動』Ryūdō (July 1979). 63 Cited in Toeda, 32. 219 whatsoever – as an explanation for how Sōseki wrote the sign. Yet it would be far more logical to see the sign as not a criticism, but an endorsement, of the book trade. Indeed one suspects that Sōseki, well aware of the legitimating power his sign would confer on Iwanami Shoten, understood the production of the sign as an attempt to assert himself more firmly within the commerce of books, particularly in light of his frustrations with others involved in the trade such as his prior publishers (a topic explored in the following chapter). One finds oneself inclined to agree with Kōno, who sees Sōseki’s decision to produce the sign as representing a turning point both in his relationship with Iwanami and in his relationship with the print culture of the era: Sōseki was not being consulted about the opening of Iwanami Shoten right from the start. Through Abe, Iwanami had visited Sōseki Sanbō for the first time. It was from that time that regular interaction [between Iwanami and Sōseki] began. Thus there was only a span of some four years from 1913 to Sōseki’s death in 1916. But in those four years, Iwanami Shigeo solidified his status as a publisher. We cannot know how Sōseki – who “readily agreed” [to support Iwanami’s venture] – found this person – who at the age of 32 had abandoned his teaching job and opened a used bookstore – loveable. However, Iwanami’s conviction and enthusiasm, demonstrated in his opening flyer, must have seen like an extraordinary thing to Sōseki. At the same time, it is difficult to think that Sōseki was indifferent to the circulation and reception [of books] that supported Japanese print culture. […] His agreement to create the sign for the store hints at Sōseki’s approach to economics and commerce. 64 The sign could thus be seen as representing not only Sōseki’s blessing for Iwanami’s enterprise, but also a statement of his commitment to the book trade. The sign was a great source of cultural capital in the form of the foremost writer of the era putting his stamp on a publishing enterprise. 64 Kōno, 40. 220 At a time when publishing was considered a low business, his action represented both prestige and legitimacy for Iwanami Shoten that distinguished it from competitors. Fig. 4-3: Wooden panel depicting the original calligraphy by Sōseki used for the Iwanami Shoten store sign. Today it is still displayed in the lobby of the main Iwanami Shoten building. (Source: author’s own photograph) The original sign was tragically lost when Kanda was nearly completely destroyed by the firestorms that followed in the wake of the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923. Shigeo’s efforts to pry the sign from the wall and save it were in vain. The account by Kobayashi Isamu – a prominent Iwanami Shoten editor, and later Shigeo’s son-in-law and successor – suggests that the sign had already been moved to an interior wall, but this is difficult to establish: “The “Iwanami Shoten” sign written by Sōseki could not be taken off the wall of the retail section [during the disaster].” 65 The sign’s fate has also led to some confusion since Iwanami Shoten today proudly displays “the original sign” in their lobby, which is clearly an impossibility if it 65 Kobayashi Isamu, Sekirekishō Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den, 57. In English, Edward Mack mentions this incident in Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature: Publishing, Prizes, and the Ascription of Literary Value (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010), 71-72. 221 was consumed by the fire (see Fig. 4-3). Photographs of the store sign in place at the time, however, clearly show that the characters were in carved relief crafted from wood or metal and (at least initially) affixed to the front of the store (see Fig. 4-4), whereas the current Iwanami Shoten artifact is a single piece of wood with the characters written upon it. Fig. 4-4. Iwanami Shoten storefront in April, 1918. The relief sign, affixed to railings on the second floor, is clearly visible. A sales sign at the extreme right advertises the Sōseki Zenshū. (Source: Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 17) This necessitates some explanation. What Sōseki originally produced was neither the wooden panel nor the storefront relief characters, both of which were created from his original template (presumably on paper). Abe Yoshishige clearly states, “Sōseki immediately agreed [to write a sign for Iwanami], and wrote “Iwanami Shoten” in large characters. The characters at that 222 time became a picture for the store, and also a sign in metal characters modelled on them was [prepared] for the [storefront] roof, but both the picture and the sign were destroyed during the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923.” 66 In other words, Soseki’s original calligraphic work must have been used to decorate the store interior, while simultaneously put to use to create a set of metal relief characters for the front and at least one wooden duplicate. There were therefore at least three instances of the Iwanami Shoten sign: 1) Original calligraphy. Framed paper, store interior. Lost to the fire. 1b) Alternative variations rejected by Sōseki. Paper. Fate unknown. 2) Main store sign. 4 metal relief characters, storefront. Lost to the fire. 3) Duplicate decorative sign. Wooden, likely traced from #1. Providence uncertain. Extant. It is entirely possible that the decorative wooden sign was in fact made from tracing the original calligraphy for the purpose of making the store sign. In any event, it is the only surviving remnant of the sign. The highly flammable nature of the original and the fact that the storefront sign was composed of individual metal characters presumably affixed to the front at multiple points would account for the difficulty in attempting to rescue either during the blaze. The fact that even when his business was literally going up in smoke Iwanami Shigeo struggled 66 Abe, 138. 223 to save, of all things, the store sign, speaks to the value that this totem from his mentor commanded. His frustration at being unable to save it must have been immense. Sōseki also encouraged Iwanami’s business by ordering books from him. Soon he was counting on Iwanami Shoten regularly, sending Shigeo advertisements he had clipped for books he wanted, often on the second-hand market. This practice continued long after Iwanami had become a publisher as well. To give one extant example: 1916 Greetings. If you can get the book in the enclosed advertisement cheaply, even if it’s second-hand, please purchase it for me. If the book does not seem to be on the second-hand market, I am thinking to purchase it for 7 Yen; what do you think? 22 February Natsume Kinnosuke To Iwanami Shigeo 67 This extended to foreign-language books as well, as the following letter illustrates: 1916 Greetings. Thank you for bringing me that book the other day. The place I bought that Chinese book from is the closer of the two to you, and they have [another] Chinese book called “清詩別裁” [Qingshi biecai, Discerning Collection of Qing Poetry]. I was going to buy the book at the time, but was overwhelmed just going there once. 68 But I still want the book, so I want you to purchase and deliver it to me. I think the price is about 3 or 4 Yen. I will pay when your storeboy comes, so please tell him about that. 18 October Natsume Kin 69 To Iwanami Shigeo 70 67 Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 24, 513. 68 It is difficult to ascertain Sōseki’s precise meaning, but he likely means he either found so many books that he was overwhelmed and neglected to purchase the one he needed, or he found the experience itself stressful and thus left without having purchased everything he needed. 69 A nickname Sōseki occasionally used when signing correspondence. 70 Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 24, 578. 224 Sometimes Sōseki even turned to Iwanami simply because he could not be bothered to fetch books by himself for whatever reason. For instance, if the weather was bad: 1916 Greetings. Could you please purchase the four volumes in the advertisement that I have enclosed with this letter, and bring them to me at my house? My apologies for causing you trouble every time, but it is so troublesome for me to go out in this bad weather today, so I will ask you. 17 November Natsume Kinnosuke To Iwanami Shigeo 71 Letters like these show the significance of advertising at the time, with Sōseki engaging in the common practice of clipping ads for books that caught his eye. Students, writers and other intellectuals tended to use clipped ads as a shopping reminder or took them to their favorite bookstore to have the featured books put on order. While Sōseki sought to support his disciple’s business venture, he also clearly found it convenient to count on Iwanami for book-related matters. In addition to turning to Iwanami for help procuring and delivering books, Sōseki also consulted his disciple for general advice concerning recommended books and education matters, as the following example illustrates: 1916 Greetings. A young Zen monk sent me the following letter, “…since I have some free time these days, I am interested in learning philosophy. However, I do not know anything about philosophy, so I have no idea what book would be a good place to start learning about it. …. Could you please let me know any good books you would recommend? I also hear that there are various schools of philosophy, so if you have some time, please tell me which school would be good [to start studying].” 71 Ibid., vol. 24, 590. 225 I want to send some books to the person in question. Please send him one or two books that you consider to be good, and I will pay the cost later. The addressee is: Kimura Motonari, Eifukuji-nai, Kannonzaki, Shimonoseki. 14 August Natsume Kinnosuke To Iwanami Shigeo 72 This type of practice was mutually beneficial. Sōseki received immense volumes of mail from people who would ask his advice about philosophical, political, or social issues, and being able to send anything book-related to Iwanami no doubt took some of the pressure off him. At the same time, this proved a boon for Iwanami, who not only enjoyed additional sources of income but also benefitted from his name being spread far and wide under the celebratory wing of one of the era’s leading writers. With a decent business model, family connections in the center of Tokyo’s book town, and the support of his friends and most especially his mentor Sōseki, Iwanami Shigeo was in a good position to thrive as a bookstore proprietor. He had done his utmost to frame the establishment of the store and its practices as intellectual endeavors driven by high ideals more than financial gain, and endorsed by the legitimating power of his mentor. His ambitions, however, were not yet satisfied. Not long after Iwanami Shoten was founded, its proprietor had already begun to contemplate a pursuing a still more active role in intellectual culture: that of publishing. Iwanami Enters Publishing: Context and Motives Anyone seeking influence as a publisher of intellectual works in the late Meiji and Taishō 72 Ibid., 573. 226 eras needed to be securely situated in Tokyo. 73 While in the Edo Period several cities outside of Edo had served as prominent publishing centers (including Osaka and Nagoya), during the Meiji Period Tokyo rapidly came to dominate the world of print culture to a heretofore unseen degree. 74 It was the location of almost all the major publishers and the national-scope newspapers, as well as the leading institutions of higher learning. The unparalleled opportunities Tokyo offered intellectuals for study and work reinforced the centering of publishing there, as both the primary creators and consumers of literary works were to be found in the metropolis. The steam presses and increasing industrialization of printing began at the end of the nineteenth century, but only in the 1910s did the full potential of this become unleashed in the publishing world. The industry had already grown substantially in the wake of the Sino-Japanese War (1894-1985) and Russo-Japanese War (1904-1905), and as newspapers and advertising flourished, and as the educated reading public (including women) grew exponentially, opportunities expanded in turn for ventures into mass-market publishing for literary and philosophical works. 75 Publishers often handled both books of various types and journals, a 73 For an outline of the history of books and publishing during the Meiji period, see 庄司浅水 Shōji Sensui『日本の書物――古代から現代まで』Nihon no Shobutsu: Kodai kara Gendai made (Tokyo: Bijutsu Shuppansha, 1978). For other relevant works, see Chapter 1, as well as the author’s “The History of Books and Print Culture in Japan: The State of the Discipline,” Book History 14 (2011): 270-304. 74 Edward Mack refers to this phenomenon as the “concentration of print capital” (Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature, 17). 75 Women were a growing market for the new print culture as well as men; see Mara Patessio, “Readers and Writers: Japanese Women and Magazines in the Late Nineteenth Century,” in P.F. 227 natural enough relationship for those in the intellectual market since popular literary journals appealed to, and carried works by, the same young writers reading and producing the books. “Literature” (文学 bungaku) was an evolving concept; through much of the Meiji era it was an inclusive category that included scholarly studies and other types of writing. This was reflected in the『出版月評』Shuppan Geppyō, an influential review of recent publications begun in 1887 that covered scholarship and novels and was aimed at a fairly high-brow audience. 76 Tomitsuka Masaki observes that the present-day meaning of “literature” – a more exclusive category carrying associations of literary merit and authority – emerged around 1875 but took quite some time to become established. 77 By Iwanami’s time the newer conception of “literature” was firmly on the rise, but there was as of yet no authoritative agreement as to what constituted literary merit or what the “essential works” of past and present eras were. 78 Iwanami himself was to play a key role in establishing literary canons, as the following chapters show. Kornicki, et al., eds., The Female as Subject: Reading and Writing in Early Modern Japan (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 2010), 191-213. On the growth and experience of the reading public in general in the late Meiji era, see 永嶺重敏 Nagamine Shigetoshi, 『＜読書国民＞の誕生――明治３０年代の活字メディアと読書文化』 “Dokusho Kokumin” no Tanjō: Meiji sanjū-nendai no Katsuji Media to Dokusho Bunka (Tokyo: Nihon Editāsukūru Shuppanbu, 2004). 76 富塚昌輝 Tomitsuka Masaki, 「序文考――『出版月評』の言説を契機に」“Jobunkō: Shuppan Geppyō no Gensetsu wo Keiki ni,” lecture at meeting of history section of Japan Society for Publishing Studies (日本出版学会歴史部会), 9 October, 2009 (Tokyo). 77 Ibid. 78 On the creation of literature as a modern category and issues related to canonization, see for instance Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature (op. cit.), and Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki, eds., Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001). 228 While the turn of the century offered many opportunities for publishing ventures, and saw the emergence of numerous publishers – in addition to those like Kōdansha and Yūhikaku mentioned above, new publishers included Chūō Kōronsha (1886) and Shinchōsha (1896) – there were also substantial challenges facing those in the trade. One was the distribution system. 79 Distribution networks suffered from often being highly limited. This was especially true for journals, which tended to orbit around particular intellectual circles or groups of students at schools. As Louise Young correctly observes, many writers were associated with university-based publications and coterie journals with extremely limited circulation and unreliable financing. 80 However, this situation held true even for many established journals, and books too suffered from limited reach when published by small-scale outfits. Even larger, reputable publishers often had spotty distribution networks outside of the greater Tokyo area. Financing was another issue. Established publishers often employed an advance payment model where a book was advertised to prospective buyers who would order in advance, thereby funding the actual printing of the text. This led to no small degree of conflict with readers who found the final product somewhat lacking in comparison to what they had been promised, or 79 On distribution, see, for example, 高橋正実 Takahashi Masami, 「出版流通機構の変遷―― 一六○三～一九四五」“Shuppan Ryūtsūkikō no Hensen: 1903-1945,” 『出版研究』 Shuppan Kenkyū 13 (1982): 188-228. 80 Louise Young, Beyond the Metropolis: Second Cities and Modern Life in Interwar Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 51-52. 229 were left holding the bag if the publisher folded before completing the project. This contributed to the image of publishers as unreliable or even unethical individuals. 81 Printing was usually carried out by external printing specialists, not in house by the publisher itself, a feature that has remained an enduring characteristic of even large Japanese publishing houses to the present. Printing thus required a publisher to maintain yet another set of good connections, and the costs involved could be tricky when planning a project. For example, just a month before Iwanami opened his store, the Tokyo Printers’ Trade Association (東京印刷同業組合) decided to raise the cost of printing by 20 percent. 82 In short, publishing brought with it significant difficulties and frustrations. In considering Iwanami Shigeo’s motivation in pursuing printing, the conventional narrative is that established by Abe Yoshishige in his Iwanami Shigeo-den, namely that Iwanami was a dedicated intellectual who sought to inspire and help not only his intellectual colleagues but the community at large by contributing to the diffusion of ideas throughout society. This motivation is held up to be both admirable and unique, or at least particularly special. It is, moreover, the view informing the official Iwanami Shoten publications, and is still offered by scholars, 81 The situation was bad enough that it was at times parodied in the media with cartoons and the like. See, for example, 湯本豪一 Yumoto Kōichi,『明治ものの流行事典（絵で見る歴史シリーズ）』Meiji-mono no Ryūkō Jiten [E de Miru Rekishi Shiriizu] (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 2005), 136-137. 82 Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 3. 230 including in English in J. Thomas Rimer’s piece on Iwanami. 83 One should note that it is certainly possible to give Iwanami Shigeo his due as an intellectual and a dedicated disciple of Sōseki without reducing him, however, to a caricature. He was a stubborn but sensitive person who was also a remarkably astute and successful businessman, and these elements were not mutually exclusive. Now it was not unheard of for bookstore proprietors to evolve into publishers: as mentioned earlier, publishers like Yūhikaku, Kanehara Shuppan, and Sanseidō had started out as bookstores. 84 Publishers that began as used book stores also often remained entrenched in the cultural milieu of the book town. 85 However, despite their key role in intellectual culture, the proprietors of such establishments often had limited education and no pretense to intellectual status themselves. This did not mean intellectuals categorically avoided careers in publishing at the time: one can think of the Chūō Kōron founders for example, or Noma Seiji, who for all of his populist pretensions later on was at first a believer in self-cultivation trends who simply 83 J. Thomas Rimer, “Iwanami Shigeo’s Meiji Education: Encounters, Transmissions,” in Helen Hardacre with Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 136-150. 84 Further, there was an Edo-era precedent for bookstores turning into publishers, facilitated by the tight-knit relations between the production and selling of books. In this regard, the situation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries represented the expansion of an existing pattern rather than a true innovation. See, for example, 清水英夫 Shimizu Hideo, 金平聖之助 Kanehira Shounosuke, and 小林一博 Kobayashi Kazuhiro, 『書店』 Shoten (Tokyo: Kyōikusha, 1977), 39-42. 85 Iwanami Shoten has always been considered part of the Kanda book scene and Kanda used book town, even after it evolved beyond a used bookstore. See, for example,「古本屋街 4」 “Furuhonya-machi,” part 4, Asahi Shinbun 22 Nov. 1977, pg. 21. 231 backed away from more intellectual pursuits when these became less popular. Iwanami Shigeo was therefore joining a subset of the intellectual community in which he was no doubt a minority, but by no means unique. His status as an intellectual insider was clearly enhanced by his being a recognized disciple of Sōseki, which was just about as “in” as one could be in terms of intellectual circles at the time. From another perspective, however, he may have seen himself as something of an outsider. For one thing, publishers were depended upon by the Japanese intellectual community but generally distrusted by them, not because they were not necessarily well-educated, but rather because of the presumed “taint” of business and profit. In a situation mirrored elsewhere around the world where commercial and cultural activities were often presumed to be incompatible, or at least to be unhappy bedfellows, modern Japanese publishers had to deal with the presumed dichotomy between intellectual endeavor and mercantile vocation. 86 It was not unheard of for intellectuals to make snarky comments about publishers or attempt to exclude them from intellectual gatherings. This situation persisted right through the prewar era. To give but one 86 In other words, the relationship between commerce and culture that is deployed as a framing device in so much scholarship on publishing: to give but a few examples from a range of sub-fields, consider Harold Love, The Culture and Commerce of Texts: Scribal Publication in Seventeenth-Century England (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1993), Ayako Hotta-Lister and Ian Nish, eds., Commerce and Culture at the 1910 Japan-British Exhibition: Centenary Perspectives (Leiden: Brill, 2013), and Cynthia Brokaw, Commerce in Culture: The Sibao Book Trade in the Qing and Republican Periods (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). For a consideration of the publishing trade in general from this perspective, see Lewis A. Coser, Charles Kadushin, and Walter W. Powell, The Culture and Commerce of Publishing (New York: Basic Books, 1982). 232 example, editor Yamamoto Natsuhiko relates an incident involving one Oka Shigeo (岡茂雄, 1894-1989), a contemporary of Iwanami’s who likewise grew up in Nagano Prefecture: He left the Army in 1920, studied anthropology under Torii Ryūzō [鳥居龍蔵, 1870-1953], and founded Oka Shoin [岡書院] after the Great Kantō Earthquake, later publishing a magazine called Dorumen [ドルメン]. He worked closely with the folklorist Yanagita Kunio, who was a very difficult person given to visiting his wrath on others for no reason. One night it was decided to invite Yanagita to dinner to cheer him up, and Shibusawa Keizō and some others urged Oka to attend as the publisher. Although Oka at first staunchly refused, he eventually gave in and attended. A few days later, when Oka inquired of the others how Yanagita had [felt about the dinner], the answer was, as expected, “Yanagita-sensei was in a bad mood.” “It was because I was there, right?” [asked Oka]. “Yes, exactly. He complained, ‘why was a mere publisher there?’.” 87 Another example from the 1920s comes from aforementioned Iwanami editor Kobayashi Isamu, who recalled an incident with the wife of Mori Ōgai: “It was around June in 1927 when I paid a visit to his wife at the Mori household in Sendagi-Dangozaka, Komagome. This was to ask her to let us include Ōgai’s work in the Iwanami Bunko [series], which had just started publication that year. 88 [However], I was turned away by a maid at the front door. She told me that her mistress would not meet with publishers because she could not trust them. I promptly visited Saitō Mokichi 89 in Aoyama and asked him to write me a letter saying that Iwanami Shoten was a good publisher and Kobayashi was a trustworthy person. When I brought Saitō’s letter, Ōgai’s wife met me straight away. The first thing I did was to ask her why she could not trust publishers. Now this was the time when 1-yen 87 山本夏彦 Yamamoto Natsuhiko,『私の岩波物語』 Watashi no Iwanami Monogatari (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1997), 21. The term Yanagita used was 本屋風情 honya fuzei, “honya” literally being “bookstore” but employed (as a result of the overlap of book retailers and publishers) for anyone associated with the book trade at the time, including publishers and printers. Oka took the experience in stride, later titling his memoirs Honya Fuzei (Heibonsha, 1974). 88 The Iwanami Bunko series of pocketbooks constituted a form of Iwanami canon fueled by the Kyōyōshugi self-cultivation movement in the mid-1920s. Chapter 6 of the current project touches on Iwanami’s first ventures into literary canonization with the Sōseki Zenshū. 89 Saitō Mokichi (斎藤茂吉 1882-1953) was an influential poet whose mentor had himself been a disciple of Masaoka Shiki. He knew many people from Sōseki’s and Iwanami Shigeo’s circles. 233 books [enpon] were very popular. 90 She said that several publishers had been making use of Ōgai’s work but had not paid any royalties. Understanding her feelings, I decided to be a proxy for the Mori family, and succeeded in collecting the unpaid royalties. 91 This account reveals several things, not least of which is the value of networks because it was only through the intercession of a trusted intellectual that Kobayashi was able to (quite literally) get his foot in the door. The entrenched bias against publishers as untrustworthy meant that he had to prove himself, and thereby Iwanami Shoten, as worthy of the faith of the Mori family, by taking upon himself the task of addressing the royalties issue. Moreover, the royalties issue itself reveals that the mistrust of publishers was not based merely on a stereotype, but in fact had some degree of basis in fact because in this case several publishers were revealed to have acted unethically and profited unfairly from Ōgai’s work. This long-term bias among writers against publishers on account of the latter’s supposed corruption by mercantile interests was a constant hurdle for publishers to overcome. To some 90 The 1-yen book movement, which took off in 1926 with Kaizōsha, is a topic of perennial interest among print culture scholars in Japan. See, for instance, 石塚純一 Ishizuka Jun’ichi, 「円本を編集した人々――改造社版『現代日本文学全集』と現代」 “Enpon wo Henshūshita Hitobito: Kaizōsha-ban Gendai Nihon Bungaku Zenshū to Gendai,” 『出版研究』Shuppan Kenkyū 29 (1998): 29-48; 塩原亜紀 Shiobara Aki, 「所蔵される書物――円本ブームと教養主義」 “Shozōsareru Shomotsu: Enpon Būmu to Kyōyōshugi,” 『横浜国大国語研究』 Yokohama Kokudai Kokugo Kenkyū 20 (Mar. 2002): 1-10; 小田光雄 Oda Mitsuo and 山本芳明 Yamamoto Yoshiaki,「＜対談＞円本の光と影」“Taidan: Enpon no Hikari to Kage,”『文学』 Bungaku 4.2 (Mar.-Apr. 2003): 21-34; and Oda’s Shoten no Kindai, op. cit. In English, see the first chapter (“Mass-Produced Must-Haves: The Enpon Boom, Cultural Inflation, and Advertising Battles”) in Sari Kawana’s The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018), 17-48. 91 小林勇 Kobayashi Isamu, 『人はさびしき』 Hito ha Sabishiki (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1973), 80. 234 extent the accusation seems somewhat hypocritical considering how it was hardly unheard of for writers themselves to take up entirely commercial ventures. Yosano Akiko wrote an advertisement for Calpis Water (a soft drink), to give but one example. 92 In any event, Sōseki did not appear to share this broad dislike of those involved in the publishing trade. This may have been due to his own experience as a journalist and his friendship with Masaoka Shiki, who had himself been involved in producing magazines and newspapers. Journalism, like publishing, suffered from a poor reputation at the time, with similar stereotypes of money-grubbing individuals exploiting the people for profit. Abe Yoshishige spent time as a journalist in his student days, and later ruminated over the shameful associations from which the profession suffered, as Kōno Kensuke notes: Abe…stated, “If lecturing in the classroom is the right thing to do, then making claims through writing, explaining, helping others to understand, and bringing out their interests, is also the right thing to do. I do not find it shameful to be a journal writer.” 93 His comparison of teaching in a classroom and becoming a journalist reminds us of Sōseki, who quit his position at the imperial university to commit himself to working just for the Asahi Shinbun. Sōseki abandoned his professorship and said he would be a journalist, while Abe said there was no shame in being a journalist and a teacher at the same time. That Abe felt he had to write this demonstrates there was a strong sense of social hierarchy [i.e. there was discrimination] based on occupation. 94 In this context, it is possible to see Iwanami as involved in a profession that was respected 92 松本剛 Matsumoto Takeshi,『広告の日本史』Kōkoku no Nihonshi (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1973) 152-153. 93 雑誌記者 zasshi kisha, a writer for a magazine or journal. 94 Kōno, 149-150. 235 or at least tolerated by his immediate associates in the Mokuyōkai, but disdained by intellectual society more broadly. At the same time, there may have been more personal element to Iwanami being an outsider of sorts. He may have been trying to compensate for not being considered a “real” intellectual, in that he depended on others rather than creating his own works. Compounding matters was his financial situation. While Iwanami showed all of the idealism and romance of his generation during his student days, his practical side and concern with business was to some extent necessary. His father had died while he was still young and the family had struggled, forcing Iwanami to fend for himself without a family fortune funding him. He was by no means poor, but neither was he able to live a comfortable urban intellectual life like many of his colleagues even if he had wanted to. It is impossible to know whether he would have been a writer given different circumstances, but he certainly saw himself as an intellectual not a merchant. He was known to have had conflicted feelings about his position as a businessperson, describing himself as a humble townsperson but disliking being labelled a merchant by others. He could be particularly hurt when he was publicly described as such, as Kobayashi relates following one such incident: Bungei Shunjū carried a gossipy article saying ‘Iwanami Shigeo is a merchant.’ Iwanami despised it. It seems to have been painful for him to be called a merchant [that is, a person who is] said to only care about profit. He liked to call himself something like “a mere townsman”; he probably got that term from Fukuzawa Yukichi. 95 95 Kobayashi, Sekirekishō Shujin, 178. 236 It is worth pulling together several strands from Iwanami Shigeo’s background experience and his recorded reactions to probe further into his motivations. Iwanami’s demonstrated attempts to present himself as an intellectual (such as with the aphorisms distributed when the store opened) and his intense dislike of being thought of as a “merchant,” despite his positive experiences with strongly idealistic figures like Sōma, suggest frustrations with the negative stereotypes associated with his profession even as he tried to desperately convince intellectuals beyond his immediate circle that he was, in fact, one of them. Neither is it likely that this was simply a cynical ploy for business purposes, because his own background reveals someone genuinely in tune with the intellectual zeitgeist, deeply moved and troubled, for example, by Fujiwara Misao’s suicide, discussed earlier. Beyond this there was the psychological pressure: Iwanami had to carry a heavy burden, and seems to have struggled with great anxiety and depression. Beyond the general sense of romanticized death-longing common among late Meiji intellectuals, evident in Sōseki’s Kokoro as well as real cases like Fujiwara’s, there is Iwanami’s own immediate experience of such matters. He fled from his friends and family and wrestled with suicidal depression in the wake of Fujiwara’s suicide, becoming a veritable shut-in at one point. He was devastated by his mother’s death in 1908, only a year after his marriage and the birth of his son. She had been the one person in his family who had always supported him and encouraged his studies. 237 There was also the matter of his relationship with his temperamental mentor with his own afflictions. In many respects, Iwanami resembled his mentor Sōseki. Both men were from formerly well-to-do families that had fallen on financial hardship; they spent their youth concerned about money and living in less-than-ideal circumstances for modern urban intellectuals, while their colleagues flourished with family support. Neither of them was able to follow their childhood dream. Each was also an outcast in the family, quite literally in Sōseki’s case. Their upbringing was replete with family tragedy: Sōseki was unwanted and abandoned by his parents, while Iwanami lost his father while very young, and dearly loved his mother but lost her too while still a youth. Both suffered deep pain from the loss of dear friends: Sōseki by the loss of Masaoka Shiki, and Iwanami by the loss of Fujiwara Misao. The similarities extend to their ways of thinking. Both were motivated my new ideas and spoke of grand ideas that could transform society. Both expressed a dislike of the traditional academy, and of establishment people, and even of conventional ways of doing things. 96 Each of them both feared, yet reveled in, a kind of “outsider” status, and seemed to have mixed feelings about their identity as intellectuals in society and how they were seen by others. They both also 96 Sōseki remained more or less true to this sentiment, turning down an honorary degree and government recognition and awards. Iwanami, on the other hand, became more of an establishment figure in later life. He became a wealthy, influential and respected businessman and politician, and accepted government honors when offered. To some extent this was a response to the shuffling of the intellectual community in later years, but by any measure he was far more of an outcast when he was a younger man. 238 struggled with anxiety, nervous breakdowns, excessively strong emotions, bouts of social isolation and severe depression, and possible suicidal tendencies. 97 Both had numerous friends but felt afflicted by feelings of isolation and loneliness. While it is impossible to establish from the extant sources with any certainty, it is logical to presume that this degree of shared experience and trials enabled Iwanami and Sōseki to gain a sympathetic understanding of each other, and might help to explain Sōseki’s constant support for his disciple’s efforts. This would have meant a lot to Iwanami as he forged his business, given his history of struggles. Even as a student, Iwanami had suffered from a string of failures and been on the receiving end of the intellectual class system, constantly being reminded of his inferior status. He had sought to be an apprentice when a young student but was turned down, entered the first higher school but suffered numerous delays and even withdrew, and although he managed to enter the imperial university it was only as an elective student. Electives were a lower-caliber of student within the hierarchy and they were clearly made aware of this, not only by being looked down upon by regular “real” students but also by discrimination within the system itself. They had 97 It is difficult to reliably assess Iwanami’s physical health as well as his mental health. He swam regularly and did not appear sickly to others, but was ranked Class III-C (not fit for active service) on his official military inspection health exam at age 27 in 1908 (students were normally exempt from being called up until they finished studies or reached age 27, whichever came first). This resulted in him not seeing military service. While one might postulate that he was able to find some way to avoid service, he was neither wealthy nor particularly influential at the time, making this unlikely. Acute anxiety or other such issues were not formerly recognized as grounds for being classed unfit for active service, although being deemed mentally unstable in some way was a possibility. In Iwanami’s case it is impossible to determine what happened. 239 limited library privileges, if any, and were often not allowed to take courses they wanted, or given last choice among available options. As Kōno notes, While watching elites who graduated from the First Higher School and Tokyo Imperial University closely, Shigeo followed a rather difficult path, having withdrawn from the First Higher School and been an elective student at the imperial university. His “tiny ideal,” based on that background, began from putting his spirit into the small space of a bookstore where books and money are exchanged. 98 Iwanami Shigeo thus spent his formative years around an intellectual community of which he may have never truly felt a part, while nevertheless sharing its ideals and craving its approval. While it is perhaps going too far to suggest that he suffered from an inferiority complex, he certainly appears to have worked hard as a teacher, bookseller, and ultimately publisher, all the while trying to prove himself to a community whose views he shared but which had never really welcomed him. This desire, coupled with the support of his understanding mentor, likely gave him the push necessary to succeed. The Earliest Ventures in Publishing Motivated to become a publisher, runs the conventional narrative, Iwanami approached Sōseki about the possibility of publishing a one-volume edition of Kokoro. This happened in mid-1914, most likely on August 23rd. 99 Sōseki’s masterpiece of serial fiction had only just 98 Kōno, 38-39. 99 At least, Iwanami is confirmed to have consulted Sōseki about this exact topic on this day, and there appears to be no prior reference. See for instance 荒正人 Ara Masahito,『漱石研究年表』 Sōseki Kenkyū Nenpyō (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 1984), 779. 240 wrapped up its run in the Asahi Shinbun, and whichever publisher produced a collectible edition was all but guaranteed a major success. With Kokoro under his belt, Iwanami attracted immediate attention and was off and running on the way to being a successful publisher, one is led to believe. The only problem with this account is that the publication of Kokoro – which was indeed significant, and which is considered in depth in the following chapter – was not, in fact, Iwanami’s first venture into the world of publishing. While the agreement to publish Kokoro could be seen as truly launching Iwanami’s publishing career, it has often been erroneously stated that Kokoro, published on September 20, 1914, was the first book published by Iwanami, when in fact chronologically it was the third. The first two were astronomer Ashino Keizaburō’s Uchū no Shinka (The Evolution of the Cosmos), published on December 1, 1913 (312 pages with 35 illustrations), and Confucianist intellectual Uchida Tadashi’s Juka Risōgaku Ninshikiron (The Epistemology of Confucian Idealism), published on May 9, 1914 (76 pages). 100 These two books, both academic items that were hardly the stuff of bestsellers, are a stumbling block for the Iwanami-Sōseki narrative that positions Kokoro first and center as the dawn of Iwanami Shoten as a publishing enterprise. As Kōno notes, the narrative did not exactly emerge by itself: 100 蘆野敬三郎『宇宙の進化』, 内田正『儒家理想学認識論』. See Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 2, and Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 18. 241 Wanting to situate Natsume Sōseki’s Kokoro as the origin of the history of Iwanami Shoten: that was the strong will of the founder, Iwanami Shigeo. In his speech at the dinner party celebrating [Iwanami Shoten’s] 30th anniversary, Iwanami clearly stated that Kokoro was his first publication, and this clearly shows his intention. Therefore, the books published before this “origin” look uncomfortable in the chronology [of Iwanami Shoten]. 101 Biographers also frequently position Kokoro as Iwanami’s first publication, reinforcing the narrative – and even though the official company histories seem divided, with Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen correctly listing the work as third by date, while Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen depicts the first four publications together and refers to Kokoro as Iwanami’s “maiden publication.” 102 Why the confusion, then, and why the desire to put Kokoro front and center even while quietly, grudgingly acknowledging that it was not, in fact, the first Iwanami publication? Some scholars suggest that this was the result of Iwanami’s respect for his mentor. 103 Such an answer is unsatisfying because it fails to consider the business implications of the work, particularly from the perspective of a successful publisher looking back at the origins of his company. Clearly, part of the puzzle is simply that Iwanami saw Kokoro as his first truly successful intellectual venture, either at the time, or later when he reflected back on how the 101 Kōno, 42. 102 Abe, generally but esp. 138-139; Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 2; Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 18; also Kobayashi, Sekirekishō Shujin, e.g. 223, 460, 462. Many scholars working on related topics also refer to Kokoro as Iwanami’s “maiden work,” such as 矢口進也 Yaguchi Shin’ya, 『漱石全集物語』Sōseki Zenshū Monogatari (Tokyo: Seieisha, 1985), 8. 103 See, for instance, Toeda, 52. 242 work cemented his status as a publisher and not just a bookseller in the minds of the public. In this context his remarks on the 30th anniversary of the founding of Iwanami Shoten make sense. At the same time, there is also the fact that while Kokoro was not the first book he was involved in publishing, it was the first one he published entirely by himself. This warrants some further explanation. Ashino Keizaburō, the author of Uchū no Shinka, was not just an eccentric scientist seeking some random outlet for a publication: rather, he was already linked to people in Iwanami’s circle. He was an uncle of Abe Yoshishige’s wife, the latter being none other than Fujimura Misao’s younger sister, Kyoko. Ashino had been close to his nephew and had been involved in the search for the body after the latter committed suicide. 104 Later, he also became the father-in-law of Tanabe Hajime, a major Kyoto School philosopher who published with Iwanami (an arrangement brought about by Iwanami introducing Ashino’s daughter to Tanabe). 105 Abe Yoshishige reports that Ashino had been seeking to self-publish his book. 106 It was likely that in this capacity, just seeking some assistance with the mechanics of getting a book printed, he consulted someone in his extended circle familiar with the book trade: Iwanami Shigeo. Nakajima concurs: It was probably due to Ashino’s familial relations why his book was published from Iwanami. […] …the Fujimura family was close to Iwanami. Since the friendship between Iwanami and Abe had continued from their days at the First Higher School, I think that this 104 Kōno, 45-46. 105 See, for example, Nakajima, 64. 106 Abe, 138. 243 publication also proceeded through his relationship with Abe and the Fujiwara family. 107 Abe himself, however, downplays the significance of this early publishing venture. He writes, “As for Ashino, [Iwanami Shigeo] just took care of the work upon request. It had no further impact on Iwanami Shoten, so the difference [between this work and Kokoro] is significant.” 108 However, Kōno responds to Abe’s view by stating that even if Abe is right to dismiss the significance of this initial publication effort, it is nevertheless significant that a newly-opened used bookstore chose an academic introductory text on astronomy as their first foray into the publishing trade. 109 In Kōno’s view, even if, as Abe reports, the structure of the text and the line-spacing indicates Ashino’s own style at work, the publication was still arranged by Iwanami Shigeo and reflects his judgment. 110 It is important to note that neither Abe and the traditional narrative nor Kōno deny that Iwanami Shigeo was already committed to pursuing intellectual publications – the difference stems more from whether the first book is seen as part and parcel of this enterprise, or just as an unconnected side project motivated by helping the family of a friend. That Abe chooses to celebrate the pivotal role of Kokoro rather than taking the opportunity to claim some fame himself by playing up his in-law’s book as the first Iwanami publication is telling. 107 Nakajima, 63-64. 108 Abe, 138-139. Nakajima is in line with Abe’s view, stating “…the publication of Uchū no Shinka was not Iwanami’s planning. He just did various administrative tasks on request, so it is not the case that Iwanami had really begun his business as a publisher [yet]” (Nakajima, 64). 109 Kōno, 46. 110 Ibid. 244 One point to consider is when Iwanami Shigeo actually started using “Iwanami Shoten” to indicate the publisher of a work. See the colophon of the first book, Uchū no Shinka, in the following figure: Fig. 4-5: Colophon and title page of Uchū no Shinka (1913). (Source: Diet Library Digital Collection) 111 Here, in the colophon there is no mention of “Iwanami Shoten,” only “Iwanami Shigeo,” the latter indicated only as hakkōsha (発行者), with no mention of the publishing house, hakkōjo (発 111 蘆野敬三郎 Ashino Keizaburō, 『宇宙の進化』 Uchū no Shinka (Tokyo: Iwanami Shigeo, 1913). Diet Library Digital Collection, <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/951259/6>. Another example is depicted in Toeda, 41. 245 行所). Hakkōsha was not merely an alternative Meiji synonym, but referred specifically to the individual most involved in the publishing process: hakkōjo was the standard term for a publishing house, used even by the smaller publishers, including Ōkura Shoten and Hattori Shoten which were responsible for publishing Sōseki’s earlier Wagahai wa Neko de aru, to which I return in the next chapter. 112 While it was common to indicate only hakkōjo, or both hakkōsha and hakkōjo together to indicate both the publishing house and the person at the house overseeing the project, hakkōsha occurring by itself was more unusual and implied an amateur venture unaffiliated with a professional publisher. 112 Sōseki was himself obviously aware of this, having treated hakkōjo and its presence in the first edition of Neko as normative. In his letter to Iwanami dated 31 August, 1914 discussing the plans for Kokoro’s colophon, for example, he wrote the following: “I drafted three colophons, and will show you [i.e., I have included in this letter] the one I thought best. In the colophon, the author, publisher [hakkōjo] and printer [insatsujo] are all arranged finely in red characters – you can get a sense of this style from the colophon of Neko” (Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 24, 337). 246 Fig. 4-6. Colophon of first edition of Wagahai wa Neko de aru, vol.1 (1905). Notice that in addition to Ōkura Yasugorō being listed as hakkōsha, the publishers Ōkura Shoten and Hattori Shoten are listed as hakkōjo. (source: Holp Shuppan 1976 replica) 247 In other words, Uchū no Shinka proclaims that it was produced by an individual who happened to be publishing, rather than a publisher per se. By contrast, many later Iwanami publications identified both Iwanami Shoten as the hakkōjo and Shigeo (or another prominent Iwanami figure charged with handling the project) as the hakkōsha. Clearly, the emphasis in the colophon of Iwanami Shigeo’s first book was on the man rather than the institution, lending support to the idea that he did not yet conceive of Iwanami Shoten as a publisher, in which case the company history’s claiming of the first book as an Iwanami Shoten publication was a retroactive legitimation rather than a reflection of Iwanami Shigeo’s thinking at the time. What of the second book, Uchida Tadashi’s Juka Risōgaku Ninshikiron? 248 Fig. 4-7: Colophon and title page of Juka Risōgaku Ninshikiron (1914). Iwanami Shigeo is given as the hakkōsha, while Iwanami Shoten is the hakkōjo. (Source: Diet Library Digital Collection) 113 This was the first work to clearly indicate Iwanami Shoten as the hakkōjo, as the figure above shows, but the book is also something exceptional. It was very short – more of a pamphlet, numbering only 76 pages. It was created in the wake of an academic controversy in which Uchida’s essay on Confucianism, published in leading philosophy journal Tetsugaku Zasshi, was criticized. The Iwanami work starts by addressing the controversy and spends a few pages on 113 内田正 Uchida Tadashi, 『儒家理想学認識論』 Juka Risōgaku Ninshikiron (Tokyo: Iwanami Shigeo, 1914). Diet Library Digital Collection, <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/ 950074>. 249 comparative philosophy East and West; the rest (some three quarters of the work) is just a reprint of the Chinese source in question. The work is therefore undoubtedly an Iwanami publication, in the sense that it was put together by Iwanami Shigeo himself and sent to the printer’s, but calling it an actual book is something of a stretch. 114 It is possible, in the light of all the material covered in this chapter, to essentially posit two possibilities explaining how Iwanami Shigeo became a publisher. The first possibility is that becoming a publisher was not something that occurred out of the blue, but was always part of Iwanami’s long-term plans. This view holds that even as he opened his shop in 1913 he was planning some kind of involvement in publishing as an extension of his initial book venture, although likely on a small scale. From this perspective it would be natural for him to be sounding out opportunities to move into publishing even during his first year in operation. This view is largely part of the conventional narrative, framed by his friend and first biographer Abe Yoshishige, and informs the work of other scholars as well as the angle followed by Iwanami Shoten itself. 115 However, it is also possible to raise a second possibility: that publishing caught Iwanami 114 Kōno suggests the work nonetheless deserves recognition as the start, however humble, of the trend of Iwanami taking a leading role in the intellectual world through its publications (op.cit., 51-52). The fact that this work, not Kokoro, was the first one to indicate Iwanami Shoten as the hakkojō undermines Toeda’s implication (op. cit., 52) that the hakkosha-hakkojō switch may also have been due to Iwanami’s admiration for Sōseki. 115 Abe, op. cit. Also see, for example, Toeda and Rimer. 250 by accident. Enthusiastically participating in the book trade, he was approached about assisting with some publishing ventures and he opted to get involved, gaining valuable experience as a result, and prompting him to pursue publishing full-time when Sōseki’s Kokoro provided him with the opportunity to do so. He had already gained some experience as an editor before he opened the bookstore and his time residing in Kanda would have surely exposed him to numerous opportunities to learn about the book trade. 116 Nakajima reaches a similar conclusion, indicating that Iwanami Shigeo was caught off guard by Ashino’s request to help publish Uchū no Shinka. 117 This fortuitous opportunity then encouraged Iwanami to consider pursuing other publishing ventures: Because of the publication of Uchū no Shinka, Iwanami happened to become involved in the publication business. In May 1914, Iwanami published Uchida’s book as a self-published [work], and through this, he gained more experience as a publisher. Iwanami gradually came to be motivated to publish things based on his own plans. He came to be motivated to run Iwanami Shoten as a proper publisher. 118 Hiratsuka Raichō’s account of meeting Iwanami also supports the view that Iwanami’s decision to become a publisher was something of an accidental process. She met him in the spring of 1914, around the time when he was preparing the Uchida volume, and later recalled: 116 In 1907, when he was a newly-wed, Iwanami was involved in editing the journal 『内外教育論』 Naigai Kyouiku-ron, published by Kiyama Kumajirō (Toeda, 26). Kiyama, who Iwanami had met in 1897, had also been at the First Higher School, and they had been close friends (for more on this, see Toeda, 5-6). 117 Nakajima, 63-64. 118 Ibid., 64. 251 He was young, perhaps a couple of years past thirty, but at first glance he reminded me of a humorless and old-fashioned village schoolmaster. He turned out to be friendly, and said he had resigned from his job as vice-principal of the Kanda Girls’ High School to open a bookstore and was thinking of going into the publishing business in the near future. 119 In other words, despite having been involved in the publication of one volume and being somewhere in the process of producing a second, he still saw publishing as a possible future direction rather than as a trade in which he was already engaged. By mid-1914, in sum, Iwanami Shigeo had been able to get his feet wet in the publishing pool by being involved in the production of two works. Both, however, had required only minimal editing and preparation, and did not represent the work of a professional publisher overseeing projects in their entirety. Iwanami Shigeo’s only gradual adoption of the practice of identifying Iwanami Shoten as a proper publishing entity in the colophons reflects the rather messy status of these early ventures in the history of Iwanami publishing. They did bring Iwanami a degree of name recognition, and certainly the opportunity to acquire some valuable experience. The chance to truly direct a publishing project in its entirety, and establish himself as a publisher proper, however, availed itself only with Kokoro, in a process examined in the following chapter. 119 Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist, trans. Teruko Craig (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 240. 252 Conclusion This chapter has sought to examine how Iwanami Shigeo took his first tentative steps into the book trade, establishing a used bookstore and then gradually venturing into publishing. His intellectual network, first and foremost the involvement of Natsume Sōseki, played a key role in enabling him to get his business up and running and in providing him with his earliest opportunities to publish works. On the one hand, Iwanami followed the conventional model of a late Meiji intellectual, cementing a relationship with a mentor figure and establishing himself firmly in a circle of fellow intellectuals, as discussed previously. At the same time, he must have been keenly aware of the practical importance that such a network would serve as he became involved in the book trade, an industry that intellectuals depended upon but also tended to besmirch. Sōseki’s support was invaluable because he provided not only encouragement and assistance but also cultural capital, endorsing Iwanami’s enterprise by providing it with its distinctive sign and referring people to Iwanami. Iwanami took steps to portray himself as an idealistic intellectual motivated by a higher calling and the tendency among writers since Abe Yoshishige has been to endorse this image. Yet while he was certainly a product of the intellectual milieu at the time, and distinguished by his intellectual background and connections from many (but by no means all) other bookstore owners and publishers, at the same time he operated in a mercantile environment and 253 demonstrated an aptitude for business. He took advantage of ideas that struck him as helpful, such as fixed prices, and while he may not have been as original in his ideas as he later suggested, he certainly had the sense to recognize good ideas and apply them successfully. Contrary to the common image, he likely had no masterplan to become a publisher, but was playing the book trade by ear and keeping an eye out for opportunities that presented themselves. The following two chapters consider how he built on the early foundations discussed herein to pursue two major projects that would firmly establish him as a publisher, and moreover as one with considerable intellectual cachet – Sōseki’s Kokoro and the Sōseki Zenshū – while drawing effectively on his network to continue to provide support for his business as it gradually became an entrenched part of modern Japanese intellectual culture. 254 Chapter V The Iwanami Edition of K ok o r o Introduction This chapter builds on the previous one by continuing to track the trajectory of Iwanami Shigeo as he ventured into the world of publishing. It focuses on the creation of a key cultural artifact that functioned not only as a landmark of Iwanami’s success in becoming a publisher, but more significantly played a transformative role in that process by ushering Iwanami into public consciousness with ample reserves of both financial and cultural capital: namely, the Iwanami single-volume edition of Sōseki’s novel Kokoro. 1 In approaching the production of this edition, I consider in particular the design process, and the role that human networking played therein process. I also put the process in context through particular reference to the design of Sōseki’s maiden work Wagahai wa Neko de aru. 2 Naturally it is a truism that books – as cultural artifacts 1 For the purposes of this project, I make use of 夏目漱石 Natsume Sōseki,『こゝろ』Kokoro (Nihon Kindai Bungakukan with Holp Shuppan, 1972), a replica reprint of the original 1914 Iwanami edition. The standard editions among popular audiences are bunkobon ones, including not only the Iwanami editions (e.g. 1967, 2006) but also editions by other publishers such as Shūeisha (e.g. 1991; all dates here reflect editions not the vast numbers of reprints thereof). In English, the first translation was by Satō Ineko (Tokyo: Hokuseido Press for the Japan Writers’ Society, 1941), but the standard ones are now those by Edwin McClellan (Washington, D.C.: Regnery, 1957), and Meredith McKinney (London: Penguin, 2010). All three translations are entitled Kokoro in English. On the history of scholarship on Kokoro, see 仲秀和 Naka Hidekazu, 『「こゝろ」研究史』Kokoro Kenkyūshi (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 2007). 2 As is the case with Kokoro, there are numerous editions of 『吾輩は猫である』Wagahai wa Neko de Aru, the most common of which are the bunkobon ones by Iwanami, Shūeisha, Kadokawa Shoten, and Shinchōsha, among others. I use a set of replica reprints of the original 1905-1907 edition by Nihon Kindai Bungakukan with Holp Shuppan (1976). In English, see the 255 comprising not only text but artwork and physical design properties – are produced not merely by creative genius and printing technology, but within a system made up of the contributions and interaction of numerous individuals. This chapter strives to shed some light on aspects of this process in early twentieth-century Japan, revealing the various social, financial and artistic mechanics at work behind the creation of a literary classic. Planning the Edition As the last chapter revealed, Natsume Sōseki made substantial contributions to Iwanami Shigeo’s efforts to enter the book trade. By far the greatest contribution he made, however, was his agreement to let his disciple publish his masterpiece, Kokoro. As already shown, this represented a major landmark in Shigeo’s own narrative of his company’s development, to the extent that he tended to – technically erroneously – describe it as his first publication. This section and the next examine the publication of the work, considering the human elements involved in the process and especially the practical aspects of design and illustration – with particular reference to Sōseki’s earlier Wagahai wa Neko de aru – to better explain how the work came about as it did. The Iwanami edition of Kokoro was published on September 20, 1914, and was translation I Am a Cat by Aiko Itō and Graeme Wilson (Tuttle, 1972, 1979, 1986). The first known translation was a partial one of volume one by Andō Kan’ichi in 1906 and revised by Sōseki himself; this I Am a Cat was published by the same publisher (Hattori Shoten, with Ōkura Shoten) and even included some of the same design elements as the Japanese edition. 256 enormously successful. 3 This was entirely expected. From the start, any publisher able to acquire the publication rights to Kokoro would have been guaranteed a sure-fire best-seller. This was because the work had already acquired an enthusiastic following during its original run in the Asahi Shinbun newspaper from 20 April to 11 August of the same year. While modern Japanese literature tends to be approached through literary perspectives derived from the Western experience of the “novel,” usually understood as a single cohesive work published in a single- or multi-volume format, during the Meiji period much contemporary literature did not in fact take this form. Compiling a list of literary bestsellers from the era, one is struck by the preponderance, right through the 1890s, of premodern and early modern works, including Heike Monogatari, Taiheiki, and Nansō Satomi Hakkenden. 4 The popularity of these works was bound up to a significant extent with their establishment in public consciousness as “Japanese classics,” a development that occurred as part of an emerging discourse of national literary traditions and notions of a unique cultural inheritance reflected in these works. The canon of Japanese literature was presumed to be a treasury of historical relics, with notions of a canon of modern “classics” 3 Iwanami Shoten, ed., 『岩波書店八十年』Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996), 2. Also see 荒正人 Ara Masahito,『漱石研究年表』Sōseki Kenkyū Nenpyō (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 1984), 781. The main discussion between Sōseki and Iwanami over the publishing particulars seems to have taken place on August 3, 1914 (ibid., 779). 4 To give but one example, in his discussion of Matsuoka Shiki’s childhood, Donald Keene notes that he adored Hakkenden and that this was typical of young men in the 1880s (The Winter Sun Shines In: A Life of Masaoka Shiki (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 59-61. For more on this, see Peter F. Kornicki, “The Survival of Tokugawa Fiction in the Meiji Period,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 41.2 (Dec. 1981): 461-482. 257 emerging only gradually (a process in which Iwanami was to play no small role, beginning with the Sōseki Zenshū, which is examined in the following chapter, and eventually encompassing multiple series of literary and philosophical classics). 5 Modern literature, by contrast, was overwhelmingly consumed in serial format via newspapers and magazines. 6 The number of works published in this way far outstripped those published in single editions. This helped open up access to literature among middle-class readers who would have struggled to afford the single-edition publications, while enabling editors and publishers to effectively test an author’s appeal before investing in publishing his or her work in an expensive-to-produce edition that would otherwise risk going unsold. Thus, in most cases, it was only after a work proved successful among audiences in serial format that its components were gathered together and republished in a single edition. 7 This was by no means a trend 5 On the invention of modern categories of “literature” and canons, see for example Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki, eds., Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), particularly David Bialock’s “Nation and Epic” (151-178) which considers the trajectory of modern views of the Heike, and Edward Mack’s Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature: Publishing, Prizes, and the Ascription of Literary Value (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010). 6 Newspapers at the time tended to have intellectual aspirations and often included both literature and literary criticism, only gradually drifting from these in later decades as the expanding market brought with it a heightened concern with mass culture. 7 For more on the mechanics and formats of Meiji literature, see Edward Fowler, The Rhetoric of Confession: Shisōsetsu in Early Twentieth-Century Japanese Fiction (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1988), especially Chapter 6. Kōno Kensuke suggests that this type of republication of serial fiction was unusual (紅野謙介 Kōno Kensuke,『物語――岩波書店百年史１：「教養の誕生」』Monogatari: Iwanami Shoten Hyakunen-shi, 1: Kyōyō no Tanjō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 53-55), but this was not the case. Certainly the bulk of serial fiction was not republished in book format, but works that received significant popular or critical acclaim were. 258 limited to Japan; rather, it was common in many countries at the time. One can take note of the great wealth of Victorian serial literature, or late nineteenth-century US literature which raised the bar for modern literary experience of romance, suspense and horror. 8 In this way, the reading culture of much Meiji literature had more in common with today’s manga scene – where works are published in serial format in dedicated magazines, and later re-published in collectible format if a solid audience is found – than with the publication of novels today. Along with Sōseki, leading authors of serial fiction in the late Meiji era included such figures as Tokutomi Roka (徳冨蘆花, 1868-1927), the younger brother of the famous journalist Tokutomi Sohō (徳富蘇峰, 1863-1957), Ozaki Kōyō (尾崎紅葉, 1868–1903), and Yamada Bimyō (山田美妙, 1868–1910). 9 Serial publication of long works of fiction in newspapers and periodicals remained one of the dominant formats in the 1910s and 1920s. 10 8 On Victorian serial literature, see, for example, Linda K. Hughes and Michael Lund, The Victorian Serial ( Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1991), and on that of the U.S. see Kenneth M. Price and Susan Belasco Smith, eds., Periodical Literature in Nineteenth-Century America (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1995), and Aleta Feinsod Cane and Susan Alves, eds., “The Only Efficient Instrument”: American Women Writers and the Periodical, 1837-1916 (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2001). At the same time, it could be argued that the central place accorded serial fiction and short works in early twentieth-century Japan distinguishes it from the West where other formats were not as overshadowed (see, for instance, Fowler, 141). 9 Another notable example was Kuroiwa Ruiko (黒岩涙香, 1862-1920), a journalist and translator whose translations of French and English literature were hits from the 1880s through early 1900s. 10 Serial fiction continued to be popular well into the early Shōwa era when improved printing technology and better distribution networks had already facilitated alternative models. Yoshikawa Eiji (吉川英治, 1892-1962)’s Miyamoto Musashi (宮本武蔵), published in the Asahi Shinbun from 1935 to 1939, was tremendously popular, and in the postwar era the enormously 259 One of the obvious consequences of serial fiction – especially that appearing in newspapers and general interest magazines, rather than coterie journals – was the set of demands that the format placed on authors, who had to deal with firm deadlines and regularly produce installments of more or less equal length, which could function as accessible “units” as well as just parts of the work as a whole. Another consequence of this format was that writers could respond to the reactions of their audience as the work gradually unfolded, particularly if they had not written the bulk of the work by the time the first installments began to appear in print. Of course, readers could demand a sequel to a one-off work, as had happened with Wagahai wa Neko de aru, which as previously mentioned was originally a short piece Sōseki had not planned to further develop but ended up becoming a full-length work. Whether of their own accord or due to pressure from editors, writers could change the plot development of a storyline or other elements of a long-running work to respond to the needs and desires of the audience. The length and format of a work could also be changed, and in fact this is what happened in the case of Sōseki’s Kokoro. As originally conceived, the story was to be but the first entry in a series of several related stories, and “Kokoro” was at first not the name of the story, but rather the name of the series. The first story itself, by contrast, was called Sensei no Isho (Sensei’s Testament), a fact clearly established by the earliest parts published in the prolific writers Matsumoto Seichō (松本清張, 1909-1992) and Miura Ayako (三浦綾子, 1922-1999) also had successful serial works. 260 newspaper (see Fig.5-1). However, the way the editors chose to divide the story into its installments, and its unexpected great popularity, led to Sōseki changing his approach as the work developed and expanding its scope. This was also influenced by the unexpected withdrawal of the next author for the page, prompting the newspaper to ask Sōseki to extend the story. The end of the run resulted in a finished text understood by the readership as one story but in fact never originally planned to be a single cohesive work. At some point during this process, understandably, the name of the story and the name of the series (as originally conceived) became conflated. 11 Fig. 5-1: First installment of Sensei no Isho in the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun (20 April, 1914) (Source:「40 歳で朝日新聞へ」“Yon-jū-sai de Asahi Shinbun e,” http://info.asahi.com/guide/soseki/joined.html) 11 In his preface to the single-volume book edition, Sōseki simplified these developments by simply stating that while working on the story he felt it was not “settled” as originally conceived, prompting him to change the scope and then make title adjustments to the book edition accordingly, with the three sections of the work subtitled and the title of the work as a whole changed from Sensei no Isho to Kokoro (Kokoro, 1-2). He makes no mention of the role of editors or the readership having already taken to calling the novella Kokoro. 261 Upon the completion of its run in the newspaper, the story had proved enormously popular, become completely identified with the title “Kokoro,” and if republished in single-volume format would have been a guaranteed dorubako (money-box, i.e. a best-seller). Republications of serial fiction provided some of the most spectacular publishing successes of the era, such as Tokutomi Roka’s Hototogisu (不如帰, Cuckoo), which originally ran in the Kokumin Shinbun from November 1898 to May 1899 and upon republication as a book in 1900 was a breakthrough hit running through hundreds of printings. 12 Iwanami would have been entirely aware of all these basic facts when he approached Sōseki in summer 1914 with the proposal that he be permitted to publish Kokoro. He was accompanied by Nogami Toyoichirō, who recalled that upon hearing Iwanami’s pitch, Sōseki simply replied “Well, I’ll give it to you,” 13 a response that left Iwanami beaming – “his face was filled with happiness,” in Nogami’s words. 14 As a sure best-seller the work would be sure to generate great profit, while Sōseki’s name would bestow prestige and a mark of cultural sophistication – all vital commodities for a would-be publisher seeking to establish himself. Yet the proposal bordered on the outrageous – a used book seller with no real prior publishing 12 Ken K. Ito, An Age of Melodrama: Family, Gender, and Social Hierarchy in the Turn-of-the-Century Japanese Novel (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008), 47. 13 「さうだな、それはお前にやらう」 14 中島岳志 Nakajima Takeshi, 『岩波茂雄：リベラル・ナショナリストの肖像』Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 65-66, citing an unpublished Iwanami Shoten document from the 30th anniversary in 1942. 262 experience sought to single-handedly arrange the publication of what was sure to be one of the most influential and best-selling volumes on the contemporary market. That Sōseki, who by that point had published some sixteen books with Ōkura Shoten and Shun’yōdō, acquiesced speaks greatly to the trust placed in, and respect held for, his young disciple. It was not the case that Sōseki trusted Iwanami merely because the former was of a particularly naïve disposition. In fact, he showed himself to be routinely skeptical of depending on the promises of others, as illustrated, for example, by a letter he fired off to Sakamoto Raichō (坂元雷鳥) of the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun on March 11, 1907. Sōseki, having recently quit teaching to take up an offer of employment at the newspaper, was concerned with establishing an official contract for his position with the company, finding the oral guarantee of the chief editor there, Ikebe Sanzan, 15 alone to be insufficient: Please be sure to secure my position officially from Mr. Ikebe and the owner of the company [i.e. the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun]. This is [just] to make sure. The post as a university professor is quite stable, so to leave that job I ask for a similar degree of stability. Needless to say, Mr. Ikebe is a gentleman, so there should not be any issue with what he promised. However, were he to resign from the company, there would be no one but the owner to keep that promise, and the same could be said if I want to ask that the promise be honored. Therefore, I request an official contract with the owner as well, not only with Mr. Ikebe. 16 Yet Sōseki showed no such reservation in trusting Iwanami, despite the latter’s youth and 15 Ikebe Sanzan (池辺三山, 1864-1912; real name Ikebe Kichitarō) had built a reputation as one of the most respected journalists of the late Meiji era. 16 三好行雄 Miyoshi Yukio, ed.,『漱石書簡集』Sōseki Shokanshū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 192. 263 lack of experience in contrast to the representatives of an established news company. Indeed, there is no evidence that Sōseki sought anything along the lines of a proper guarantee from his disciple, and none of the accounts, such as that of Sōseki’s son Shinroku (夏目伸六, 1908-1975), suggest Sōseki’s action in this regard to have been unusual, even if the actual decision to publish with Iwanami raised eyebrows. 17 In other words, even in potentially risky or serious ventures, Sōseki tended to trust those in his circle, placing an enormous amount of faith in Iwanami as an individual despite the latter lacking an established career in publishing. In and of itself, the recognition that even established intellectuals may trust people close to them more than they do corporations or institutions is not particularly insightful – surely such a tendency is widespread across time and space. There were, however, other dimensions to Sōseki’s decision. One factor to consider is how, as touched upon previously, Sōseki was strongly motivated to help people who struck him as passionate pursuers of a good cause. Consider, for example, the case of the editor Takita Choin (滝田樗陰, 1882-1925) and the journal Chūō Kōron. By the end of his career, Takita’s influence was immense and could catapult a young writer to stardom. “I often heard imminent people say, “I could never forget the joy of Takita Choin’s rickshaw stopping in front of my house for the first time” in a nostalgic manner. […] He was 17 夏目伸六 Natsume Shinroku, 『猫の墓――父・漱石の思い出』 Neko no Haka: Chichi Sōseki no Omoide (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1960), 48-53. 264 always flying around Tokyo in his own rickshaw emblazoned with his family crest,” explains the writer Sugimori Hisahide (杉森久英, 1912-1997), who had worked as an editor at Chūō Kōronsha himself. “His rickshaw stopping in front of the residence of an unknown writer meant that Takita had come to collect a manuscript, meaning that [the writer in question] had been afforded an opportunity to hit the big time in Chūō Kōron. From the following day the heretofore unknown youth would be a glittering star in the literary world. Takita Choin was a man who could bring about such a fortune.” 18 Needless to say, Takita’s influence as the chief editor of the journal, a position he had gained in 1912, did not emerge overnight. Back in 1905, as a young editor there, he had hit on the idea of creating a literary section in the journal, a prospect that did not sit well at first with company president Asada, known for not being particularly fond of literature. 19 The section was a spectacular success, resulting in the journal being repeatedly sold out even after the size of the print runs was greatly increased, leading Asada to change his mind and entrust editorial matters 18 杉森久英 Sugimori Hisahide, 『滝田樗陰ある編集者の生涯』 Takita Choin: Aru Henshūsha no Shōgai (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1996), 4. On Takita’s involvement in networks and publishing, also see 石塚純一 Ishizuka Jun’ichi,「金尾文淵堂をめぐる人々（三）―― 東京時代と店員たち」“Kanao Bun’endō wo meguru Hitobito (3): Tōkyō Jidai to Ten’intachi,” 『比較文化論叢』Hikaku Bunka Ronsō (Sapporo Daigaku Bunka Gakubu Kiyō) 11 (March 2003): 229-250. 19 長谷部哲郎 Hasebe Tetsurō, 「滝田樗陰」 “Takita Choin” (人・その思想と生涯 Hito / Sono Shisō to Shōgai, no. 12),「あきた」Akita 53 (October 1966): 52-55; 54. Available scanned at <http://common3.pref.akita.lg.jp/koholib/search/html/053/053_052.html>. 265 to Takita’s judgment from then on. 20 As Hasebe Tetsurō states, it was in this capacity that Takita was able to recruit Sōseki to contribute to the journal, a major coup for a young editor: “Takita Choin’s greatest achievement with this literary section was his recruitment of literary great Natsume Sōseki as a contributor to Chūō Kōron. There […] were [at the time] a lot of legendary episodes concerning this recruitment, but [really] Sōseki was just moved by Takita’s sincere passion as an editor, and wrote Kairokō (薤露行) and Ni-hyaku Tōka (二百十日), etc. [for Chūō Kōron].” 21 From this perspective, Sōseki’s support for Iwanami can be seen as fitting into an established pattern of encouraging young intellectuals to pursue their ambitions, especially, in Iwanami’s case, in light of the similarities between the two men sketched out in the preceding chapter. The notion of Sōseki as a sort of benevolent paternal figure bestowing his support upon – and entrusting his literary work to – young men he deemed worthy by virtue of their passion or enthusiasm is an appealing theme that lurks behind many accounts of people connected to Sōseki. It would, however, be premature to assume that this provides sufficient explanatory power for Sōseki’s decision to entrust Iwanami with Kokoro. Of course, Sōseki may have been impressed with Iwanami’s enthusiasm, and wanted to support him as he had other ambitious young intellectuals, particularly those to whom he felt 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid. 266 close like his monkasei. However, a willingness to encourage his disciple’s dream to become a publisher was not the only reason motivating Sōseki’s decision to entrust the fate of his work to Iwanami’s hands. Various people had been pushing him to publish with them, as Abe Yoshishige notes. 22 Yet Sōseki was unenthusiastic. He had been left unsatisfied in his dealings with previous publishers. He had already tried experimenting with a smaller publishing outfit for the book edition of Wagahai wa Neko de aru, when an individual connected to Ōkura Shoten had pursued him, as is discussed later in this chapter. 23 The most obvious reason to stick with an established publishing house – financial security – did not apply in Sōseki’s case, for he did not prioritize this at all. He was not known for his financial acumen, and was often very generous to his disciples and others he deemed worthy of support, causing his household considerable strain, particularly because people tended to incorrectly assume that the family was fairly wealthy, a topic to which I return below. It was not the case that Sōseki was overly idealistic and completely unconcerned with financial matters; rather, he merely considered them of less importance than other things – as long as he had enough to get by. This did not mean, on the other hand, that Sōseki felt that Iwanami was any better skilled 22 安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige,『岩波茂雄傳』 Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1957), 138. 23 Aside from Ōkura Shoten, Sōseki had published many works with Shun’yōdō (春陽堂), a publisher founded by Wada Atsutarō (和田篤太郎, 1857-1899) that was known for republishing serial literature from newspapers. 267 than he in terms of handling finances. Iwanami may have struggled more financially than did some of Sōseki’s other charges who came from wealthier backgrounds, necessitating a degree of pragmatism, and he may have possessed a businessman’s instincts, but he was still young and inexperienced in publishing matters. In fact, Sōseki’s wife Kyōko recalled that her husband often scolded Iwanami for being too idealistic and grandiose in his thinking about books, as Natsume Shinroku relates: According to my mother, Iwanami was often scolded by my father. In short, if left [to his own devices], Iwanami was eager to make really fine books, which is fine by itself, but if the cost became too high then the books could not be sold and there would not be any profits. Having no choice, my father called in Iwanami and lectured him, arguing that “Saying you’ll use luxurious [materials] all over the place doesn’t help. If you want to use high-quality paper for the pages, you should think about using a lesser-quality paper for the cover. If you want to use better paper for the cover, then you should use lesser-quality paper for the inside – if you do not make such a balance, it cannot be a business. 24 Regardless, it seems that in terms of his books, Sōseki was satisfied with turning down the reputation and money of established publishers in favor of more involvement in the publication process. His growing involvement in the physical elements of his books – frontispieces, bindings, and interior illustrations – combined with his perfectionist streak surely left him wondering if he could not bring about a publication better-suited to his vision than could his previous publishers. When Sōseki agreed to let Iwanami publish Kokoro, he did so on the condition, tellingly, that he could directly participate in the book’s design. 25 24 Natsume Shinroku, Neko no Haka, 52-53. 25 See, for example, 山崎安雄 Yamazaki Yasuo,『岩波文庫をめぐる文豪秘話－漱石・鴎外・茂吉・露伴・寅彦』 Iwanami Bunko wo meguru Bungō Hiwa: Sōseki, Ōgai, Mokichi, Rohan, 268 Sōseki’s interest in book design was not something that came out of thin air. Modern printing presses and innovations in the reproduction of art had led to a growing interest in the aesthetic qualities of modern books. The presumed trade-off that had dogged many modern publishing ventures – that modern mass publications lacked the artistic merit or design quality of traditionally-crafted ones – had been revealed to be a fallacy, and a veritable boom in book design occurred. This paralleled developments in Europe where publishers sought skilled artists and designers to participate in publishing, and in China where developments in woodcut design and reproduction similarly fired interest in the physical qualities of books. It might be said that Sōseki was ahead of the curve, having been interested in the design elements of books for quite some time. He had been fascinated with the designs of Western books during his time in the UK, and eventually strove to harmonize Western and Japanese styles of binding, as Ikeda Sanae notes. 26 This factored into how he evaluated published works, as illustrated by a November 6th, 1908 letter he sent to his acquaintance Uchida Roan, setting forth his reaction to Uchida’s latest translation: Please excuse me for not getting in touch with you for a long time. Maruzen sent your work Fukkatsu 27 , and I found your letter enclosed in the box. Thank you very much. Torahiko (Tokyo: Shuppan Nyūsu-sha, 1964), 222-223. 26 池田早苗 Ikeda Sanae, 「明治期における洋書の受容――鶴見大学図書館収蔵準貴重書の意」“Meiji-ki ni okeru Yōsho no Juyō: Tsurumi Daigaku Toshokan Shūzō Jun-Kijōsho no Igi”『アゴラ』Agora 136 (March 2011): 2-3; 3. 27 A translation of Leo Tolstoy’s Resurrection (1899). It earned Uchida considerable fame. 269 I was impressed by the design of the book, which demonstrates your excellent taste. The color, shape and label 28 on the box are all very elegant and well-balanced. The front cover of the book is also refined, and I really like it. However, the two big characters for “Fukkatsu” on the front cover – I cannot agree with that choice. If I were you, I would rather have left it white. I do not have any complaints about the back cover. The illustrations were very interesting. I wonder who made them? Is there anyone in Japan who can draw such Western-style illustrations? In fact, I have not read the English translation of Fukkatsu, so I wonder if you used the illustrations from the original book. The portrait at the beginning is also very good, I agree. But I have been talking about the book design without praising your translation itself; please excuse my impoliteness. I saw it in Nihon Shinbun before, but that’s it. The print is clear, but the quality of the paper does not seem to be very good, which is unfortunate. I have a copy of an Ibsen translated by Gosse 29 in the same format. Thank you for your comments on Sanshirō. It is almost halfway now. 30 I am getting ready to receive some severe criticism before long. I got some energy back from receiving unexpected support. Earlier I was thinking to send some work to you, but neglected to do so since I did not like that work very much. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. November 6th Kinnosuke To Roan-sensei 31 Clearly book design interested Sōseki a great deal; one almost imagines him turning the book over in his hands and appraising its box, binding and illustrations as he wrote the letter to Rohan. One notes with bemusement how even after apologizing for not discussing the text itself Sōseki promptly returns to design topics by assessing the quality of the print and paper. Neither 28 Decorative title and the like affixed to a book box rather than printed upon it directly. 29 Sir Edmund William Gosse (1949-1928), an English writer and critic whose translations of, and critical writings on, Ibsen played an important role in introducing the latter to the English-speaking world. Gosse’s Ibsen (1907) was also in all likelihood the first biography of Ibsen in English, although Gosse’s reputation soon suffered somewhat when his translations were exposed as sloppy. 30 Sanshirō ran in the Asahi Shinbun from September 1 to December 29, 1908. 31 Miyoshi, op. cit., 204-205. 270 was this sort of assessment unusual for him. In fact, he would even insert critical comments about book design in letters to authors that were primarily concerned with praising the contents of the work, as in the following case, a letter to Arishima Ikuma (有島生馬, 1882-1974) 32 from 1913: I remember writing in my letter at the end of July thanking you for sending me your book that I would not be able to read it at the time. I want to let you know that I was able to read it over the 30th and 31st of August. Moreover, I want to let you know that I found it quite interesting while I was reading, and my interest remained even after I finished. I find it truly satisfying and enjoyable to be able to say such a thing from the bottom of my heart: thank you for your kindness in giving me your book. I will keep Kōmori no Gotoku 33 on my bookshelf as one of my favorites, not merely to recognize your kindness. Allow me to be blunt: I do not like the book design. I cannot help but feel that it should have been more interesting so as to suit the content of the book. This letter is not to let you know that I just finished reading your work; rather, it is to express my appreciation for the enjoyment I found while reading it. September 1st Natsume Kinnosuke To Arishima Ikuma 34 In short, although Sōseki clearly enjoyed reading Kōmori no Gotoku, this did not prevent him from paying attention to the book design and finding it lacking. He clearly considered book design to be an important aspect of producing a work, and so it is not surprising to find that he also took an interest in this concerning his own books. In fact, he had been interested in the 32 Arishima Ikuma was a writer and painter who later became famous for his role in introducing futurism to Japan’s art scene. 33 『蝙蝠の如く』 [Like a Bat], which was an anthology of Arishima’s short fiction published that same year. 34 Miyoshi Yukio, op. cit., 265-266. 271 aesthetic qualities of his books right from the start, and this factored into his publishing decisions. While Sōseki was certainly generous and eager to support young intellectuals, it is a mistake, as many have done, to attribute his publishing decisions to this tendency alone, neglecting how he benefitted from choosing smaller-scale publishers that would be more likely to indulge his interest in book design. This illustrates to what extent the factors influencing publishing decisions have been misunderstood due to an idealized view of writers like Sōseki that inhibits a comprehensive understanding of the literary world at the time. Funding the Edition Before Iwanami and Sōseki could plunge into preparations for the book edition of Kokoro, they needed to deal with the matter of financing the project. Having already gained financial support from his mentor on several occasions, it was perhaps no surprise that Iwanami sought to have Sōseki help bankroll this publishing venture as well. Thus, just as he had supported Iwanami financially with the founding of the latter’s bookstore, so too did Sōseki find himself supporting his monkasei’s leap into full-scale publishing. Sōseki’s son Shinroku writes: By the way, all of my father’s works from Kokoro onwards were published from Iwanami, though the number is quite small. While my father was alive, aside from Kokoro there was just Garasudo no Uchi and Michikusa. Up until then, most of my father’s works had been published by Shun’yōdō and Ōkura Shoten, so Iwanami really muscled in there suddenly. In fact, his way of doing so was outrageous and beyond any normal expectation. According to what I have heard, 272 Iwanami asked my father to let him publish Kokoro, which was to be expected, but once my father agreed, Iwanami vigorously asked him, “Well then, Sensei, by all means let me borrow the money to publish it!” 35 Shinroku admits that he does not know the specifics of the agreement, but suggests that his father had agreed to simply cover all the expenses outright. 36 However, actually this was not the case; rather, Sōseki lent Iwanami the initial capital for the project, which Iwanami then repaid once the books sold. As Nakajima observes, “The contract between Sōseki and Iwanami was that Sōseki would pay the initial cost, and then “Iwanami will repay [the amount] as he makes profits.” After Sōseki passed away, the contract changed to a standard publication contract.” 37 Nonetheless, the agreement did see Sōseki lend Iwanami the money up front for the project, and given his finances this would have represented a considerable burden. Did Iwanami think his mentor was wealthy? Yoko McClain suggests there were rumors that Sōseki was rich with a big house, but this was all image: the house was rented, with the rent paid every month, and Sōseki was not very wealthy at all. 38 At times Sōseki openly complained about not having any money, living in an unkempt and poorly-lit old house with too many mouths to feed. 39 He 35 Sōseki Shinroku, Neko no Haka, 50. When Shinroku says “according to what I have heard,” he is in all likelihood drawing upon his mother’s recollection, given that he was only six years old at the time. 36 Ibid., 51-52. 37 Nakajima, 68. 38 松岡陽子マックレイン Yoko Matsuoka McClain,『漱石夫妻愛のかたち』 Sōseki Fusai: Ai no Katachi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2007), 19-21. This was by no means unusual even for highly successful authors, who usually did not own their homes and struggled financially, as Fowler observes (138-141). 39 Ibid. 273 had specifically asked about the income when he took the Asahi Shinbun job, had supported his student days via a student loan, and after marrying despite tight family finances and an unsteady income he made a point of repaying the loan payments every month, which was not common at the time. 40 At the same time, he was sometimes careless with money, even forgetting where he had put substantial sums – a source of consternation to his wife. He also rarely turned away friends and disciples in dire financial straits. Usually his support took the form of loans. As he wrote to Noma Masatsuna (野間真綱, 1878-1945) 41 in a letter dated July 23 1907, I do not have any power [to help] even if I want to take care of you. People come to borrow money from me sometimes. It is our general rule to lend money if we have it. There’s no need to be shy. It is not good to borrow money for your wedding from someone poor like Minakawa 42 . 43 At times Sōseki would offer financial support even if he had no cash on hand. On two occasions he gave Iwanami stock he had acquired in Mantetsu or other companies, with his wife drawing up the contract. 44 Sōseki also understood his support of Iwanami as part of a bigger project that encompassed his initial capital for the bookstore and went on to include support for publishing 40 See, for example, McClain, op. cit., 29-30. 41 Noma Masatsuna was an English teacher who had studied with Sōseki at Tokyo Imperial University. Through Sōseki’s influence he was able to become a professor at a school in Kagoshima, his home town. 42 Noma’s colleague, the relatively unknown monkasei Minakawa Masagi (皆川正喜). 43 Miyoshi Yukio, op. cit., 197. 44 McClain, 69-71. 274 ventures, whether as a way of securing himself a reliable publishing outlet or because of the belief that it was his responsibility to encourage the book trade. As Kōno Kensuke observes, …Such lending occurred several times between Sōseki and Iwanami. In a way, one could say that Sōseki lent the working capital to Iwanami Shoten in the early days of its business. He provided the capital and opportunity for a new bookstore to be able to become a big business. It would also be apt to say that, even if in a small way, he brought about changes in the book market. Not only writing and reading books, Sōseki took part in the social foundation of publishing. Thinking about that, we can understand why he readily agreed to Iwanami’s request [to publish Kokoro], including its cost, when Iwanami asked if he could publish the work. 45 Designing the Edition (I): Sōseki, Art, and Wagahai wa Neko de aru The best way to consider the design of the Iwanami edition of Kokoro is to consider it in light of Sōseki’s first ventures into book design with his first published work, Wagahai wa Neko de aru. Recall, as covered in Chapter 3, that Neko was first published as a short piece in the January 1905 issue of Hototogisu. Only three years after Masaoka Shiki’s death, the journal had grown in scope to cover prose as well as poetry, but was still run by Shiki’s disciples, with most of whom Sōseki was close. Their enthusiastic response, particularly that of Takahama Kyoshi, prompted Sōseki to expand Neko into a serial novel. Despite sitting on a property that was guaranteed a success if republished in volumes, Sōseki, as mentioned above, elected to go with a smaller publishing operation, Ōkura Shoten. Conventionally this has been explained as the product of Sōseki’s “kind-hearted” nature. 45 Kōno, op. cit., 53. 275 Typical of this approach is Suzuki Shōzō. Why would Sōseki publish his first book with Ōkura Shoten, rather than a more established publisher, he asks, before responding that the explanation lies in an episode concerning Sōseki and his “pure and humanistic [nature] as an artist.” 46 The episode to which Suzuki refers is how this edition of Wagahai wa Neko de aru was in fact a joint publication, produced through collaboration between Ōkura Shoten and an even smaller publisher called Hattori Shoten (服部書店). 47 This collaborative venture grew out of the efforts of Hattori Kunitarō, the owner of Hattori Shoten who had worked as a manager at Ōkura Shoten when he was younger. Deeply impressed by the work during its run, Hattori went to see Sōseki, praised the work, and sincerely asked to be able to publish it. Sōseki, moved by the entreaty, agreed. As Suzuki rightly notes, Hattori had originally hoped to publish the work himself, but lacking the funding for such a large-scale undertaking he went to Ōkura Shoten and was able to negotiate a joint publication. 48 The whole episode is treated as a heartwarming encounter between tender author and eager young publisher. However, one should consider Ōkura Shoten – which, after all, gleaned the lion’s share of the credit for the publication and went on to handle subsequent printings – for a moment. While 46 鈴木省三 Suzuki Shōzō『日本の出版界を築いた人びと』 Nihon no Shuppankai wo Kizuita Hitobito (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 1985), 32-33. 47 Refer to Fig. 4-6 in Chapter 4 for the colophon from the first volume of Wagahai wa Neko de aru which gives the names of both publishers. 48 Ibid., 34. 276 the publisher was certainly a small-scale enterprise, it is a mistake to assume that they were unknown or relatively unimportant in the publishing scene. The “small, unknown but eager” stereotype may be appealing to those eager to play up Sōseki’s paternalism, but in fact Ōkura Shoten was neither unknown nor uninfluential. Originally established in 1833 as a publisher of ezōshi (illustrated texts), they were one of, if not the only, Meiji-era publisher with such an experienced background in art, and were well-known for the aesthetic qualities of their publications. They even imported Western paper for their works early in the Meiji period. It is inconceivable that Sōseki – a classically-trained intellectual with extensive experience in art and literature who counted among his friends many artists – would not have been familiar with their name. Their recognized expertise, combined with the degree of authorial influence he was able to demand, would have sweetened the publishing deal even if it was not the primary reason for his choice of publisher. It was a choice that certainly paid off. The resulting edition of Wagahi wa Neko de aru was beautifully-made, with quality decorative work, and elegant binding with fine color plates, representing a comparatively difficult and expensive venture for publishers at the time. 49 When Neko was completed, it filled three volumes: 49 The publisher continued to be at the forefront of innovation: the 1911 edition of the book, which was the first single-volume edition, incorporated artificial leather binding, still something of a rarity at the time. 277 V olume Publication Date Page Count 『吾輩ハ猫デアル』上 1905/10/6 290 『吾輩ハ猫デアル』中 1906/11/4 238 『吾輩ハ猫デアル』下 1907/5/19 218 Fig. 5-2: Wagahai wa Neko de aru, first edition Sōseki had pushed to be able to request the artists to be recruited to work on the design. He had been planning this for some time and had his ideal artists lined up during the publishing negotiations. Generally, Sōseki favored young artists and new styles over establishment painters. For the first edition of Neko, he wanted to employ the talents of two of his favorite contemporary Japanese artists: Hashiguchi Goyō (橋口五葉, 1880-1921) for the binding and cover design, and Asai Chū (浅井忠, 1856-1907) for the interior illustrations. 50 While both were undeniably skilled artists, they were by no means leading figures. Asai was 11 years older than Sōseki but his work was not very well-known, and Hashiguchi was an almost complete unknown: in fact, his cover work for Neko represented his public debut. 51 Sōseki was familiar with their work because they were acquaintances of his, not because they were famous artists. Hashiguchi demonstrated great range, being skilled at Western-style oil paintings and 50 For more on this, see 東京藝術大学大学美術館 Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku Daigaku Bijutsukan and 東京新聞 Tokyo Shinbun, eds.,『夏目漱石の美術世界』Natsume Sōseki no Bijutsu Sekai (Tokyo: Tokyo Shimbun/NHK Promotions, 2013). Also see 山田俊幸 Yamada Yoshiyuki, 「橋口五葉と津田清風の漱石本ーーアール・ヌーヴォーからプリミティズムへ」 “Hashiguchi Goyō to Tsuda Seifū no Sōseki Hon: Āru Nūvō kara Purimitizumu e,” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 166-175, and 『アゴラ』 Agora (Tsurumi University Library newsletter) 136 (March 1, 2011), 11-18. 51 The fame resulting from his work on Wagahai wa Neko de aru led to Hashiguchi being commissioned for contributions to other books, including those by Morita Sōhei, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, Uchida Roan, and Nagai Kafū. 278 various types of line sketches. He had two older brothers, the elder of which, Mitsugu (橋口貢), had been a student of Sōseki’s when the latter was teaching at the Fifth Higher School in Kumamoto. Goyō most likely first met Sōseki through Mitsugu, who later became a diplomat. 52 When Sōseki approached Goyō about the design work for Wagahai wa Neko de aru in 1905, Goyō had only that year graduated from the Western Painting Department of the Tokyo School of Fine Arts (founded in 1887). Sōseki showed him many European books and magazines reflecting his ideas, and urged him to create new designs based on the European trends. 53 They went on to collaborate on various editions of Sōseki works over the course of the next several years, including Yōkyoshū (漾虚集), Uzurakago (鶉籠), Sanshirō (三四郎), Sorekara (それから), Mon (門), and Kōjin (行人). Art critic Unno Hiroshi suggests that the artist figure in Sōseki’s Kusamakura (草枕, 1906) was inspired by Goyō. 54 Goyō also deeply respected Asai Chū, the artist Sōseki recruited to provide the interior illustrations. Asai, who usually worked with watercolors, had been a close friend of Sōseki’s for a long time, dating back to his days with Masaoka Shiki’s circle. Asai had, in fact, also taught Shiki painting. Sōseki even dropped by Paris en route to the UK to see Asai. 55 When Asai passed 52 海野弘 Unno Hiroshi, 『日本のアール・ヌーヴォー』 Nihon no Āaru Nūvō (Tokyo: Seidosha, 1978), 27. 53 Ibid., 30-32. 54 Ibid., 43. 55 Missing him on the first attempt (October 22, 1900), he tried again four days later (October 26) and was successful. See 中尾巧 Nakao Takumi,「浅井忠を模写して」“Asai Chū wo 279 away in 1907, Sōseki offered a tribute to him in Sanshirō the following year by having the characters Sanshirō and Mineko visit an art exhibition where they see the works of the deceased master “Fukami” (深見), commonly understood to be a stand-in for Asai. When Sōseki’s characters offer their impressions of the watercolors on display, they represent the author’s voice commenting on Asai’s work: “…don’t look at them the way you’d look at ordinary watercolors. They are his and his alone. You’ll find they have some very interesting qualities, but you mustn’t think of them as pictures of things,” the character Haraguchi informs the visitors, before the narration goes on to describe the distinguishing characteristics of the style. 56 Sōseki even expressed to others his wish that he could decorate his house with Asai’s watercolors. 57 Although Sōseki had hoped Asai could do all of the interior plates for Wagahai wa Neko de aru, Asai was extremely busy at the time and therefore recommended the job be given to his apprentice, Nakamura Fusetsu (中村不折, 1866-1943). 58 Nakamura was no stranger to Sōseki either; he had been a friend of Masaoka’s, and had done some covers for Hototogisu. In addition Moshashite,”『季刊イズミヤ総研』 Kikan Izumiya Sōken 93 (January 2013): 78-79; also 平岡敏夫 Hiraoka Toshio, ed., 『漱石日記』Sōseki Nikki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 19-20. 56 Natsume Sōseki, Sanshirō: A Novel, trans. Jay Rubin (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1977), 146-147. 57 Letter to Watanabe Watarō, 20 January, 1908, in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 23, 162-163; for further information, see 伊藤徹 Itō Tōru,「世紀転換期のヨーロッパ滞在――浅井忠と夏目金之助」 “Seiki Tenkanki no Yōroppa Taizai: Asai Chū to Natsume Kinnosuke,” 『関西大学東西学術研究所紀要』 Kansai Daigaku Tōzai Gakujitsu Kenkyūjo Kiyō 41 (April 2008): 19-46. 58 See, for example, 上野惠司 Ueno Keiji,「挿絵も作品の一部『吾輩は猫である』の中国語訳」“Sashie mo Sakuhin no Ichibu: Wagahai ha Neko de aru no Chūgokugo-yaku” in Ueno, 『ことばの散歩道 V』Kotoba no Sanpomichi V (Tokyo: Hakuteisha, 2013), 177-179. 280 to his painting, Nakamura was known for his calligraphy. He had, for instance, designed the logo for Nakamura-ya (no relation), the store discussed earlier. 59 Nakamura handled the interior plates for the first two volumes of Neko, while Asai himself took up the reins for the third volume. 60 Hashiguchi handled the binding designs for all three volumes (see Figs.5-3, 5-4, and 5-5). 59 Nakamura-ya was the center of yet another intellectual circle, one comprised mainly of sculptors over the course of the late Meiji through early Shōwa eras, including the famous sculptor (and poet) Takamura Kōtarō (高村光太郎, 1883-1956) whose father had designed the statue of Kusunoki Masashige located at the imperial palace. 60 See, for example, Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 44. Note that some sources claim that in fact Asai did the illustrations for V olume 2 as well as 3 (see, for example, the lists prepared by Meiji University Library for their exhibition on binding, in late 2013 「本の装い百年―近代日本文学にみる装幀表現」 “Hon no Yosōi Hyakunen: Kindai Nihon Bungaku ni miru Sōtei Hyōgen” <http://www.lib.meiji.ac.jp/about/exhibition/gallery/51/51index.html>. In any event, there were not many illustrations in V olume 2 and it is V olumes 1 and 3 that are most representative of the work of (respectively) Nakamura and Asai. 281 Fig.5-3: Wagahai wa Neko de aru, first edition, volume one. Clockwise from top left: dust jacket, cover, frontispiece, title page. (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1976 replica) 282 Fig.5-4: Wagahai wa Neko de aru, first edition, volume two. Clockwise from top left: dust jacket, cover, frontispiece, title page. (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1976 replica) 283 Fig.5-5: Wagahai wa Neko de aru, first edition, volume three. Clockwise from top left: dust jacket, cover, frontispiece, title page. (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1976 replica) 284 Hashiguchi, Asai, and Nakamura all followed a similar stylistic trajectory of development in their work. All three began with ukiyoe-inspired Japanese painting and slowly drifted into Western styles. They were particularly influenced by Art Nouveau, a broad artistic movement encompassing architecture and interior design as well as two- and three-dimensional fine arts. Emerging from the joint influences of Japonisme and the European arts and crafts movement, Art Nouveau emphasized natural form and flowing styles rather than the more rigid form of academy art. Classical themes gave way to a focus on natural scenes, with animal motifs and motion often portrayed with flowing lines and graceful curves. The movement was at its peak in Europe from around 1890 until just before the First World War, and is therefore also understood in part as a response to the “gilded age” cultural milieu of the Western world at the time. 61 In graphic art the movement was best associated with Czech artist Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939), catapulted to success by his iconic pictures of women – full of naturalistic imagery and the movement of life, such works inspired numerous artists. 62 This was particularly significant because this artistic movement took off at around the same time as the birth of the modern illustration industry, as well as that of modern advertising. This resulted in Art Nouveau works being widely disseminated both within Europe and 61 An excellent resource on Art Nouveau is Gabriele Fahr-Becker’s Art Nouveau (Potsdam: h.f.ullmann, 2007). 62 On Mucha, see, for example, Agnes Husslein-Arco, et al., eds., Alphonse Mucha (New York: Prestel Publishing, 2014). 285 internationally, as well as the hitching of much of the art to commercial interests. Artwork that stressed romantic naturalism and harmony with nature was, somewhat ironically, put to immediate use selling the products and services of industrialized urbanity. European publishers embraced the new forms in their binding and illustrations. 63 Japanese artists and writers did not fail to take notice of the rise of Art Nouveau. Among these, Sōseki stands out as a particularly enthusiastic figure. Upon his return to Japan from the UK, he had headed to Maruzen to ensure he could order the British journal The Studio: Illustrated Magazine of Fine and Applied Art. 64 The journal, which started in 1893, was the go-to source for contemporary art, and especially Art Nouveau. Sōseki also amassed a sizeable collection of books and reference materials on art and design, again with a focus on Art Nouveau. His own artworks, favoring soft hues and watercolors, were quite compatible with Art Nouveau tendencies. Sōseki also discussed Art Nouveau with his circle, particularly his artist friend Tsuda Seifū. 65 Tsuda – who, recall, was a somewhat member of the Mokuyōkai, drew the famous 63 An interesting comparison can be made with China, where hand-painted illustrations and woodcuts were popular at the time and were similarly embraced by the publishing industry, as Wen-Hsin Yeh notes (Shanghai Splendor: Economic Sentiments and the Making of Modern China, 1843-1949 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 64). 64 Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 66. 65 Ibid., 76. 286 picture of the inner circle, and tutored Sōseki in art – was himself a student of Asai Chū’s. 66 Tsuda continued to make numerous pictures of Sōseki, all of which show the writer at his desk or engaged in the act of literary composition. 67 Tsuda was involved in designing art for bookbinding as well. For example, Fig. 5-6 depicts a series of works prepared for Suzuki Miekichi in 1916. The flowers, birds, and compositions of flowing curves clearly reflect Art Noveau inspiration, as do Hashiguchi’s designs for Neko’s binding. 66 For more, see Itō Toru, op. cit., esp. 23. 67 For example, see Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 176. 287 Fig. 5-6: Book art by Tsuda Seifu for Suzuki Miekichi, Miekichi Zensakushū (Shun’yōdō, 1916) (Source: Shōji Sensui, Nihon no Shobutsu: Kodai kara Gendai made, viii) 288 Yet turning to the journals that featured Sōseki’s fiction, the illustrations for his works were more conventional: they tend to employ either realist styles, or styles inspired directly by ukiyoe and hanging scrolls. Why was this the case, given that Sōseki clearly preferred Art Nouveau trends? The answer is simply that, just like today, the illustrators were usually chosen by the journal, not the contributing authors. Even a cutting-edge poetry or short fiction journal was not above falling back on conventional styles of artwork to illustrate its pieces. As a result, the book editions of his works enabled Sōseki to craft a presentation much closer to his own desires. When he had a say in the designs, he favored Art Nouveau, and his choice of artists was based partly on this preference and partly on his connections. 289 Fig. 5-7: Illustrations from Wagahai wa Neko de aru, first edition. Top and middle rows: volume one (Nakamura Fusetsu), bottom row: volume three (Asai Chū). (Source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1976 replica). 68 68 Also see Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 41-47. 290 It was for this reason that the design of Wagahai wa Neko de aru strongly reflected Art Nouveau influence. The watercolor plates range from gentle hues to strong, deep colors, but all betray a naturalistic sensibility with loose, flowing linework. They also draw heavily on imagery of the natural world, as do the bindings and title pages, replete with flower and insect motifs amidst the expected cat imagery. The cats themselves range from semi-realistic depictions to symbolic ones, the latter reflecting the titular feline’s inflated view of himself. Most notable are a depiction of the cat as a sagely figure inspired by Renaissance Neo-Classicism (Fig. 5-4, bottom right), as an ancient Egyptian pharaoh (Fig. 5-3, bottom right), and as a godlike entity wielding a scepter while toying with human figures (Fig. 5-3, top left). These depictions draw on the anthropomorphism of ancient Egyptian artistic tradition, featuring a cat’s head affixed to a broadly human body. Thematically these represent the cat’s position as an external observer of the human condition, while simultaneously reflecting human characteristics – the cat’s existence in this peculiar space is what informs much of the novel’s humor. From an artistic standpoint, however, these works also reflect the great popularity of ancient Egyptian motifs at the time. The layout of the title pages and other aspects of the binding fit within this trend as well. There had been, in fact, a boom in Egyptian-inspired art and design in Europe in the nineteenth through early twentieth centuries. So-called “Egyptomania” became bound up with the work of many Art Nouveau creators, and seeped into Japan as a 291 comprehensive trend that influenced everything from statuary to product packaging. In addition to choosing the artists and shaping the style of the book edition of Neko, Sōseki was personally involved in publicizing the work. He even drew up advertising copy for it that incorporated the first lines of the novel (Fig. 5-8), which appeared in the Tokyo Asahi Shinbun in November 1905. 69 69 See J. Koyama (pseud.), 「漱石先生が「猫」広告文を書くまで」 “Sōseki ga Neko Kōkokubun wo Kaku made,” 「吾輩は猫である――挿画でつづる漱石の猫」 Wagahai wa Neko de aru: Sōga de tsuzuru Sōseki no Neko (blog), June 25, 2007, <http://neko.koyama.mond.jp/?eid=418861>. The finished advertisement appeared in Tokyo Asahi Shinbun on 15 November, 1905. The text also appears in Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 16, 30. 292 Fig. 5-8: Advertising copy for Wagahai wa Neko de aru, drafted by Sōseki (Source: http://neko.koyama.mond.jp/?eid=418861) Sōseki’s involvement in the design process of the first book edition of Wagahai wa Neko de aru surely left a mark on him. However, he was not able to consistently guide all of his published works so effectively, particularly with the more established publisher Shun’yōdō. Moreover, even in the case of Neko he had not possessed true oversight, but rather had been given a considerable degree of freedom to suggest things and negotiate. This was not quite the 293 revolutionary movement in publishing that Kōno sees it as, even though it was unusual. 70 In any event, Sōseki soon grew dissatisfied, and his decision to carry out the design of the Iwanami edition of Kokoro was informed not only by his perfectionist streak but also by his interest in book design, and the experience that he had heretofore acquired in the area. Designing the Edition (II): The Creation and Impact of the Iwanami Kokoro Clearly, Sōseki seeking control over the design of Kokoro was not a rash decision made on the spur of the moment; nor was it made simply because he was a generous person who wanted to help out one of his enthusiastic monkasei. That he had been courted by other publishers and turned them down, and was promptly ready to both lend Iwanami the initial capital for the project and undertake the design himself, shows that he had already been considering alternative strategies for the book edition of Kokoro. He had gained experience, and wanted to step up from just helping coordinate his published works to exercising complete creative control over their tactile and aesthetic form, designing them himself in accordance with his ideals. 71 Iwanami Shigeo thus represented a means that enabled him to do this, while helping out his eager disciple at the same time. Thus, just as he had acquiesced to the formation of the Mokuyōkai because it gave him more control over his social life, he endorsed Iwanami’s proposal because it meant more control over his work. 70 Kōno, op. cit., 53-55. 71 Indeed, in the preface to Kokoro Sōseki states that he was tired of entrusting design work to others and felt prepared to undertake it himself (Kokoro, 1-2); also see Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 213. 294 Even though Sōseki criticized Iwanami for indulging himself in luxurious materials, as mentioned earlier, it is clear that the two men were on the same page with regard to understanding books as works of art deserving of careful attention. 72 Both were also attracted to experimentation with new styles and trends. At one point, for example, Sōseki tried publishing a work in romanized Japanese, producing a version of the novella Ni-hyakutōka in this format which was published in Osaka by the Rōmaji Hiromekai. 73 For his part, Iwanami employed unusual design elements, often carefully rendered at great cost, in his work: to give one example from later in life, when publishing a book in memory of the aforementioned writer Tokutomi Roka, he used part of a kimono belonging to Roka’s wife for the cover design. 74 It was therefore not surprising that Iwanami encouraged his mentor to freely employ whatever design elements he wished. Sōseki put a great amount of thought into each aspect of the design of Kokoro. There has always been a tendency among scholars to see him as rather 72 Iwanami was, like his mentor, passionate about art. See, for example, 小林勇 Kobayashi Isamu,「岩波茂雄の芸術」 “Iwanami Shigeo no Geijutsu,”『小林勇文集』 Kobayashi Isamu Bunshū, vol. 4 (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1983), 319-322. This essay originally dated from 1958. 73 The original Japanese version of Ni-hyakutōka appeared in Chūō Kōron in October 1906 and was republished in Uzurakago (which comprised Ni-hyakutōka and two other novellas) in December of that year. The romanized version, Nihyakutoka (Osaka: Rōmaji Hiromekai, Branch 1), was published in 1914, the same year as the Iwanami edition of Kokoro. A version is available at the Diet Library <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/954100/42>. The Rōmaji Hiromekai (ローマ字ひろめ会) was an organization founded in 1905 dedicated to encouraging the spread of romanized Japanese. It had been intended to serve as an umbrella organization for the various advocates of romanization, but it became divided when it chose to endorse the Hepburn system, prompting advocates of Japan-derived romanization systems to leave in protest. 74 徳冨蘆花記念文学館 (Tokutomi Roka Memorial Literature Hall), Shibukawa, Gunma Prefecture, permanent exhibition. 295 sloppy with his planning and editing, a situation due no doubt to the struggles of some of his monkasei to deal with his messy manuscripts when compiling the Sōseki Zenshū, which is discussed in the next chapter. However, Sōseki’s manuscripts were messy precisely because he was never happy with his writing and continually re-wrote passages, struggling to finalize the text to his demanding standards. His manuscripts, with their splotches and entire sections crossed out and rewritten over and over, reflected not a sloppy disregard for editing but rather a ceaseless and fruitless pursuit of perfection. He hated even simple typographical errors, and complained bitterly when people misread his texts. During Kokoro’s run in the Asahi Shinbun he had grumbled about mistakes, and even called up the editor to directly complain. 75 He poured the same dedication and perfectionism into his design of Kokoro, spending days and days on each aspect of the design and keeping Iwanami updated on his progress. For instance, he discussed the design work with Iwanami on August 22. 76 Two days later he sent Iwanami a letter going over the Latin seal he had prepared for the inside cover. 77 Here he was referring to a seal stating “ars longa, vita brevis” [art is long, life is short], a well-known Latin translation of a saying by Hippocrates. A week later he fired off a letter concerning the specifics of the colophon design: Greetings. I drafted three colophons, and will show you the one I thought best. In the 75 For example, he mentioned calling to complain on July 9, 1914 (Ara, Sōseki Kenkyū Nenpyō, op. cit., 775). 76 Ibid., 779. 77 Letter to Iwanami Shigeo, 24 August, 1914, in 岩波書店編集部 Iwanami Shoten Henshūbu, ed., 『岩波茂雄への手紙』 Iwanami Shigeo e no Tegami (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2003), 4. 296 colophon, the author, publisher and printer are all arranged finely in red characters – you can get a sense of this style from the colophon of Neko. Let’s discuss the details when we meet. August 31st Natsume Kinnosuke To Iwanami Shigeo 78 When he met Iwanami later on that same day, Sōseki handed over his revised manuscript of Kokoro. 79 He had been continually editing the text while working on the book design. He even prepared his own seal to endorse the books, and updated Iwanami when there was a delay after it did not turn out as expected: Greetings. I tried drawing a seal to put in blue ink, but that did not turn out so well. I will show you the best one out of those. If this does not meet the schedule, then how about having a seal shop make a regular one? September 6th Natsume Kinnosuke To Iwanami Shigeo 80 Sōseki put particular emphasis on designing the cover of the work (Fig. 5-9). Featuring a definition of “kokoro” from a Chinese dictionary quoting the philosopher Xunzi (荀子) – known for his critical view of human nature and his emphasis therefore on the importance of education and self-cultivation to correct it – rendered in white on a slightly pale red background, this became the most distinctive element of the edition’s binding. 78 Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 24, 337. 79 Ara, Sōseki Kenkyū Nenpyō, op. cit., 780. 80 Sōseki Zenshū, vol. 24, 341-342. 297 Fig. 5-9: Cover of the Iwanami Shoten one-volume edition of Kokoro (1914) (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1972 replica) The key component of the design, the characters, were based on a present Sōseki had received early the previous year from Hashiguchi Mitsugu, who as mentioned above was a former student of his as well as Goyō’s elder brother. Mitsugu, working as a diplomat, was in China at the time, and upon being impressed by the characters on an ancient monument decided to make some rubbings and send them to his mentor. 81 Sōseki loved the characters. On 3 July, 81 On Sōseki and Hashiguchi Mitsugu, see 杤尾武 Tochio Takeshi, 「漱石と「石鼓文」の装幀」 “Sōseki to ‘Sekkobun’ no sōtei,” 『成城文藝』Seijō Bungei 167 (July 1999): 17-58. The article has extensive images of the rubbings in question. 298 1913, he sent a letter to Mitsugu at the Japanese Consulate in China, to thank him. 82 On 9 August 1914, while working on the design for the book edition of Kokoro, Sōseki sent Mitsugu another letter, stating, “I found what you presented me to be very interesting; it is probably not too old, but the characters are fascinating and I am designing the cover of my upcoming novel based on them.” 83 Sōseki had bungled his assessment of the inscription’s age – the monument was in fact part of a set created during the Northern Song Dynasty (960-1279) that recreated an even older set dating from the Spring and Autumn era (c. 771-476 BCE). 84 However, he put considerably more care into adapting this unique treasure for the Kokoro design. He traced part of the rubbing and then reconstructed the characters carefully to create the impressive cover. It was well known that Sōseki had put a lot of effort into the cover design, and Iwanami Yoshi distinctly recalled how her husband panicked when he appeared to have misplaced it (it turned out that their daughter Sayuri and her friends had run off with it). 85 82 Ibid., 18. 83 Ibid. 84 The rubbings are now held by Tōhoku University Library as part of its Sōseki Collection. The monuments themselves, originally created in the kingdom of Qin, had been lost during the era of division but rediscovered in Tianxing (now Fengxiang, Shaanxi Province) during the Tang Dynasty (618-907). The set are now the oldest stone inscriptions in China. For more, see Yongxiang Lu, ed., A History of Chinese Science and Technology, vol. 2 (Shanghai: Shanghai Jiao Tong University Press, 2015), 164-165. 85 “[Iwanami’s] first publication was in 1914, and it was Natsume-sensei’s Kokoro, the binding of which made use of sensei’s own handwriting. Iwanami received it from him and put it on his desk or somewhere, but then it disappeared and caused a real panic. It was because Sayuri [our second daughter], and the girls from Shōbundō next door, had found it while they were playing. 299 The distinctive design proved popular when the Iwanami edition of Kokoro was published, and it became synonymous with Sōseki from then on. Even today numerous editions of Sōseki’s works and the Sōseki Zenshū employ Kokoro’s cover design, a point I shall return to in the following chapter. They thought it was a beautiful piece of colored paper and cut it into several pieces to divide it amongst themselves. Fortunately it was not torn, so we were able to put it back together, and things worked out. However, at the time we were really in trouble since it was sensei’s own writing, and we could hardly ask him to write it again. At that time, Iwanami told me it was his own fault. “I was wrong to leave it [there],” he said, regretfully. Since that time, [we undertook to move, and so separate our working and living spaces] to avoid the children coming into [the work area]” (Iwanami Yoshi, as given by Kobayashi Isamu, op. cit., 462. Sayuri became Kobayashi’s wife). 300 Fig. 5-10: Iwanami edition of Kokoro. Clockwise from top left: box front, box spine, frontispiece, colophon. (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1972 replica) 301 Sōseki’s designs for the box and interior artwork (Fig. 5-10) were clearly informed by his love of Art Nouveau and the artwork of his friends and previous design collaborators Hashiguchi and Asai. 86 The box features an abstract rendering of the Chinese character for “kokoro,” one of several calligraphic variants that Sōseki deployed throughout his design of the edition. The setting of the character label within a soft-hued naturalistic scene of a flowering plant hints at “kokoro” being a natural phenomenon while simultaneously hinting that the work represents but one look at the greater “plant” of lived experience. The frontispiece continues this theme, with a drawing inspired by medieval ink wash paintings (suiboku-ga). A sagely figure, depicted in the manner common for illustrating ancient immortals, reclines in a natural setting where he reflects on “kokoro,” in another stylized rendering – and the only hint of color in the plate – made to resemble a flower blossoming. In other words, Sōseki was combining traditional Chinese-inspired landscapes with the dreamy feel and plant motifs that occupy a major presence in Art Nouveau stylistics. Throughout the edition, Sōseki used natural imagery rendered in flowing black tones with characters inset in red – the similarity to the first edition of Neko is immediately apparent. This extended to the colophon, which also strongly resembled the style of that of Neko. 86 Also see Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 213, for images of the original master of the binding and other components prepared by Sōseki. 302 Fig. 5-11: Colophon (detail), Iwanami edition of Kokoro (source: Nihon Kindai Bungakukan / Holp Shuppan 1972 replica) The colophon, framed with more leaf and branch imagery, lists Natsume Kinnosuke as the author, Iwanami Shigeo as the hakkōsha, and Iwanami Shoten as the hakkōjo. Sōseki liberally distributed various renderings of the title “Kokoro” throughout the work, further complicating the situation regarding how to refer to the text. This formatting decision, along with the conflation of story and series begun earlier, spawned a considerable amount of 303 controversy, an issue addressed by literary scholar Myōjō Kiyoko. 87 While the work is now overwhelmingly referred to in the scholarship as “こゝろ,” in fact the edition itself deploys the Chinese character form far more, as the following chart illustrates: Book Component Title Given Box front (fig. 5-9) 心 (stylized rendering) Box spine (fig. 5-9) 心 Cover (fig. 5-8) 心 Spine (fig. 5-8) こゝろ Frontispiece (fig. 5-9) 心 (stylized rendering) Preface 心 First page こゝろ Fig. 5-12: Titles of the Work Given in the Iwanami Edition of Kokoro In the process of preparing the edition to match Sōseki’s vision, Iwanami was able to develop his own skills with design work. Sōseki’s interest in book design did not abate, and he had a hand in the remaining works that he published with Iwanami. However, as his health declined he was unable to throw himself so fully into another project as he had with Kokoro, making its existence truly special within the history of modern Japanese bookbinding. Saitō Shōzō, a binding expert, commented in 1930 that Sōseki had had a major influence on contemporary publishing, and that the most enduring piece of this legacy was his binding work. 88 87 See 明星聖子 Myōjō Kiyoko, 「「心」の問題――文学研究のための資料をめぐる一考察」 “Kokoro no Mondai: Bungaku Kenkyū no tameno Shiryō wo meguru Kōsatsu,” 『漢字文化三千年国際シンポジウム報告書 Kanji Bunka San-sen-nen Kokusai Shinpojiumu Hōkokusho (Kyoto: Kyoto University, 2008), 14-35. 88 斎藤昌三 Saitō Shōzō,『漱石と装釘』 Sōseki to Sōtei, cited in Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, op. cit., 203. 304 As Natsume Sōseki no Bijutsu Sekai relates, the binding of Sōseki’s works falls neatly into three stages – the first, beginning with Wagahai wa Neko de aru, when Hashiguchi handled the binding design, freely indulging his and Sōseki’s passion for Art Nouveau styles and motifs; the second, when Sōseki did his own binding work, first and foremost for Kokoro; and the third, when he turned to his old artist friend Tsuda Seifū to handle the binding. 89 The end result of the Iwanami Kokoro venture was a book that truly reflected Sōseki’s vision; in fact a published work more closely aligned with the intentions of its author would be hard to find in any time period or country. As expected, the book was a sensation, bringing in substantial funds and becoming a staple source of income for Iwanami, and Sōseki’s family, as the book continued to be reprinted. The biggest achievement for Iwanami Shigeo, however, was not the profits, but the intellectual cachet – publishing Kokoro had succeeded in introducing Iwanami to the broader intellectual world with a dramatic crescendo. The young publisher was on his way. Conclusion Sōeki’s decision to entrust the book edition of Kokoro to his disciple Iwanami Shigeo represented a turning point in the history of modern Japanese print culture. The unparalleled freedom to pursue his artistic vision to the limits enabled Sōseki to design a work of art that 89 Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku, 203. 305 impressed contemporaries and became a touchstone in the publishing world. Iwanami, on the other hand, was able to serve as the medium of his mentor’s masterpiece, and by doing so gained immediate and widespread recognition as the publisher of Kokoro far beyond his old Mokuyōkai network and the local Kanda-Jinbochō community. The intellectual capital that this represented was beyond measure, and was by far the greatest boon that Sōseki, having strongly supported Iwanami in his ventures as a bookseller and then as a publisher, could have given to his disciple. The next chapter considers how Iwanami, having established himself as a new but clearly serious publisher, put his circle to use. It also discusses in this context another key artifact, one that his old Mokuyōkai colleagues helped bring to fruition, and which like Kokoro was intrinsically bound up with their master’s legacy: the Sōseki Zenshū. 306 Chapter VI Drawing on the Network: From Kokoro to the Sōseki Zenshū Introduction Iwanami Shigeo had gained experience as a publisher and effectively deployed his mentor Sōseki’s cultural capital to jumpstart his business. In the wake of having established himself as a player in Japan’s publishing world through the production of the single-volume edition of Sōseki’s Kokoro, Iwanami set about developing his business further by drawing upon his network – first and foremost his fellow monkasei from the Mokuyōkai. This had the effect both of fueling his business in the short-term and shoring up his intellectual authority in the long-term. This chapter addresses how he did this, firstly by making use of his colleagues as sources of manuscripts, connections, and editorial labor, and secondly by reinforcing the Sōseki foundations holding up Iwanami Shoten through the creation of the landmark Sōseki Zenshū, or Collected Works of Sōseki. 1 This, the first part of the chapter consists of an overview of the ways in which Iwanami made use of his network, while the second part consists of a publishing history of the most significant product of these efforts: the Sōseki Zenshū, which was to continue to provide a foundation for Iwanami Shoten in terms of both finance and intellectual authority for the rest of the twentieth century. 1 Three main editions of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū were produced over the course of the twentieth century (starting in 1917, 1935, and 1993, respectively); see the section later in this chapter discussing these in some detail. 307 Putting the Network to Work (I): Friends Bearing Manuscripts Sōseki had encouraged Iwanami to pursue his publishing dream, while lending him the capital, both financial and cultural, to make it a reality. After the success of Kokoro he had continued to publish works with Iwanami Shoten, resulting in the March 1915 publication of Garasu-do no Uchi (硝子戸の中, originally running in the Asahi Shinbun from January to February), the October 1915 publication of Michikusa (道草, in the Asahi Shinbun from June to September), and finally that of Meian (明暗, in the Asahi Shinbun from May to December 1916), left incomplete due to the author’s death at the end of 1916 and appearing from Iwanami in January 1917. Sōseki’s passing profoundly affected Iwanami Shigeo both personally and from a business standpoint, given that his publications served as the bricks in Iwanami’s cultural foundation. The day of Sōseki’s death must have been a horrible one for Iwanami, for, to add insult to injury, that evening as the house was crowded with mourners he slipped and fell into the toilet, necessitating his rescue by Nogami and another attendee and leading to a moment of laughter at his expense on the otherwise solemn occasion. 2 It took the monkasei time to begin processing their grief. At the moment their master died, the shock was such that most were unable to make a sound. As Uchida recalled, 2 内田百閒 Uchida Hyakken,『漱石山房の記』Sōseki Sanbō no Ki (Tokyo: Chichibu Shobō, 1941), 117-118. Natsume Shinroku also mentioned the incident (夏目真六 Natsume Shinroku, 『猫の墓――父・漱石の思い出』 Neko no Haka: Chichi Sōseki no Omoide (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō, 1984), 29). 308 There was no one who was crying. I also did not have such a feeling; I just felt as if my surroundings were distant from me. Suddenly, Tsuda Seifū started to cry in a loud voice. He did not leave Sensei’s bedside. Someone comforted him, and he came to us. Then it became quiet again, and everyone was still. 3 At the funeral, however, Uchida had trouble keeping his composure and collapsed into tears, later stating that despite all the difficulties throughout his life over the subsequent twenty years never again did he cry as hard as he had on that day. 4 It is not surprising that Sōseki’s disciples clung to each other for support, and that moreover, having in many cases built their careers on Sōseki’s fame, they continued to value and deploy this identity as monkasei throughout their careers. While the Mokuyōkai – renamed, as mentioned in Chapter 3, the Kokonokai after Sōseki’s death on the ninth of December, 1916 – still met, it was a depressing shadow of its former self. The members themselves, however, continued as a functioning network, often meeting and working amongst themselves in ways less obviously haunted by the specter of Sōseki’s passing. It is therefore important to note that while the Mokuyōkai in the strictest sense faded away, as the basis for an intellectual network it continued to function and play a key role in the lives of its members, often for the rest of their lives. Iwanami Shigeo made highly effective use of this network. Moreover, in addition to drawing upon its members, he reached through them to add new connections, and ultimately based his larger career network as a publisher upon the same elements that had informed his time 3 Uchida, Sōseki Sanbō no Ki, 141. 4 Ibid., 118-119. 309 as a monkasei in the Mokuyōkai. This included building close relationships with writers, keeping semi-regular face-to-face meetings, and continuing to carefully cultivate his image as an intellectual, presenting himself as someone motivated by intellectual passion rather than mere commercial interests. Of course, all publishers must depend upon their networks and try to maintain good, or at least workable, relations with their authors as a matter of course. Iwanami, however, proved to be exceptionally skilled in this regard. While often praised for the consideration he showed others, he could certainly be stubborn as well, and in light of his psychological makeup, discussed previously, it was likely that his endearing attitude was a cultivated one. His experience in the Mokuyōkai no doubt gave him valuable experience in building relations among a diverse cast of characters that would prove invaluable in the publishing trade. While one could conceivably recover from a financial loss, the damage incurred to one’s reputation and network by bungling relationships made it something to be avoided at all costs. It was this cultural capital that Iwanami understood to be a more valuable resource to maintain than just finances. As Toeda Hirokazu notes, “While aware that it was impossible to run a publishing business without caring about economics, Shigeo [valued] his relations with writers as a [type of] wealth.” 5 Iwanami’s son-in-law, prominent editor Kobayashi Yūjirō, recalled that Iwanami would seldom be in the 5 十重田裕一 Toeda Hirokazu,『岩波茂雄：低く暮らし、高く想ふ』 Iwanami Shigeo: Hikuku Kurashi, Takaku Omou (Tokyo: Minerva Shobō, 2013), 99. 310 office or the store because he was always out visiting authors and making sure they were satisfied. 6 Philosopher Watsuji Tetsurō, in a piece published to commemorate the 400th issue of the journal Shisō in 1957, suggested that Iwanami, being aware of how intellectuals were valued in their field, would approach them with appropriate respect, and upon having established a relationship was careful not to betray the other party’s expectations. 7 This marked a significant difference from how many publishers approached authors, and endeared them to him. It could be argued that sources like Kobayashi and Watsuji, having being close to Iwanami, were merely seeking to praise him. However, this seems unlikely because of the manner in which they write. Iwanami, recall, disliked being thought of as a merchant and sought to be recognized as a genuine intellectual. Yet here the sources choose to praise neither his intellectual aptitude nor his business acumen, and instead focus on his people skills, something that Iwanami never even touched upon in his reflections and speeches. It is therefore plausible that Iwanami attributed his success with writers to his status as a fellow intellectual among his colleagues, when in reality he was successful because he knew how to approach these figures and had developed excellent social skills. Indeed, reflecting upon Watsuji’s view, Toeda notes how it 6 小林勇 Kobayashi Isamu, 『惜櫟荘主人―― 一つの岩波茂雄伝』Sekirekishō Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Kōdansha Bunko, 1993). 7 和辻哲郎 Watsuji Tetsurō,「『思想』の初期の思ひ出」 “Shisō no Shoki no Omoide,” 『思想』 Shisō 402 (December 1957). This essay is also available in 『和辻哲郎全集』 Watsuji Tetsurō Zenshū, vol. 24 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1991), 91-106. 311 reveals that Iwanami’s familiarity with academic fields and his ability to collect information and stay abreast of a writer’s academic reputation played an important role in his relations with authors. 8 Consciously or not, Iwanami Shigeo worked tirelessly to maintain his network and this proved to be immensely beneficial to his business, which followed the standard set by its founder. As Kōno Kensuke argues, The publisher Iwanami Shoten valued personal relationships […]. A company’s most important proposition is making money, but a publisher is a small business among companies, so there existed a space in which each could pursue their own tastes, artistic sense, or ideals. Among [publishers], Iwanami Shoten was a private enterprise; it took personal relationships to be very important, and made this the point of departure for its publication business. As a result, these human networks or intimate connections came to individualize Iwanami Shoten.” 9 Skilled at establishing and maintaining his network, Iwanami was also no slouch when it came to deploying it. Right from the start, he had turned to his Mokuyōkai colleagues for support when he entered the book trade, and then set about becoming a publisher. As Nakajima Takeshi notes, he had always counted on his good friends: “With the help of his old friends from the First Higher School – Abe Yoshishige and Abe Jirō – Iwanami Shoten was able to take a solid step as a publisher.” 10 He also drew on the efforts of other Mokuyōkai colleagues, who at times lent him money as Sōseki had previously done. However, the most important role they served was as 8 Toeda, 99-100. 9 紅野謙介 Kōno Kensuke,『物語――岩波書店百年史１：「教養の誕生」』Monogatari: Iwanami Shoten Hyakunen-shi, 1: Kyōyō no Tanjō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 66. 10 中島岳志 Nakajima Takeshi, 『岩波茂雄：リベラル・ナショナリストの肖像』Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 69. 312 sources of manuscripts. The publishing world in modern Japan required the cultivation of connections to provide manuscripts, because unsolicited manuscripts were relatively unusual (in contrast to, for example, the US where publishers would receive mountains of them), meaning strong author-publisher relations were an absolute necessity. 11 The first way Iwanami’s Mokuyōkai colleagues assisted with this was to be authors themselves. This was a mutually-beneficial relationship, because as fellow intellectuals and trusted monkasei they could count on Iwanami to deal with their work respectfully and fairly, while Iwanami would receive quality material from authors he could trust. This represented an instance of what sociologists Lewis Coser, Charles Kadushin and Walter Powell describe as an ideal situation for the production of books: [More than relations within publishing] the shape and character of publishing circles is determined even more by its reliance on authors and readers than by forces within the industry itself. The ideal situation for an editor is to belong to a circle of writers who know and trust him or her. Projects would flow naturally to the editor, who – as a member of the circle – would already be aware of the quality of an author, or the latter’s ability to produce 11 What G. Raymond Nunn observed about the early postwar publishing industry was just as true for the prewar era: The complete absence of literary agents in Japan forces authors to establish direct personal relationships with their publishers. It also makes the publishers responsible for discovering authors. […] Because Japanese publishers are unable to rely on the unsolicited manuscripts as a dependable source of publishable materials, they are forced to turn to commissioning manuscripts. They approach established authorities and writers in various fields for new manuscripts or request translations of foreign books from well-known translators. It is because of these circumstances that the publisher’s own educational background and circle of acquaintances are of great importance. (G. Raymond Nunn, “Modern Japanese Book Publishing,” Occasional Papers: Center for Japanese Studies (University of Michigan) 8 (1964), 60). 313 and deliver a project on time (no small matter), as well as his or her status in the world of other writers. To the extent that writers are part of a large network of definers of taste, ideas that the writers favor would also be favored by readers; hence, the problem of selling books would be solved along with that of acquiring manuscripts. 12 This ideal situation, which the authors acknowledge as a rare occurrence, was in the case of Iwanami possible because of his careful ongoing cultivation of his old network. As Toeda observes, Iwanami’s colleagues became “precious writers for Iwanami Shoten,” and the human relations built by Shigeo in his youth became part of the foundation for the company. 13 One of the best examples was Abe Yoshishige, who strongly supported Iwanami Shigeo and saw his publishing venture as a chance to spread knowledge. In 1914, with Iwanami fresh from his Kokoro achievement, Abe approached his friend and proposed a project: an edited volume of work by the literary critic Uozumi Setsuro (魚住折蘆, 1883-1910), whom Abe had known and admired. 14 While today literary scholars may be familiar with Uozumi’s critique of naturalism, at the time, as Kōno observes, his name was not particularly well-known; moreover, an initial attempt by Abe and some other friends of Uozumi to gather enough funds to publish some of his writings had fallen short. 15 Rather than abandon the idea, Abe took the money to Iwanami and asked him if he could 12 Lewis Coser, Charles Kadushin, and Walter Powell, Books: The Culture and Commerce of Publishing (New York: Basic Books, 1982), 86. Emphasis mine. 13 Toeda, 13. 14 Uozumi too had studied with Koeber, seen Sōseki as a mentor, and associated with many Mokuyōkai members, while also publishing pieces in the Asahi Shinbun. 15 Kōno, 59-62. 314 publish the work, resulting in Setsuro Ikō (折蘆遺稿), edited by Abe himself and published on Dec. 5 1914 as Iwanami Shoten’s second publication (and therefore technically Shigeo’s fourth). Abe described himself and his friends as having been lonely after Uozumi’s death, and having felt comforted by being able to produce the volume, for which he expressed deep appreciation for Iwanami’s help. 16 While Iwanami no doubt wanted to help his friend, he also benefitted from the provision of another work – with some funding up front, and a trusted editor included, no less – as well as an opportunity to secure the appreciation of another network of people around Abe, no doubt enhancing his reputation as a publisher who could be trusted to serve the intellectual community. While the Iwanami edition of Kokoro had drawn on assistance from some colleagues of Shigeo, it was ultimately the product of a collaboration among two people, namely Sōseki and himself. The Uozumi project, on the other hand, was the first project in which Iwanami, now deprived of Sōseki’s guidance and support, deployed his network for the express purpose of publication, drawing in people around Abe and putting them to work. Kōno points out, “The collection was published because of the contributions of friends and acquaintances. Here we have an intimate human network. Iwanami Shoten played the role of opening those intimate relations to others [through publishing the collection].” 17 16 Abe Yoshishige, introduction to 魚住折蘆 Uozumi Setsuro, 『折蘆遺稿』 Setsuro Ikō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1914), as cited by Kōno, 61-62. 17 Kōno, 61. 315 Abe had already had previous works published – his first known publication was a collection of writings by his deceased friend medical scientist Shukunami Shōkichi (宿南昌吉, 1882-1909) in 1912 – but after the success of the Uozumi project he overwhelmingly favored Iwanami Shoten for his publications until the mid-1940s, when the Pacific War and Shigeo’s death seems to have led him to try other publishers more regularly. 18 This becomes readily apparent when examining a list of his works published before 1945, as in Fig.6-1 below. 19 18 Abe Yoshishige’s first work was titled 『宿南昌吉遺稿』Shukunami Shōkichi Ikō (Tokyo: unknown publisher, 1912). He may have paid a printer directly to print copies without going through a publisher. Abe Jirō, also a friend of Shukunami’s, later edited a collection of his works too, resulting in the similarly-titled 『宿南昌吉遺稿――日記・紀行・俳句』 Shukunami Shōkichi Ikō: Nikki, Kikō, Haiku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1934). 19 Note that this list does not include every work that Abe produced or with which he was involved, but all those of which he was either the author or a principle translator or editor. For reasons of brevity it also does not include revised editions and reprints. Several of the titles are based on references to other works: 『西遊抄』, for example, is clearly inspired by the Chinese classic 『西遊記』 but covers a trip to Europe rather than to the central Asia of the Chinese novel. 316 317 Iwanami also offered Abe the opportunity to revisit his earlier works and improve upon them. For instance, he had carried out a translation of philosopher Rudolf Eucken (1846-1926)’s Die Lebensanschauungen der großen Denker (The Issue of Human Life, in the Views of the Great Thinkers, 1890) and published it (as 大思想家の人生観, Dai-Shisōka no Jinseikan, Great Thinkers’ Views on Life) with Tōadō Shobō in 1912, but a decade later looked back on it with dissatisfaction. Iwanami enabled Abe to rework his translation and publish it anew in 1927 under the same title, while a year later releasing some extracts from it in a bunkobon pocketbook edition entitled Shichi Dai-Tetsujin (七大哲人, Seven Great Philosophers). Such arrangements proved mutually beneficial to Abe and Iwanami. The same held true for many of the other monkasei, like Komiya, who published between two-thirds and three-quarters of his works with Iwanami, including his early literary criticism, his 1933 study of Bashō (芭蕉の研究, Bashō no Kenkyū), and of course his major study of Sōseki (夏目漱石, Natsume Sōseki) in 1938. 20 Collaborative efforts among the monkasei, especially on Sōseki-related material, were particularly welcome offerings, and included works such as the 1925 Sōseki Haiku Kenkyū (漱石俳句研究) by Terada, Matsune, and Komiya. 21 20 Komiya produced several other Sōseki-related works for Iwanami, including 『漱石・寅彦・三重吉』Sōseki, Torahiko, Miekichi (1942) and 『漱石の藝術』 Sōseki no Geijutsu (1942). 21 On Sōseki Haiku Kenkyū and related efforts, see, for instance, 鈴木章弘 Suzuki Akihiro, 「東洋城の「起源」」 “Tōyōjō no ‘Kigen’,”『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 48-56, and 小山慶太 Koyama Keita,「寺田寅彦と漱石」 “Terada Torahiko to Sōseki,” 『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 13 (2000): 57-64. 318 Of course, in addition to drawing upon the collective remnants of Sōseki cultural capital possessed by the monkasei, having such a versatile group of intellectuals at his disposal also helped put Iwanami’s publishing outfit at the cutting edge of the cultural vanguard, such as when he published Abe Jirō’s Santarō no Nikki (starting with the second volume in February 1915), a work that soon became considered the “bible” of Taishō and early Shōwa youth. 22 Iwanami Shigeo also worked to maintain his connections with figures outside the former Mokuyōkai members. This included Uchida Tadashi, whose pamphlet was Shigeo’s second publication (as discussed in Chapter Four), and who published other work with Iwanami such as Jukyō Tetsugaku Hongi (儒家哲学本義, Principles of Confucian Philosophy) in 1917, and Hatoyama Hideo (鳩山秀夫, 1884-1946), a respected scholar of common law at Todai whose 1916 Nihon Saiken-ho Sōron (日本債権法総論, Commentary on Japan’s Credit Law) became Iwanami’s first publication on law. This latter work was noted as having been influential and attracted a large number of readers. 23 In short, Iwanami Shigeo cultivated his network, built on the foundation provided by the Mokuyōkai, to establish a reliable source of manuscripts that fueled his business. The relationships he had built with his fellow monkasei also provided a template that he could deploy 22 Iwanami later published a complete edition of Santarō no Nikki in 1918. On the significance of the work, see Chapter Three, note 133. 23 Toeda, 11-12. 319 in managing later authors – a valuable asset given the sensitive personalities of some intellectuals, and Iwanami’s struggles with anxiety, which would have made establishing and maintaining social relations stressful for him. He therefore emerged from the years after his mentor’s death with a small cadre of trusted authors who themselves knew they could depend on him to respect their work – a mutually-beneficial set of relations that were ideal for a new publisher seeking a place in the intellectual culture of the era. Putting the Network to Work (II): Friends of Friends and Friendly Labor Iwanami was able to effectively deploy his network in other ways as well, drawing upon friends of friends to establish valuable new connections, as well as putting those friends to work on various publishing projects as a reliable source of intellectual labor. He benefitted from operating the bookstore, because it made it easy for acquaintances to bring people to see him in a relaxed atmosphere. At a time when it was not uncommon for bookstores to operate as a kind of intellectual salon, as discussed previously, the Iwanami Shoten store provided an environment conducive to Iwanami regularly maintaining his network in a physical space in which he would have felt comfortable and wielded authority as proprietor. There was the feeling that Iwanami Shigeo had created a nexus in which a group of (usually) friendly intellectuals could collaborate together on a project, and while that perception may have been closer to an ideal than reality, it proved influential nonetheless. Kōno dates this specifically to the Uozumi project, arguing that, 320 While the literary scholars of the Shirakaba-ha like Shiga Naoya and Mushanokōji Saneatsu created an intimate human network within the coterie magazine called Shirakaba, [this project] created a similar atmosphere through making Iwanami Shoten – a public space where a second-hand bookstore and publisher coexisted – a relay. 24 Of course, such an atmosphere influenced the direction of Iwanami Shoten in various ways. Iwanami Shigeo’s friends could connect him to their own circles, and turn to him if they knew someone who was seeking a publisher. At the same time, they could also encourage or discourage relations between Iwanami and others as well. Here one of the most significant, and understudied, sources of influence was no doubt Shigeo’s wife, Iwanami Yoshi. Amicable with most of the monkasei, she liked some young authors, but disliked others and naturally attempted to sway her husband’s decisions. A good example of this is provided by Hiratsuka Raichō, who had sought a publishing arrangement with Iwanami only to have it fall through when her colleague, Yasumochi Yoshiko (保持研子, 1885-1947) deeply offended Yoshi. 25 Yoshi responded by demanding that Shigeo end all his dealings with Raichō’s circle, to which he acquiesced. Raichō’s account assumes that Yoshi was an old-fashioned lady with a deep dislike of Raichō’s circle, and that she had simply seized on the Yasumochi incident as an excuse to push Shigeo to terminate his connection to the group. The incident had unfolded in spring 1914, when Raichō was seeking an alternative to 24 Kōno, 62. 25 Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist, trans. Teruko Craig (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 240-241. 321 Shōbundō to handle her journal Seitō. She had originally been introduced to that publisher, which was next-door to Iwanami, by her colleague Araki Ikuko (荒木郁子, 1888-1943), who either owned or managed the entire block, and whom she described as one of the few members of her circle with any business sense. 26 Shōbundō, however, like many small-scale outfits at the time, had poor distribution channels and had failed to distribute outside of Tokyo, leading Raichō to consider Iwanami Shoten as an alternative. Her description of Iwanami Shigeo is entirely consistent with the portrait discussed prior – a young intellectual both earnest and idealistic, but also perhaps a little full of himself: He was sympathetic to our journal and said he would be happy to take on the publishing and sales responsibilities. He would do this not as a business venture but as a gesture of good will. I felt a certain resistance to the way he kept repeating “gesture of good will,” but he seemed like a trustworthy man of high principles and presumably knew the journal made little money. 27 The problem occurred when Yasumochi, known to have been a gruff, no-nonsense woman, and Itō Noe (伊藤野枝, 1895-1923), 28 Raichō’s protégé of sorts, went to the second floor of the shop to edit the proofs, and Iwanami Yoshi brought them in: The galley proofs were ready and all seemed to be in good order when something unexpected happened. To work on the final editing, Yoshiko and Noe had gone to a room 26 Ibid., 240. 27 Ibid. 28 Itō later took over the editorial reins of Seitō in 1915. She contributed to moving the journal in a more radical direction, focusing far more on social issues than Raichō had intended. She engaged in a tempestuous affair with the anarchist Ōsugi Sakae (大杉栄, 1885-1923), and was later murdered along with him by a group of military police in the wake of the Great Kantō Earthquake on September 16, 1923. 322 on the second floor of the store, but when Mrs. Iwanami came in with the proofs, Yoshiko had acknowledged her with a grunt and failed to thank her properly. Mrs. Iwanami was outraged since she had intended to say a word of welcome and instead had been treated rudely. The unfortunate incident was described in great detail in her husband’s special delivery letter, which arrived the next day and was addressed to me personally. He ended the letter apologizing in the politest terms that he would have to decline all future dealings with us. His wife, heavy with child (he mentioned how many months), had made a special effort to climb the stairs, only to be greeted with a grunt. She was terribly upset and insisted that he cancel the agreement. Had the work been a temporary job, he might have gone against her wishes, but since this was not the case, he had no choice but to back out with his deepest regret. 29 Raichō took the outcome with good humor. She acknowledged that Yasumochi had behaved badly, while recognizing that she was just like that and had probably not recognized Iwanami Yoshi or intended to offend her. At the same time, she sensed that Yoshi was not enthusiastic at all about her circle’s endeavors, and that ending the relationship with Iwanami was probably in everyone’s interest. Often, things turned out far more positively, with Iwanami’s friends and connections helping to expand and shore up his network. For example, while working with Sōseki on the design of the latter’s Iwanami editions, Shigeo had kept in touch with the artist Tsuda Seifū, who he had already known from the Mokuyōkai. However, he also came to know Hashiguchi Goyō, who had done the binding design for Wagahai wa Neko de aru, and whose eldest brother Mitsugu had sent Sōseki the rubbings that became the cover of Kokoro, as discussed in the last 29 Ibid., 240-241. 323 chapter. Hashiguchi had another elder brother, Hashiguchi Hanjirō (橋口半次郎), who became fast friends with Iwanami, which in turn reinforced the latter’s connection to the artist. This then helped Iwanami benefit from being able to call upon Goyō, who by this point possessed substantial experience with producing designs for books and other purposes. The most obvious example of this was Goyō’s creation of the original Iwanami Shoten logo, which consisted of an urn (甕, kame) with “Iwanami” written on it (see Fig. 6-2). Iwanami consistently used this logo until swapping to the present-day one, based on Jean-Francois Millet’s “The Sower” (種まく人 or 種蒔き) in the summer of 1933 (see Fig. 6-2). The change was partly prompted by the upcoming December 10 launch of the Iwanami Zensho (岩波全書), a series of books akin to a large set of textbooks and intended to represent a bedrock of knowledge across the arts and sciences. 30 Regarding the logos, Kobayashi recalls: Iwanami Shoten’s logo was originally an urn drawn by Hashiguchi Goyō. Then in August of this year [1933], Iwanami [Shigeo] changed it to Millet’s “The Sower.” He said the following about his reason for choosing it: “I chose Millet’s picture “The Sower” to be the logo because I was originally a farmer and strongly held the belief that labor was sacred, so I liked that country lifestyle of “Work the fields when it is sunny, and read when it rains.” 31 Further, I wanted to make Wordsworth’s “Plain living and high thinking” the spirit of the store. I would be grateful if 30 The Iwanami Zensho series, which continued into the postwar era, should not be confused with the various collected works (zenshū) published by Iwanami, which are covered later in this chapter. 31 晴耕雨読, seikō udoku. A saying that celebrated a union of country living and scholarship that clearly reflected Taishō romantic tendencies. It is often interpreted as an ideal lifestyle of honest work and self-cultivation, and remains a common figure of speech although it is unknown who first coined the expression. It also lends its name to a brand of shōchū. 324 it prompted someone to think about “sowing the seeds of culture.” We had been using the image of an urn by Hashiguchi Goyō until the summer of 1933.” 32 The rendering of the second logo had to be produced by another artist as Goyō had died back in 1921. Initially the image was requested from Takamura Kōtarō (高村光太郎, 1883-1956), who produced a bronze medal for the store. However, his rendering had the effect of making the sower’s hat resemble a steel helmet, which troubled Iwanami who feared it could be misconstrued as militaristic. 33 This led to an alternate rendering being produced by another artist, likely Kojima Kikuo (児島喜久雄, 1887-1950), which became the standard one until the present. 34 The medal rendering by Takamura, despite being rejected, appears on the title page of Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, and also features in the sign outside the main store, however (see Fig. 6-3). 35 32 Kobayashi, 180-181. Recall that the Wordsworth aphorism was one of the set Iwanami quoted when he first opened the store (see Chapter 4). Iwanami was not the only publisher to have been inspired by Millet’s painting: Simon & Schuster based their logo on it as well, at least as far back as 1924. 33 高村光太郎 Takamura Kōtarō,『回想』 Kaisō (1956), cited by Iwanami Shoten, 「〈種まく人〉マークの使用開始（1933年 12 月 10 日）」, “‘Tanemaku Hito’ Māku no Shiyō Kaishi (1933-nen 12-gatsu tōka),” <https://www.iwanami.co.jp/museum/chronicle/19331210m.html>. 34 Iwanami Shoten states merely that the logo was “said to have” been made by Kojima (Iwanami Shoten, “Tanemaku Hito’ Māku no Shiyō Kaishi,”). The particulars of the process between Shigeo’s rejection of Takamura’s version and the adoption of a new one shortly thereafter have never come to light. 35 岩波書店編集部編 Iwanami Shoten Henshūbu, ed., 『写真でみる岩波書店８０年』 Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993), 3. 325 Fig. 6-2: Iwanami Shoten’s original logo by Hashiguchi Goyō (l) and current logo reputedly by Kojima Kikuo based on Millet’s The Sower (r) 36 Fig. 6-3: Sign outside main Iwanami Shoten building, Kanda-Jinbōchō. The characters for “Iwanami Shoten” are derived from the sign made by Sōseki (see Chapter 4). (source: author’s own photograph) Even after Iwanami had adopted the new logo, the company continued to make use of the older Goyō one in some instances, such as on the covers of the Iwanami Bunko pocketbooks. On 36 Source: press release on December 25, 2012 prepared for the 100th anniversary of Iwanami Shoten’s founding (「岩波書店は 2013年に創業百年を迎えます「読者が選ぶこの一冊」アンケート結果発表」“Iwanami Shoten wa 2013-nen ni Kigyō Hyakunen wo Mukaemasu: ‘Dokusha ga Erabu kono Issatsu’ Ankēto Kekka Happyō,” <http://www.iwanami.co.jp/topics/data_img/100th/121225.pdf>. 326 the other hand, it is not surprising that when in 1919 Goyō had sought to republish some major works of ukiyoe, such as Tōkaidō Gojūsan-tsugi (東海道五十三次, The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō), by the famed artist Utagawa Hiroshige (歌川広重, 1797-1858), he went to Iwanami. Another way Iwanami Shigeo drew on his network was to recruit friends as editors for projects, such as journals or book series. For instance, when Iwanami first took a stab at publishing a journal on modern thought with Shichō (思潮, Trends in Thought), the forerunner of the later (and especially influential) Shisō (思想, Thought), he was able to have Abe Jirō serve as editor-in-chief. 37 The journal ran from May 1917 until 1919, and included among its contributors Abe Yoshishige, Komiya, Watsuji, and Ishihara Ken (石原謙, 1882-1976), a scholar of the history of Christianity who published many works with Iwanami too. 38 Many of these figures went on to contribute to Shisō, which began in October 1921. Abe Yoshishige was especially active as an editor for Iwanami. He had been, as Toeda notes, been involved in various projects from the founding of Iwanami Shoten. 39 One of the most influential was Tetsugaku Sōsho (哲学叢書, Philosophy Series), a 12-volume set of works 37 On Shisō, see 『思想』編集部 Shisō Henshu-bu, ed., 『『思想』の軌跡 1921-2011』Shisō no Kiseki, 1921-2011 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012). 38 Ishihara’s maiden work Shūkyō Tetsugaku (宗教哲学, Religious Philosophy) was published by Iwanami in 1916. Many more works followed. 39 Toeda, 21. 327 published from 1915 to 1916 that was affordable and proved highly popular. The set contributed to the popularization of philosophy, as well as Iwanami’s reputation as a publisher of intellectual and scholarly works. While several other monkasei were also involved as editors, it was Abe Yoshishige with whom the set became particularly associated. Abe’s close friendship with Iwanami Shigeo encompassed family links, and several of Abe’s family members went to work at the publisher. 40 His cousin Tsutsumi Tsune (堤常, 1891-1986) started working at Iwanami Shoten in February 1915, and eventually worked his way up to become the manager. Tsutsumi’s wife happened to have been one of Iwanami’s former students, who had taken up working at Iwanami Shoten as an accountant. Meanwhile, a nephew of Abe’s, Oyama Hisajirō (小山久二郎, 1905-1984), also took up working for Iwanami after having withdrawn from Hōsei University. He eventually left to found his own publishing house, Oyama Shoten (小山書店) in 1933, although he maintained good relations with Iwanami. 41 Clearly Kōno Kensuke is correct when he states that in its early years Iwanami Shoten 40 For more on these links, see 平田賢一 Hirata Ken’ichi, 「京城帝国大学法文学部の出版活動と岩波書店」“Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Hōbungakubu no Shuppan Katsudō to Iwanami Shoten,” 『アジア太平洋研究センター年報』Ajia Taiheiyō Kenkyū Sentā Nenpō 14 (2016-2017): 84-91, esp. 89. 41 In 1950 Oyama Shoten published a Japanese translation of D.H. Lawrence’s controversial novel Lady Chatterley’ s Lover, leading to an indictment for violation of the law prohibiting the distribution of obscene material. The company was driven into bankruptcy. For more on Oyama Shoten, see 小山久二郎 Oyama Hisajirō,『ひとつの時代――小山書店私史』 Hitotsu no Jidai: Oyama Shoten Shishi (Tokyo: Rokkō Shuppan, 1982). 328 depended on Shigeo’s networks. 42 However, it would be more accurate to say that Iwanami consistently depended on these, and Shigeo continued to not only shore up his network but also expand it in new ways, including drawing upon individuals not directly linked to the Mokuyōkai and his core circle. 43 For example, he became acquainted with several authors through Uchimura Kanzō’s circle, most notably perhaps Shiga Naoya (志賀直哉, 1883-1971), with whom he continued to attend Uchimura’s sessions for a number of years. Connections to figures in other circles also offered opportunities for Iwanami to sell, and eventually publish, any journals those circles produced. One example of this was Tetsugaku Zasshi (哲学雑誌, Journal of Philosophy), the journal of The Society of Philosophy (哲学会, Tetsugakkai) based in Todai’s Philosophy Department, that had been published since 1887. Iwanami Shigeo had retained connections with the group since graduating, and from January 1914 his bookstore – having only been open at this point for less than six months – became an authorized retailer 44 for the journal. This was significant because being an authorized retailer 42 Kōno, 154. 43 For more on the background behind some early publications and Iwanami’s relations with writers, see 山崎安雄 Yamazaki Yasuo,『岩波文庫をめぐる文豪秘話－漱石・鴎外・茂吉・露伴・寅彦』 Iwanami Bunko wo meguru Bungō Hiwa: Sōseki, Ōgai, Mokichi, Rohan, Torahiko (Tokyo: Shuppan Nyūsu-sha, 1964). 44 売捌所, urisabakisho, meaning a retailer with an urisabaki. An urisabaki was a contract between a publisher and a retailer authorizing them to be a seller for a given locale. The idea was to ensure that as many areas as possible had a store responsible for each, thus ensuring more reliable coverage. Major publishers like Hakubunkan sought to do this a lot, racking up a large number of authorized retailers. Urisabaki were not exclusive, and a bookstore could make such agreements with multiple publishers. For more, see 千代田図書館・大妻女子大学国文学会 329 meant one was the proper outlet for a given area and therefore this brought with it a degree of professional prestige as well as some guaranteed customer traffic. Not long afterwards Iwanami became the distributor for the journal, which it remained until October 1928 whereupon it became the publisher. In fact, the 1928 membership roster of the Society listed Iwanami Shigeo as a member. 45 Another example was the poetry journal Araragi (アララギ, Rocambole) 46 . This was the journal of the Negishi Tanka-kai (根岸短歌会), a tanka group developed under Masaoka Shiki in Negishi, Tokyo. The journal developed out of Ashibi (馬酔木, Andromeda) 47 , an earlier journal started by Shiki’s disciple Itō Sachio (伊藤左千夫, 1864-1913) in 1903 in the wake of Shiki’s death the previous year. 48 The journal eventually became influential enough that those associated with it became known as the Araragi-ha or Araragi-kei (Araragi group/faction). Naturally Iwanami Shigeo was familiar with some of Shiki’s disciples and their circles through the Mokuyōkai, but he had also previously come into contact with the journal’s precursor: I had seen Ashibi at Seishundō in Hongō when I was a higher school student. The Chiyoda Toshokan / Ōtsuma Joshi Daigaku Kokubungakkai,「書物と読者をつないだ明治期の販売目録」“Shomotsu to Dokusha wo Tsunaida Meiji-ki no Hanbai Mokuroku,” Exhibition catalog, 24 Oct. to 24 Dec. 2011, <https://www.library.chiyoda.tokyo.jp/findbook/collection/ kosho/exhibitionarchive/display_meijikihanbai.pdf>. 45 Toeda, 43. Iwanami Shoten remained the publisher of Tetsugaku Zasshi until 1948. 46 Allium grayi or wild rocambole; usually referred to as nobiru. Using poetic plant names for the titles of collections or journals is a common trope in tanka tradition. 47 Pieris japonica or Japanese andromeda; also read as asebi. 48 The new journal began in 1908 and was originally published with the title rendered in kanji (阿羅々木) but this was changed to a katakana rendering the following year. 330 rareness of the name really caught my attention. I remember that although the journal was shabby, it bore a sort of remarkable character. It was only much later that I found out that this was the precursor of Araragi. 49 Iwanami Shoten became an authorized retailer for Araragi in June 1914. Iwanami Shigeo purportedly took handling the journal very seriously, and worked to deepen his connections with the various poets in the circle. 50 Following Itō’s death, Araragi had been edited by Saitō Mokichi (斉藤茂吉, 1882-1953), one of Itō’s disciples and a key figure in the poetry circle. However, this did not end up working out, and he passed the post to Shimaki Akahiko (島木赤彦, 1876-1926; real name 久保田俊彦 Kubota Toshihiko), another member, instead. Akahiko had studied tanka under Itō while working as a teacher, and was staunchly opposed to Saitō’s suggestion of ending the journal when the publication proved difficult, leading to the passing of the baton. 51 This was significant because Akahiko and Iwanami Shigeo got along very well together. For one reason, they had both been born in Suwa. Another factor may have been Sōseki’s high evaluation of Akahiko. 52 This friendship shored up the link between Iwanami and Araragi, something that both Iwanami himself and others acknowledged. 53 Akahiko had become the editor in February 1915, and only 49 Iwanami Shigeo, 「雑感」 “Zakkan,” 『アララギ』 Araragi 26.1 (January 1933): 244-246, cited in Nakajima, 71-72. 50 See, for instance, Nakajima, 69. For more on Iwanami and Araragi, see Yamazaki, Iwanami Bunko, 114-118. 51 Nakajima, 71. 52 Ibid., 72. 53 See Iwanami, “Zakkan,” op. cit., 斉藤茂吉 Saitō Mokichi,「岩波茂雄氏」“Iwanami 331 a month later Iwanami Shoten became the distributor for the journal. Even after Akahiko’s death in 1926, Iwanami continued to value the Araragi network, supporting the Negishi Tanka-kai and publishing works by its members. 54 Iwanami’s involvement with these journals, both of which were connected to his friends, circles, and/or institutions with which he had been associated, again demonstrates the importance of these relationships. Iwanami was willing to incur financial risks – Araragi was struggling when he took over its distribution, after all – if they were related to people he trusted and could offer future opportunities to influence the intellectual world. Meanwhile, the editors were willing to take a chance on this rookie publisher because he was known to them through intellectual networks, meaning they would have seen him as possessing intellectual cachet and would have expected him to treat their work with respect. As Toeda correctly observes, this paid off for Iwanami because many of the intellectuals in these journal groups, seeing Iwanami value their friendship and their work, went on to publish their own works with him: “Shigeo’s relationships of mutual trust with these friends led to a fundamental expansion of his publishing activities,” he concludes. 55 Shigeo-shi,” in『斉藤茂吉全集』Saitō Mokichi Zenshū, vol. 7 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1975), 617-623, as well as Nakajima, 71-72, and Toeda, 44-45. 54 Saitō credited Iwanami’s support for helping the group’s poetry becoming well-known (Saitō, “Iwanami Shigeo-shi,” op. cit.). 55 Toeda, 46. 332 Finally, there were occasions on which Iwanami Shigeo’s friends intervened to prevent him making what they saw as a catastrophic mistake. The most significant instance occurred in 1928, a year that witnessed several setbacks for Iwanami. In March, the employees of Iwanami Shoten had gone on strike; in July, the publishing of Renmei-ban Marukusu – Engerusu Zenshū (聯盟版マルクス・エンゲルス全集, Communist League Edition of the Complete Works of Marx and Engels) had proved a failure; then the prominent journal Shisō (思想, Thought) had to go on hiatus in August. Spiraling into depression, by the start of September Shigeo had begun planning to escape and secretly travel to Europe for a while. He consulted Komiya about his plans, but the latter was less than impressed, and said so, staunchly opposing Iwanami’s escapist impulse in a letter: I met Abe [Jirō] today and talked about you [planning on] going to Europe. Abe said that he was completely against it. Your going to Europe at this time means that you are escaping from your store at the most difficult and most important juncture. He said that if you do such a thing then Iwanami Shoten might even go completely bankrupt. I also agree on that. I told you repeatedly the last time we met that you need to reconsider the timing; what I intended to say was just the same as what Abe said. So, I decided to write this letter again. Why don’t you think about the current situation of your store 56 and how it will be if you are away? I am convinced that you going as far away as Europe to escape from your store in this situation is cowardly. You must be really suffering in your heart. I understand that you feel it is unbearable and you feel you have to do something because so many misfortunes keep occurring. That being said, I cannot help feeling that your escape is the same as not fighting with 56 Komiya refers to Iwanami’s business several times with just “店” (mise) which is literally “store” but is intended to mean the entire enterprise and not just the book-selling storefront. 333 misfortune like a man – in short, you are passing the buck, and it is a most womanly action. 57 His pride deeply wounded, Iwanami wrote on the envelope of Komiya’s letter “Living proof that Komiya does not understanding my feelings,” but he did take his friend’s advice and did not escape to Europe. 58 The response of Komiya and Abe to the situation demonstrates that they not only cared about their friend, but his business as well. This is not surprising given how by this point Iwanami Shoten had become such an important part of the lives of all three men, and many more in their circle, and if it were to collapse in scandal it would hurt all of them and render null all of the work they had invested in it thus far. Iwanami Shigeo drew on his networks, first and foremost his established circle in the Mokuyōkai, to run a successful bookstore and then start dabbling in publishing before launching into a full-scale publishing enterprise. While developing and deploying networks in this way was by no means exclusive to Iwanami, he recognized their significance enough to value them. He was also especially skilled at both maintaining and utilizing these networks effectively, and this skillset carried him from his earliest work with Ashino’s Uchū no Shinka through the Sōseki works and onward, setting a pattern that he then drew on for the subsequent generation of 57 Komiya, letter to Iwanami Shigeo, 20 September, 1928, in 岩波書店編集部 Iwanami Shoten Henshū-bu, ed., 『岩波茂雄への手紙』 Iwanami Shigeo e no Tegami (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2003), 67-68. 58 Iwanami Shoten Henshū-bu, ed., Iwanami Shigeo e no Tegami, 67. The letter is also discussed in Nakajima, 111-112. 334 intellectuals. By that time, however, he had also built up enormous reserves of cultural capital, erected upon the foundation he had built of Sōseki’s legacy. A key role in that process was played by the Sōseki Zenshū, which I now turn to consider. The Sōseki Zenshū (I): Development and Overview of Editions Sōseki had continued to support Iwanami as the latter established himself in the publishing world. After the resounding success of the Iwanami edition of Kokoro, he published all of his subsequent books with his disciple. March 1915 brought Garasu-do no Naka (硝子戸の中, Inside My Glass Doors), a collection of essays reflecting on the people and experiences he had encountered, including several accounts of Mokuyōkai sessions and members, and October that same year the largely autobiographical Michikusa (道草, Grass by the Wayside), which addressed his lonely childhood and feeling of resentment towards life. 59 Sōseki again funded the initial production of the work, and continued to be involved in the design process, designing Garasu-do no Naka by himself much as he had done for Kokoro. 60 Through mid-to-late 1916 Sōseki, now in seriously declining health, was working on his long novel Meian (明暗, Light and Darkness), 188 installments of which had been carried by the Asahi Shinbun by the time of his death in December of that year. Iwanami republished the installments early in the following year. 59 Garasu-do no Naka had originally run in the Asahi Shinbun from mid-January to late February 1915, while Michikusa had run from early June to mid-September. As had been the case with Kokoro, there was only a brief time between the conclusion of the works in the newspaper and the issue of the Iwanami editions. 60 Kōno, 105-106. 335 Thus, by the writer’s death, Iwanami Shoten was already on the verge of establishing itself as the source of Sōseki reprints. However, despite its achievements it was still a bit player in a landscape dominated by large publishing establishments. As Kōno explains, Sōseki had probably enjoyed making books by covering the cost himself. However, as a publisher Iwanami Shoten was still a low-flying aircraft yet to truly take flight after its creation. This newly-emerged publisher took on a big challenge with Sōseki’s passing, and that was the Sōseki Zenshū.” 61 Indeed, it was only with the Sōseki Zenshū that Iwanami Shoten was to become transformed into an intellectual bastion patrolled by eager monkasei enforcers. Because it depended so strongly on the intellectual authority bequeathed by Sōseki and made manifest in the form of the Zenshū, the publisher came to jealously guard its prerogative concerning Sōseki texts, at times responding bitterly to other publishers seeking to publish these. 62 In addition to 61 Ibid. 62 To give one example, in May 1979 Iwanami Shoten and Shun’yōdō sought legal action when the Japanese subsidiary of Reader’s Digest (日本リーダーズ・ダイジェスト社) published some Sōseki works without proper permission ( 「岩波・春陽堂も訴え「初版本の復刻権侵害」」 “Iwanami / Shun’yōdō mo Uttae ‘Shohanpon no Fukkokuken Shingai’,” 『朝日新聞』Asahi Shinbun, 30 May 1979, 22). Iwanami also tended to respond to other publishers venturing to publish Sōseki works with a defensive attitude even when legal issues were not involved. When Kaizōsha set about preparing to devote volume 19 (1927) of their Gendai Nippon Bungaku Zenshū (現代日本文学全集) series to Sōseki, entitling it Natsume Sōseki-shū (夏目漱石集), they were careful only to include early works that Iwanami had not yet secured the copyright for – Neko, Botchan, and Kusa-Makura. As Edward Mack notes, the company even conducted copyright negotiations with Iwanami to include some minor works in the volume as well, although Iwanami refused to let them use Kokoro (Edward Mack, Manufacturing Modern Japanese Literature: Publishing, Prizes, and the Ascription of Literary Value (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010), 109). Komiya was even persuaded to write a commentary for the Kaizōsha volume. Yet it could still be seen as infringing upon Iwanami cultural authority, and it was no surprise that Iwanami promptly issued another edition of its own Sōseki Zenshū in the following year. Somewhat ironically, Iwanami’s failure to secure its own copyright issues beforehand then led it into trouble 336 legally defending its copyright, Iwanami Shoten also kept up a steady stream of Sōseki-related publications, often authored by one or more monkasei, to continually renew its Sōseki foundation in the public consciousness. The Sōseki Zenshū has been of tremendous significance as a literary and cultural artifact of modern Japan. It was influential not only among Sōseki scholars but also literati in general, and became identified as a cultural trope for well-read individuals. From the late Taishō period through to the end of the twentieth century, if a reader owned but one author’s collected works it was the Sōseki Zenshū. Yōko McClain recalled seeing Iwanami employees stamping ken’in (検印, the stamps in books proving they had been inspected) in the volumes for days and days, testifying to how many copies Iwanami had been selling. 63 Widely demanded, widely printed, and widely recognized as an instant source of cultural capital marking one a sophisticated reader, it remains at present the cheapest and most widely-available zenshū on the secondhand market – it even holds popular cultural cachet for this reason, having appeared in advertisements (for the T-Points reward program) related to selling used books in 2009. The work is also significant in the history of zenshū as a form of publication. While the concept of collected works existed during the Edo era, these were not understood as with Ōkura Shoten – perhaps it had never occurred to the Iwanami editors to question their rights to Sōseki’s textual legacy by this point. 63 松岡陽子マックレイン Yoko Matsuoka McClain, 『漱石夫妻愛のかたち』 Sōseki Fusai: Ai no Katachi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2007), 51. 337 all-encompassing in the way that modern zenshū were. As literary scholar Myōjo Kiyoko explains, Zenshū is on the whole a modern notion. The first collections labelled zenshū were published around the Sino-Japanese War […] During this time the first zenshū appeared, issued in a series named Teikoku–bunko 帝国文庫 [“Imperial Classics”] that ran from 1893 to 1897 and consisted of fifty volumes. “Collected works” and “comprehensive collections” had been in circulation previously during the Tokugawa period, but only under the term shū. The neologism zenshū intimated a new direction in Japanese culture. 64 Zenshū could either be a collection of various authors’ works, usually sorted by era and intended to be comprehensive rather than totalizing, or a collection of a single author’s works, intended to provide the entirety of a writer’s output in one set. 65 While Myōjo’s example of the Teikoku Bunko is a case of the former, an early example of the latter would be the Futabatei Shimei Zenshū, published by Asahi Shinbunsha in 1910. 66 The emergence of zenshū as a modern literary form occurred in tandem with the development of ideas of national literature and debates over canonization. 67 Zenshū served to order the canons, establishing which works were classics while also representing a way to access 64 Myōjo Kiyoko, “The Functions of Zenshū in Japanese Book Culture: Practices and Problems of Modern Textual Editing in Japan,” Variants 10 (2013): 257-267; 258. 65 Bungaku zenshū, or multi-author series zenshū, went on to experience tremendous popularity in the early postwar era. See田坂憲二 Tasaka Kenji,『日本文学全集の時代――戦後出版文化史を読む』 Nihon Bungaku Zenshū no Jidai: Sengo Shuppan Bunka-shi wo Yomu (Tokyo: Keio Gijuku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2018). 66 二葉亭四迷 Futabatei Shimei,『二葉亭四迷全集』 Futabatei Shimei Zenshū, 4 vols. (Tokyo: Tokyo Asahi Shinbunsha Hakkojō, 1910-1913. Volume 1 was published by Hakubunkan). Iwanami later released its own version under the same title (16 vols., 1953-1954). Another early example was 樋口夏子 Higuchi Natsuyo (i.e., Higuchi Ichiyō),『一葉全集』Ichiyō Zenshū, 2 vols. (Tokyo: Hakubunkan, 1912-1913). 67 See Chapter 4, note 76, of the present study. 338 these. In Myōjo’s words, “The Japanese concept of zenshū, then, had two significant functions: canonization and popularization.” 68 Like all literary canons, zenshū could thus represent considerable cultural capital – the intellectual prestige associated with owning a canon meant that while some customers sought them for knowledge, others sought to employ them as a social display of status. This was unique neither to the time nor place: a satirical Edo story featured books whining about being kept as decorations while never being actually read, while the famous American postwar series Great Books of the Western World were intended to spread culture and improve civil society through book-learning, but like many a set of encyclopedias were popular more as status symbols than actual reading materials. 69 In the 1920s, several Japanese publishers rewarded subscribers who purchased an entire multi-author zenshū series with a bookcase, which served not only as a buying incentive but also as an acknowledgement that the series was designed to be displayed as a mark of intellectual sophistication. 70 Iwanami Shoten may not have invented the idea of zenshū, or even just of single-author zenshū, but with the Sōseki Zenshū the publisher did popularize the format and set the standard 68 Myōjo, “The Functions of Zenshū,” 260. 69 On the Great Books project (led by Mortimer J. Adler and Robert Maynard Hutchins and launched as a collaboration by the University of Chicago and the Encyclopedia Britannica in 1952), see Alex Beam, A Great Idea at the Time: The Rise, Fall, and Curious Afterlife of the Great Books (New York: PublicAffairs, 2008) and Tim Lacy, The Dream of a Democratic Culture: Mortimer J. Adler and the Great Books Idea (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 70 This included Shun’yōdō, Kaizōsha and Kōbunsha. See Sari Kawana, The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018), 32-37, and Mack, 120-122. 339 for what zenshū were supposed to be. Considering the importance of the Sōseki canon in holding up Iwanami Shoten’s intellectual authority, it was to be expected that the publisher invested great effort in producing a high-quality work that was to set the benchmark for all later zenshū, both from Iwanami and from other publishers. Indeed, as literary scholar Yamashita Hiroshi states, “[The Sōseki Zenshū] has been considered the most complete and authoritative of all editions of modern Japanese authors.” 71 While other publishers tried to follow suit, it was the Sōseki Zenshū from Iwanami, and subsequent Iwanami zenshū based on that model, that continued to represent the gold standard for the rest of the century – and the entrenchment of that model in Japanese intellectual culture clearly contributed to the publisher’s success. As Myōjo states, Since [its publication of Sōseki Zenshū], Iwanami–shoten has continued to exert a great influence on modern Japan’s intelligentsia; in Japan, some publishers, like Iwanami–shoten hold a strong position of authority. Not only has zenshū as a form evolved out of mainly industrial or commercial demands, they are, also, authoritative; indeed they are considered the most authoritative even in the scholarly world. Almost all studies in modern Japanese literature rely on zenshū texts.” 72 Thanks to Iwanami Shoten, zenshū became household items for intellectuals and school libraries, and within this flourishing market the publisher that had done so much to encourage the trend in the first place cornered the market on single-author intellectual zenshū, ensuring 71 Yamashita Hiroshi, “Fredson Bowers and the Editing of Modern Japanese Literature,” Text: Transactions of the Society for Textual Scholarship 8 (1995): 85-100; 88-89. 72 Myōjo, “The Functions of Zenshū,” 262. 340 it would continue to benefit – and this was especially the case regarding the Sōseki Zenshū, which remained a staple. There have been numerous versions of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū produced over the years, with variations, and each has often undergone multiple printings, often with a range of edits – subtle and less so – along the way. Even by the 1980s when Yaguchi Shin’ya published his exhaustive study Sōseki Zenshū Monogatari, we can count more than twenty editions if we go by every variant produced. 73 Iwanami Shoten itself treats the work as one massive ongoing project, and tends to either refer to it holistically or by considering every possible version produced as a distinct edition. However, this is not particularly helpful. It is far more useful to distinguish those editions that represented major editorial overhauls, and served as a standard text until the next large-scale overhaul occurred. From this perspective it is possible to distinguish three main editions, as in three core sets of base texts, of which the others represented but variants. I have elected to refer to these as the 1st (1917, “Morita”) edition, the 2nd (1935, “Komiya”) edition and the 3rd (1993, “New”) edition. 74 From the perspective of the current project the first two editions are the most significant, but I also cover the third briefly because of what it reveals about the history of Iwanami Shoten editorial practices. 73 矢口進也 Yaguchi Shin’ya,『漱石全集物語』Sōseki Zenshū Monogatari (Tokyo: Seieisha, 1985). 74 The years given here refer to when the first volume in the series was published. Some writers collapse the first two editions together and speak merely of the old and new editions, suggesting they are unaware of the significant changes between the first and second. This likely occurred because the second edition was the standard for so long that, having grown up with the second as the standard, they have not seriously examined the first. 341 The First Edition (1917-1918, “Morita”) The first edition of the Sōseki Zenshū was begun in 1917, with the first volume published in December that year (Sōseki having died in December of the previous year). It ultimately consisted of thirteen volumes and one supplementary volume for a total of fourteen. 75 Iwanami Shigeo gathered together several of his fellow monkasei to organize the project and handle the editing with his staff. Shigeo threw himself into the work with gusto, seeking to make the volumes appealing as well as functional. Natsume Shintarō – who, recall, remembered his mother saying that Sōseki had criticized Shigeo for neglecting financial matters in the pursuit of beautiful books – indicated that the Sōseki Zenshū triggered a similar concern among at least some of the monkasei involved: After my father passed away, when [his] zenshū was published by Iwanami Shoten for the first time, Komiya Toyotaka told my mother, “This man Iwanami is such a silly person! [The publication] became a loss for each volume.” That certainly may have been the case for the first edition. Though, Iwanami himself said, almost happily, “Sensei has passed away, [so] there is no one who can complain about the book designs anymore, and it is a good balance since I can make books the way I want.” For regular merchants, such a sentiment is difficult to understand. 76 75 This is a common convention with zenshū, where the series consists of a set of what might be called primary text or “core” volumes, to which are then appended one or more supplementary volumes, usually featuring notes or commentary. The supplementary volumes are an important part of the whole set but are not counted as “core” volumes. This is represented by giving the number of volumes comprising a set in the form x + y, where x is the number of “core” volumes and y the number of supplementary ones. The first edition of the Sōseki Zenshū therefore consists of 13+1 volumes, although some writers will simply state “13” or “14” with neither group being strictly incorrect. 76 夏目真六 Natsume Shinroku,『猫の墓――父・漱石の思い出』 Neko no Haka: Chichi Sōseki no Omoide (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō, 1984), 53. 342 This assessment needs to be taken with a grain of salt, given that Kyōko tended to see Iwanami more as a perennially idealistic Taishō student more than as an astute businessman, and in light of the great profit Iwanami made on from the series. Nevertheless, Iwanami’s personal involvement in every aspect of the design and his enthusiasm for the project, regardless of finances, was genuine. However, at the same time he was unable to fully brand the first edition as an entirely “Iwanami Shoten” venture. Instead, the colophons in each volume indicate that the series was produced by the “Sōseki Zenshū Kankōkai” (漱石全集刊行會), with Shigeo listed as the representative of this organization, as Fig. 6-4 indicates: 343 Fig. 6-4: Colophon from Sōseki Zenshū, First Edition, V olume 1 (1917) (source: Diet Library Digital Collection) 77 One could be forgiven for misunderstanding that this was a tactful way of indicating that the work was produced by multiple individuals (the monkasei, and especially Morita Sōhei, who are discussed below) and Iwanami’s staff, but actually the Kankōkai referred to a publishing arrangement. Iwanami Shigeo had recruited Ōkura Shoten and Shun’yōdō to work on the project 77 夏目漱石 Natsume Sōseki, 『漱石全集』 Sōseki Zenshū (Tokyo: Sōseki Zenshū Kankōkai, 1917), vol. 1. Diet Library Digital Collection, <http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/957303>. 344 along with his own publishing outfit. 78 While Mack refers to the Kankōkai as a “cartel” of three publishers created to produce the Sōseki Zenshū and this is not strictly incorrect, it could give one the wrong impression. 79 Iwanami was in charge from the beginning and managed the project, but incorporated the involvement of the other two publishers primarily because of copyright issues – though also perhaps to some extent because of the earlier experience with Sōseki that these publishers could draw upon. While it is unclear who proposed the initial Kankōkai arrangement, the actual work was overseen by Iwanami; each of the three publishers, however, solicited their own buyers and this determined their profits. 80 This arrangement held true, at least nominally, through into the early runs of the second edition, although – as evidenced by Fig. 6-7 below – by the postwar era the imprint was simply “Iwanami Shoten,” with the responsible individual being given as Iwanami Yūjirō (岩波雄二郎, 1919-2007, Iwanami Shigeo’s second son who ran the company after war). The first edition colophons indicate the copyright was held by Sōseki’s eldest son, Shin’ichi (夏目純一). Sōseki’s design for the Iwanami edition of Kokoro – with the white characters from the stele on a red background for the outside cover, and pale green scenes inscribed in circles on a light background for the inner cover – immediately called the earlier work to mind. These design 78 Ōkura Shoten suffered tremendous damage during the 1923 Kantō earthquake, and only barely survived the Pacific War, going out of business in 1952. Shun’yōdō, on the other hand, remains in business. 79 Mack, 109. 80 Yaguchi, 10. 345 elements became standard for the Sōseki Zenshū, featuring in the subsequent 1920s printings of the first edition. While the initial run of the second edition in 1935 abandoned this, later reprints restored the first edition style and it then persisted into subsequent printings, which has also been the case with the third edition. 81 The outer cover design from Kokoro became intrinsically linked to the Sōseki Zenshū, and then transcended this to represent Sōseki himself. The cover, or elements thereof, often appears in works that concern Sōseki in some way as a way to immediate indicate something profoundly “Sōseki-ish.” At times the cover even takes center-stage, as was the case with Natsume Shinroku’s 1956 book about his father which features the cover as the cover: 81 For more on the binding, selling particulars, and other aspects of the first edition, see Kobayashi, Sekirekishō Shujin, 116-117. 346 Fig. 6-5: Cover of Natsume Shinroku’s Chichi Natsume Sōseki (Bungei Shunjū, 1956). The lower five-sixths is simply the cover of volume one of the Sōseki Zenshū. (source: author’s own collection) The first edition went into another printing in 1919 and then in 1924, the latter intended to enable readers to replace copies lost during the devastation of the Kantō Earthquake the year prior. Both of these printings consisted of 14 volumes as before. 1928, however, witnessed the start of an expanded edition that now stretched to 20 volumes (18+2) due to the addition of more essays, unfinished works, and other material. This version has often been called the “enpon 347 zenshū” (円本全集) since it grew out of the publishing fury that was the one-yen book boom. This version proved particularly successful, with many subscribers ordering the collection. Fig. 6-6: Letter from Iwanami Shigeo to Interior Minister Suzuki Kisaburō reporting on subscriptions for the 1928 (“enpon zenshū”) version of the Sōseki Zenshū (source: Yamashita Hiroshi) 82 This version, however, ran into some legal complications. Iwanami Shoten considered it to be but a variant of the first edition, and consequently seems to have been under the impression that the copyright arrangements for the previous printings applied here as well. Ōkura Shoten, on the other hand, considered it a new format and therefore considered Iwanam’s inclusion of Neko and 82 Yamashita Hiroshi, Twitter Post, December 16, 2015, <https://twitter.com/ sousekitokomiya>. 348 the other works still held by Ōkura necessitated renegotiating the rights. This prompted a copyright scandal wherein Ōkura sued Iwanami Shoten and Natsume Shin’ichi for 35,000 yen on September 10, 1928. The issue was resolved when Iwanami opted to settle, and purchased the rights to four earlier Sōseki works, including Neko, for 10,000 yen. 83 The Second Edition (1935-1937, “Komiya”) In the 1930s, in a climate of discussions of authenticity and a desire to reclaim original texts free from later corruption, Iwanami set about completely re-doing the Sōseki Zenshū. This time the central figure was Komiya, overseeing the Iwanami staff. The second edition, initially published under Sōseki Zenshū Kankōkai from 1935 to 1937, became the definitive set of Sōseki source texts for two generations. In its many subsequent printings and versions, it usually consisted of 18 volumes (17+1) but at times 19 (17+2). Shigeo had several reasons for putting Komiya in charge of the revisions, rather than repeating the quasi-collective monkasei approach loosely coordinated by Morita that had characterized the first edition. First of all, more than the other disciples, Komiya had distinguished himself through his textual studies and his emphasis, as a scholar of German literature, on the notion of editors being faithful to the original manuscripts. He was thus not only a trustworthy friend, but one presumably well-suited to carrying out a careful project of editorial revision. Second, in the time since the first edition 83 Shashin de Miru Iwanami Shoten Hachijū-nen, 55. 349 Komiya had established himself as a Sōseki expert, having published a book and several essays on his mentor. This ensured that the Zenshū was being helmed by a scholar possessing great intellectual authority in the field. Indeed, his monumental 1938 text later cemented his status as the star among early Sōseki scholars. 84 Finally, among the monkasei themselves, it had become an accepted truth that Komiya was their number one figure – the one who worked more than any other to enhance Sōseki’s reputation and then ride the wave as the chosen top disciple. As Marcus notes, The final gathering of the Mokuyōkai was on November 16—a matter of weeks before Sensei’s death. Thereafter, the erstwhile monkasei vied with one another as custodians of the Sōseki legacy, all the while continuing to visit the widow at her Waseda residence as a sign of respect. Komiya Toyotaka emerged as the chief legatee. It was Komiya who had a major editorial role in the early zenshū projects, and his monumental Natsume Sōseki (1938) stood as the authoritative literary biography for decades. And it was he who most actively promoted the myth of sokuten kyoshi, in effect a campaign aimed at Sensei’s beatification.” 85 In other words, in the almost two decades after Sōseki’s death Komiya had moved from being the most loved among the monkasei to being a sort of lordly figure above the others, the single person most recognized as the guardian of Sōseki’s legacy. Regardless of how Iwanami 84 小宮豊隆 Komiya Toyotaka,『夏目漱石』 Natsume Sōseki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1938). 85 Marvin Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writings of Natsume Sōseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009), 191. Marcus’ findings dovetail with those of Ōyama Hideki, who accords Komiya a formative role in the construction of the Sōseki mythos (大山英樹 Ōyama Hideki, 「「漱石神話」の生成とその影響――小宮豊隆『夏目漱石』を中心に」“‘Sōseki Shinwa’ no Seisei to sono Eikyō: Komiya Toyotaka Natsume Sōseki wo chūshin ni,” 『青山総合文化政策学』 Aoyama Sōgō Bunka Seisaku-gaku 5.1 (March 2013): 1-45. 350 Shigeo may have felt about this development – and honestly we cannot really tell – he would have been foolish to not recognize and capitalize upon it by recruiting Komiya to edit the edition. Since Iwanami Shoten’s foundation rested upon Sōseki’s legacy, it only made sense to keep the strongest proponent of that legacy on board. Ultimately, his role in the Zenshū project became the one of the few things that Komiya was remembered for, even generations later when his scholarly reputation had long since faded. To give but one example, Sonehara Satoshi introduces him by stating, “Komiya Toyotaka (1884-1966) was an intellectual active in the Taishō and Shōwa times, and is well-known as a beloved disciple of Natsume Sōseki and for being central in the editing of the Sōseki Zenshū.” 86 The first run of the second edition, as mentioned above, dispensed with the famous Kokoro-based binding in favor of a basic blue binding; the volumes were also somewhat smaller in size (see Fig. 6-8 below). The second edition underwent a large number of reprints and variations (notably 1947, 1965, 1974, and 1984), but the colophons indicate a significant change after the first run. Gone in 1947 are “Sōseki Zenshū Kankōkai” and “Natsume Shin’ichi,” and in their place are “Natsume Sōseki” given as author and “Iwanami Shoten” given as publisher (see Fig. 6-7). Meanwhile, the classic binding has also been restored. The volumes of the subsequent postwar printings were also generally larger in size. 86 曽根原理 Sonehara Satoshi,「小宮豊隆と個人文庫――柴田治三郎文書にみる図書館との関わり」 “Komiya Toyotaka to Kojin Bunko: Shibata Jisaburō Bunsho ni Miru Toshokan tono Kakawari,” 『書物・出版と社会変容』Shomotsu: Shuppan to Shakai Hen’yō 6 (March 2009): 123-139; 123. 351 Fig. 6-7: Colophons from the 1935 and 1947 versions of the second edition of Sōseki Zenshū. (source: author’s collection. Colophons are from volumes 14 and 7, respectively) 352 Fig.6-8: Komiya’s Legacy — various printings based on the second edition text. V olumes from the 1935, 1947, 1965 and 1974 runs of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū. (source: author’s collection). The second edition was also made available in softcover formats, starting in 1956. The 1956 softcover edition consisted of 34 volumes, and advertisements reveal to what extent Komiya was employed as a selling point for the series (see Fig. 6-9). The 1978 softcover printing consisted of 35 volumes total. 353 Fig. 6-9: Advertisement for 1956 softcover version of second edition in Tosho 97 (Oct. 1957). Komiya Toyotaka is indicated prominently as the editor and commentator. (source: author’s collection) The Third Edition (1993-1999, “New”) The third edition of Iwanami’s Sōseki Zenshū consisted of 29 volumes (28+1). It was originally published in 1993-1999, with slightly revised versions being issued in 2002-2004 and 354 2016-2018, the most recent. The edition as a whole was intended to address some of the issues raised by critics about the second edition, particularly regarding the editing methodology, which is addressed below. The series editor is now given as Iwanami Henshū-bu (岩波書店編集部, Iwanami Shoten Editorial Department) rather than listing an individual. The binding resembled that of the first edition and the postwar printings of the second edition, but the box case of each volume featured an image of a page from Sōseki’s manuscripts instead of being undecorated as had been the case with all previous hardcover printings. This was likely not just a motif chosen for aesthetic appeal, but rather a calculated decision to stress the manuscript source (and thereby textual authority) of the collection in the face of mounting criticism. The volumes were slightly smaller in size again, resembling the 1935 and 1947 versions of the second edition. In addition to the standard hardcover runs and the softcover ones, there were other alternatives such as the postwar Iwanami Bunko (pocketbook) edition, which was essentially identical to the 1947 run of the second edition except in size. The current Bunko version, published in 2014, is based on the third edition and consists of 27 volumes. There is also a reader’s edition, Sōseki Bungaku Sakuhinshū (漱石文学作品集) that only contains the essential Sōseki works and runs to 16 volumes. There have also been various Sōseki Zenshū produced by other publishers, usually based on previously published texts rather than the manuscripts. Shun’yōdō published a series called Natsume Sōseki Shosetsu Zenshū (夏目漱石小説全集) just 355 including the novels; the 1948 edition ran to 10 volumes while the 1953 only 6. 87 Chikuma Shobō (筑摩書房) issued its own Natsume Sōseki Zenshū both in full-size (1965-1966) and pocketbook (1994) formats, each comprising 10 volumes. So did Kadokawa Shoten (角川書店), with a 16-volume Natsume Sōseki Zenshū in 1960-1961. The most serious competition for Iwanami Shoten may have come, however, in the form of the 1971 Sōseki Bungaku Zenshū (漱石文学全集) published by Shūeisha (集英社) in 10 volumes. This set, edited by the Japanese literary scholar and Sōseki specialist Ara Masahito (荒正人, 1913-1979), itself went through several printings, of which the 1982 edition remains common today. Shūeisha’s series became the alternative to the Iwanami second edition during the 1970s and 1980s and it risked incurring on Iwanami’s grip over Sōseki texts in Japanese academia. While the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū remained the standard, this was clearly not a position the publisher could expect to occupy forever without a fight. It was against this backdrop that Iwanami’s editorial team set about preparing to revise their own Sōseki Zenshū and produce the third edition. The Sōseki Zenshū (II): Editorial Practices The editorial practices employed in the creation of the Sōseki Zenshū have come in for increased scholarly attention, and criticism, since the last two decades of the twentieth century. 87 Shun’yōdō also issued a work just entitled Natsume Sōseki Zenshū in 1965 but it only consisted of three volumes, likely because the entirety of material the publisher had access to was limited. 356 The great authority possessed by the work made it a target for inquiry among those interested in how publishers produced zenshū in general, and set off a series of debates among publishers – Iwanami in particular – and scholars. Since the Sōseki Zenshū helped cement zenshū in the Japanese intellectual landscape, and itself has remained a fixture in that landscape in spite of challenges, it is worthwhile to consider the editorial practices that informed it – especially given how much intellectual authority Iwanami derived from having crafted a reputation for manuscript-faithful, scholarly editing. Here I therefore touch upon the editing practices of the editions discussed above, and the debates that later broke out as those practices became better known. In the case of the first edition, while the monkasei are often generally credited collectively for the editing, not all of the inner core of the Mokuyōkai were involved in the process. Moreover, while Komiya later emerged as the dominant figure, during the first edition it is Morita who is usually singled out for recognition as a sort of project leader because he set the tone of seeking to standardize Sōseki’s works through an insistence on consistent terminology, kanji usage, and so on across the texts. Abe Yoshishige notes that eight people were recorded as having been responsible for the editing of the first edition: himself, Terada, Matsune, Morita, Suzuki, Abe Jirō, Nogami, and 357 Komiya. 88 While later scholars like Yaguchi typically just state that Morita and Komiya were the main figures, and then move on, Abe provides further details. 89 He states that Komiya poured his heart into the project, but Morita, seeking substantial remuneration, handled the lion’s share of the actual editing and corrections. He also mentions that he himself handled relations with the other publishers, that Uchida handled a lot of the non-correcting tasks (but gravitated to those he liked and was not involved in the project consistently, apparently), and that the other monkasei were consulted on various matters. 90 He particularly emphasizes Komiya’s understanding of Sōseki’s intent, and his work collecting together Sōseki’s notes. 91 Already one gets the sense that perhaps Komiya would have dominated the project given the chance, although Abe does not indicate why this did not come about. Perhaps at the time the extroverted and assertive Morita was simply better at selling himself or convincing the others to give him more of the work. Understandably, some of the other monkasei had different recollections than Abe. For his part, Uchida himself recalled a division of labor among the monkasei in which he was most certainly involved in the editing. He recalled working on editing on the second floor at Iwanami Shoten – and being given eel boxed lunches every day – although he noted that the volume 88 安倍能成 Abe Yoshishige,「漱石とその弟子だち」“Sōseki to sono Deshi-dachi,”『新潮』 Shinchō 47.8 (August 1950): 51-63; 52. Iwanami’s involvement was presumably taken for granted, although he was designing the books and supervising their production rather than editing them. 89 E.g., Yaguchi, 12. 90 Abe Yoshishige, “Sōseki to sono Deshi-dachi,” 52. 91 Ibid., 52-53. 358 containing Sōseki’s diary and letters was edited solely by Komiya. 92 Furthermore, along with Morita and Komiya, Uchida credits himself, and the poet-scholars Ishihara Takeo (石原健生) and Hayashibara Kōzō with most of the editing work – he even indicates that he was involved in preparing the advertising copy for the collection’s newspaper ads. 93 The accounts do not necessarily conflict. It is entirely possible that Abe, even unintentionally, played up his generation among the monkasei while downplaying the contributions of the younger generation like Uchida and Hayashibara. Alternatively, the youngsters may have been genuinely less able or willing to contribute. Finally, it is also possible that Uchida et al. may have been carrying out more practical tasks while their seniors had an advisory role and the two groups did not come into contact that often, which would have led to a different impression of who was doing the work – especially when the actual mechanics of the editing were being handled by the unnamed members of the Iwanami editorial staff. At any rate, while not all the monkasei were involved, and which ones were involved in what capacity was debated, there was a consensus that Morita and Komiya were the most significant figures. As indicated above, Morita established himself as the overarching figure and set the tone for the editorial approach. Yamashita Hiroshi reports that when the monkasei went 92 内田百閒 Uchida Hyakken,『漱石山房の記』Sōseki Sanbō no Ki (Tokyo: Chichibu Shobō, 1941), 66-71. 93 Ibid. On Hayashibara, see Chapter 3, notes 179 and 182, of the present study. 359 through Sōseki’s manuscripts, they were confused by many of his expressions and kanji choice, and that, It seemed to them that his writings were full of “incorrect and abnormal” expressions using Chinese characters, although they knew Soseki was an expert on Chinese classics and language as well as on English literature. Without being able to understand Soseki’s real intention, they were embarrassed to let the readers know that their master actually wrote such careless Japanese. 94 Morita’s solution was to seek to correct Sōseki’s texts by standardizing them, so that expressions and terminology would be used consistently in all of the works. The variety of Sōseki’s work was smoothed over by this attempt to treat everything the author had produced as components of a single cohesive project that required, therefore, a single cohesive grammar and style. Uchida assisted Morita in this regard by developing what came to be called “Sōseki bunpō” (漱石文法, Sōseki grammar): a set of standards that could function as guidelines for the entire process. 95 In Yamashita’s assessment, this situation came about in the first place because Morita was simply unable to deal with the issues he found in Sōseki’s manuscripts, and elected to simplify things through imposing consistency: “Morita was incapable of coping with Soseki’s textual problems. He and his colleagues rewrote and “improved” many words and phrases found in his early editions and autograph manuscripts used as copy-text.” 96 Uchida, describing himself as 94 Yamashita, “Fredson Bowers and the Editing of Modern Japanese Literature,” 91. 95 内田百閒 Uchida Hyakken, 『実説艸平記』 Jissetsu Sōheiki (Tokyo: Ōbunsha, 1983; originally Shinchōsha, 1951), 138-140. 96 Yamashita, “Fredson Bowers and the Editing of Modern Japanese Literature,” 91. 360 Morita’s assistant, is understandably more sympathetic. He states that the zenshū project was simply too large and the editing required so much more time than expected that the monkasei were desperate to streamline the process – rather than carefully consider every instance by itself when an issue arose, they would agree on standards beforehand and then impose them uniformly. 97 Only then, he reasoned, would they have a chance of getting the texts to the printer on time. In any event, what this led to was the rather unfortunate result of establishing standardization as an element of zenshū compilation, by seeking to make often disparate works share a consistent grammar, terminology, and stylistic character that the original author may never have intended them to have. Not all of the monkasei agreed with Morita’s approach – indeed, they did not always get along together to begin with – and this caused some difficulties with the editing. Even with Uchida’s guidelines and Morita’s consistent oversight, the process took too long and the editors were late getting their texts to the printer. This prompted Iwanami to complain that his operation had been made to look bad by missing the deadline, setting off a fight with Morita. As the project went on, Iwanami grumbled about Morita’s lack of professionalism while Morita was upset about being denied both sufficient time and remuneration: “We are not just tools for Iwanami 97 Uchida, Jissetsu Sōheiki, 138-141. 361 Shoten!” he complained on one occasion. 98 Since financial reasons had motivated Morita to devote his time and energy to the project, it us not surprising that he was upset at the situation and came to harbor an intense dislike of Iwanami Shigeo. 99 The shift away from Morita and towards Komiya for the editing of the second edition was thus not just the result of the latter’s rising fame and promises of better editorial practices, but also because of the former’s deteriorating relationship with Iwanami Shigeo. Given the endorsement of Komiya as the leading disciple and Sōseki scholar by most of the other monkasei, working with the rest of them – with the exception of his friend Uchida – on Iwanami projects may also have become rather uncomfortable for Morita. When he took the helm of the editorial team for the second edition of the Sōseki Zenshū, Komiya distinguished himself from Morita’s approach in several ways. One was inclusiveness. Komiya sought to include just about everything Sōseki had ever written, right down to class notes and small letters. This became a selling point of the revised edition, to such an extent that whenever anything showed up that Komiya had not included there was inevitably a discussion about why, as Kobayashi relates concerning one famous incident in 1955: The Sōseki Zenshū was edited by Komiya Toyotaka, and is considered the most 98 Ibid., 139 99 See, for example, 佐藤聖 Sato Sei, 「愛するべき先輩との友情と離反森田草平」 “Aisurubeki Senpai to no Yūjō to Rihan: Morita Sōhei,” in 『別冊太陽内田百閒イヤダカラ、イヤダの流儀』Bessatsu Taiyō: Uchida Hyakken – Iyadakara, Iyada no Ryūgi (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2008), 89. 362 complete zenshū that has ever been published in our country. His editorial policy – not missing even small pieces of writing, let alone a diary or letter – is well-known. However, the August 1955 issue of Sekai carried something completely unexpected: “A Hidden Diary of Sōseki.” 100 Concerning this, Komiya Toyotaka wrote the following: One of the reasons why I did not publish it was because it concerned the royal family, and the other reason was that it was thought that it might violate privacy. The issue concerning the royal family is not serious enough to be a problem in today’s society at all, but it could not have been released in prewar times. The latter issue was about Mrs. Natsume. 101 The main way in which Komiya distinguished his approach from that of Morita, however, was in his editing methodology. Having studied German philological methods, Komiya indicated that the goal of the edition’s editing was first and foremost faith to the original manuscripts. Yamashita writes that Komiya was “more accomplished than the former editor, Morita. […] He changed the policy of editing to record more faithfully what Soseki had actually written […]” 102 To some extent Komiya was successful in this endeavor. His staff worked hard to gather and consult original manuscripts from across Japan, and the resulting Sōseki Zenshū was impressive: “[F]or its time it was indeed very conscientiously and carefully edited. In fact, it was well ahead of contemporary editorial practice in Japan.” 103 Undoing the “Sōseki grammar” imposed by Morita and Uchida, Komiya tried to restore the texts – at least in theory. In practice the changes were less dramatic than might be supposed, and much of the previous edition shone through. 100 The article in question was 「伏せられていた漱石の日記」 “Fuserareteita Sōseki no Nikki,” 『世界』Sekai 116 (August 1955): 228-242. 101 小林勇 Kobayashi Isamu, 『人はさびしき』 Hito wa Sabishiki (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1973), 65. 102 Yamashita, “Fredson Bowers and the Editing of Modern Japanese Literature,” 91. 103 Ibid., 92 and 89, respectively. 363 Nevertheless, Komiya’s gentenshugi (原典主義, faith to original text) became held up as the standard all zenshū should follow. Because the second edition of the Sōseki Zenshū was widely reprinted over the following decades, it also became the source text for all manner of other materials. As Yamashita observes, “All of the popular and paperback editions and school textbooks have based their texts on this edition only and have not troubled to check Soseki’s autograph manuscripts or contemporary editions.” 104 Although the second edition became authoritative, and its editorial practices considered the gold standard, it nevertheless had issues. In some cases, the editorial staff misread a character or expression and mistakenly “corrected” it; in other cases despite pledging faith to the manuscript they chose a variant from a later edition if it seemed to make more sense or worked better. 105 Yamashita bemoans, Although Komiya and his Iwanami staff tried to be faithful to the autograph manuscripts, it seems to me that they hardly understood these subtle expressions of Soseki’s. Did they think that the editing was possible without understanding the content? Or did they have too much confidence in their knowledge of Soseki? In spite of its reputation, this edition is a quite unsatisfactory representation of Soseki’s intended meaning. 106 The second edition was clearly not as reliable and thorough as had been claimed, and the situation became worse for Iwanami Shoten when Ara Masahito’s Shūeisha edition came along in 1971 and offered a viable alternative to the Komiya texts. Ara drew on the anglophone editing 104 Ibid., 89. 105 Ibid., 93-94. 106 Ibid., 96. 364 tradition then gaining ground, based on notions such as choosing the best accidentals from among textual variants. However, as with the second edition of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū, the editorial practices underlying Ara’s Sōseki Bungaku Zenshū were more style than substance and the resulting edition still closely resembled the Iwanami ones. Moreover, neither Komiya nor Ara attempted to articulate their editorial methodology clearly or provide a critical apparatus covering textual variants and so forth. With the third edition, the Iwanami editorial staff attempted to fend off criticism by returning to the original manuscripts and correcting some of the issues identified by critics of the second edition. In an interview conducted by two scholars of Japanese literature in the journal Sōseki Kenkyū, Iwanami editors Akiyama Yutaka (秋山豊) and Nakamura Hiro’o (中村寛夫) discussed how they had sought to correct mistakes and improve the edition. 107 However, the editors came in for criticism for once again pursuing an unclear and seemingly arbitrary editorial methodology. Myōjo points out, The afterword explained that the text had been edited so as to be as faithful as possible to the author’s manuscript. It was accompanied by a record of variants. There was, however, no justification of the editorial rationale or of the choice of base text. (Considering that Sōseki’s works were printed during his lifetime some explanation ought to have been given as to why the manuscripts were selected as copy-text, and not a first or 107 小森陽一 Komori Yōichi and 石原千秋 Ishihara Chiaki, interview with 秋山豊 Akiyama Yutaka and 中村寛夫 Nakamura Hiro’o, 「新『漱石全集』刊行にあったてーー岩波書店編集部にきく」 “Shin Sōseki Zenshū Kankō ni Attate: Iwanami Shoten Henshū-bu ni Kiku,”『漱石研究』Sōseki Kenkyū 1 (1993): 104-130. 365 later edition.) Furthermore, the apparatus only listed the variants between existing printed editions, but not the variant readings from the manuscript, even though the edition was based on the manuscript text. 108 In a follow-up interview and an article in the following year, Yamashita argued that the editors had failed to seriously engage with the underlying issues: for instance, they had reverted to an older form of kana as in the manuscripts, but continued to modernize the kanji, and were inconsistent both in how they did this and in their explanation of how and why. 109 Indeed, we can see that each edition employs a different approach to handling kanji, but what precisely the guidelines of that approach are and why they are employed is never explained – the reader is left in the dark as to what Sōseki actually wrote. In 2006, Akiyama, the former Iwanami editor, published a tell-all account explaining that the real bulk of the editorial work had always been done by Iwanami Shoten staff. The titular project heads, like Komiya, had been more like supervisors. 110 They were thus quite different from proper scholarly editors in the current sense of the term. In this sense attributing the editing 108 Myōjo, “The Functions of Zenshū,” 263. Also see, for more on Sōseki textual issues, her 「「心」の問題――文学研究のための資料をめぐる一考察」“Kokoro no Mondai: Bungaku Kenkyū no tameno Shiryō wo meguru Kōsatsu,” 『漢字文化三千年国際シンポジウム報告書』 Kanji Bunka San-sen-nen Kokusai Shinpojiumu Hōkokusho (Kyoto: Kyoto University, 2008), 14-35. 109 小森陽一 Komori Yōichi and 石原千秋 Ishihara Chiaki, interview with 山下浩 Yamashita Hiroshi,「『漱石全集』をめぐって」 “Sōseki Zenshū” wo Megutte,”『漱石研究』 Sōseki Kenkyū 3 (1994): 184-204, and Yamashita Hiroshi, 「拝啓岩波書店殿――新『漱石全集』の問題点について」 “Haikei Iwanami Shoten-dono: Shin Sōseki Zenshū no Mondai-ten nit suite,”『國文學』Kokubungaku 71 (1994): 15-38. 110 秋山豊 Akiyama Yutaka, 『漱石という生き方』 Sōseki toiu Ikikata (Tokyo: Transview, 2006). 366 of the third edition to the “Iwanami Shoten Editorial Department” was not an attempt to mask the editorial practices at work so much as to clarify them by choosing, for the first time, not to employ scholars as project heads for their intellectual authority. 111 This practice was not limited to Iwanami Shoten, but rather was followed by other Japanese publishers producing zenshū as well – the main editing work was carried out by in-house editors, not the scholars whose names helped sell the collections. This is problematic because, considering how the works are intended to be standard references for serious readers, students and researchers, they are actually difficult to use because the differences among the editions are not made clear. Moreover, to return to the Sōseki Zenshū in particular, there is no attempt to retain any structural consistency among the editions, despite them being produced by the same publisher: for example, in the second edition Sōseki’s letters are in volume 15, but in the third edition this became volumes 23 and 24. The third edition has substantially more letters included, but there is no explanation of where these came from – had they been left out earlier for some reason, or were they newly-discovered? Moreover, while the letters are numbered, instead of inserting the new arrivals between existing ones by employing letters or a similar system (1916a1, 1916a2, etc.), the set was just entirely renumbered from scratch. Thus, Sōseki’s letter to Iwanami Shigeo of 18 October, 1916, in the 1967 printing of the second edition (vol. 15, pg. 594-595) is letter #2228, but in the 1997 printing 111 Myōjo discusses this situation in “The Functions of Zenshū,” 262-264. 367 of the third edition (vol. 24, pg. 578) has become letter #2469. Any previous references made to the letters based on document number were thus rendered precisely useless by the new edition. The controversy ignited over the editing of the Sōseki Zenshū has prompted reflection on the role of zenshū in the intellectual landscape, and on the enormous cultural authority wielded by Iwanami. For example, because zenshū are often drawn upon uncritically, a mistake in the zenshū can be duplicated over and over again: Yamashita gives an example of the Asahi Shinbun reprinting a text from an Iwanami Bunko edition, that itself was taken from the Sōseki Zenshū, so that a mistake in the zenshū became a mistake in any other formats or media that took that text as reliable without question. 112 Iwanami Shoten has since issued an updated version of the third edition (2016-2018), which the publisher indicates incorporates changes to four works that it presumably made in response to the controversy. 113 Perhaps most noteworthy, however, is a cosmetic change that is not mentioned: each volume now has teihon (定本, authentic text) written in front of Sōseki Zenshū, as if Iwanami Shoten is renewing an assertion of authority in the face of criticism. 112 Yamashita Hiroshi, 「朝日新聞三四郎再掲載とはどんな意味か――覚書」 “Asahi Shinbun, Sanshirō: Saikeisai to wa donna Imi ka – Oboegaki,” 「初校ゲラを通してみた小宮豊隆の『夏目漱石』」, “Shokō Gera wo Tōshitemita Komiya Toyotaka no Natsume Sōseki,” 6 Oct. 2014, <http://blog.livedoor.jp/sousekitokomiya/archives/41210527.html>. Another work dealing (particularly from a copyright perspective) with how editors treat texts, and considering Iwanami editing practices in that context, is 石岡克俊 Ishioka Katsutoshi,「「校訂」の著作権法における位置」 “‘Kōtei’ no Chosaku Kenhō ni okeru Ichi,” 「慶應義塾大学産業研究所」 Keio Gijuku Daigaku Sangyō Kenkyūjo, KEO Discussion Paper No. 116, Feb. 2009, <https://www.sanken.keio.ac.jp/publication/KEO-dp/116/KEODP116.pdf>. 113 「定本漱石全集」 “Teihon Sōseki Zenshū,” Iwanami Shoten website, December 2016, <https://www.iwanami.co.jp/news/n17359.html>. 368 The Impact of the Iwanami Sōseki Zenshū There are currently an enormous number of various editions of Iwanami Shoten’s Sōseki Zenshū in Japan. The sets became a status symbol for educated gentlemen in the early postwar era, and now, at a time when more and more people enjoy their literature in digital format, many families are seeking to divest themselves of these sets. They show up on online auction sites by the hundreds, with some used bookstores even announcing “Sorry, but we do not buy Sōseki Zenshū” because the sets are so ubiquitous that the older runs sell for so little. Nevertheless, there is a reliable market for new editions, and digital ones have been developed such as for Amazon’s Kindle reader. The Sōseki Zenshū remains the one set of single-author collected works that is more widely-known than any other in contemporary Japan. From the perspective of Iwanami Shoten and its founder Iwanami Shigeo, however, the Sōseki Zenshū was significant for a more specific set of reasons. First, it represented an enshrining of Sōseki’s legacy, ensuring future generations could readily access his body of work. The significance of this was already recognized at the time: Abe Yoshishige commented that Mori Ōgai seemed envious when the Sōseki Zenshū came out, and said something like “I’m envious of Sōseki having so many good disciples.” 114 This effort at the canonization of Sōseki also, of course, ensured the status of the monkasei, who depended on Soseki’s enduring image and cultural authority, as discussed in Chapter 3. 114 Abe Yoshishige, “Sōseki to sono Deshi-dachi,” 51. He did not quite say that, admitted Abe, but it was the gist of his sentiment. 369 There were other reasons why the Sōseki Zenshū was significant. It gave Iwanami a financial windfall, which then helped Shigeo publish more works as well as fund translations from Western philosophers and the like during the 1920s. It also successfully shored up Iwanami’s intellectual authority, reaching across culture and wealth. Kobayashi reflected upon this when discussing the “enpon zenshū” version of the first edition in 1928: “The publication of the Sōseki Zenshū three times 115 gained the trust of readers, and became a powerful weapon to demonstrate Iwanami Shoten’s authority to agents or retail stores in various ways.” 116 Finally, its long-term significance was the establishment of single-author zenshū as an essential form of literary commodity for study and reflection, while simultaneously establishing Iwanami Shoten as the premier producer of those commodities. Because the Sōseki Zenshū had been produced by Iwanami, soon having one’s collected works done by Iwanami, in imitation of the precedent set by Sōseki, became the ultimate testament to a successful career as a writer or philosopher. One of the best examples of this is Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, discussed in Chapter 3. Akutagawa had not been close to Iwanami Shigeo, but wished to have Iwanami publish his zenshū simply so as to follow his mentor Sōseki. Thus, the Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Zenshū (芥川 115 By the launch of the 1928 version the zenshū had already undergone three printings: 1917, 1919, and 1924 (alternatively, he could be counting the 1917 and 1919 runs as one since they were essentially identical, 1924, and then the enpon version itself as the third). 116 Kobayashi, Sekirekishō Shujin, 117. 370 龍之介全集) was connected to the Mokuyōkai and the precedents set by Sōseki – in this instance the relationship between Sōseki and Iwanami proved the key factor rather than a personal link between Akutagawa and Iwanami. 117 Kobayashi recalled that it was around 7 pm on the 24th of July, 1927, when a telegram, lacking a sender’s name, was delivered to Iwanami Shigeo, simply stating “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke died.” 118 Iwanami, having been preparing to set out for the southern alps that evening, admitted the two had not been close, and was confused about what to do, but decided to go ahead with his trip, while Kobayashi went to pay respects: […] Akutagawa was still lying down in back room downstairs without a coffin. As I made to leave after offering incense, I was called after and invited into a room next to the entranceway. Then I received a polite greeting from two people I had never met before, who said “Please tell Mr. Iwanami that there is something we need to as him, so we will come to see him after things have settled down.” As soon as he came back from the mountains about ten days later, Iwanami went to Akutagawa’s. There, he was shown Akutagawa’s will, and agreed to publish Akutagawa’s zenshū. Previously, Akutagawa had had a commitment with another publisher to publish his zenshū, but he unilaterally cancelled it. 119 It was not the case that Akutagawa’s decision was made in a hurry. In fact, Kobayashi recalled that when he met Akutagawa in the spring, the latter had complained about the current state of the publishing industry. However, when Kobayashi mentioned the start of the Iwanami 117 On the Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Zenshū, see Yamashita, “Fredson Bowers and the Editing of Modern Japanese Literature,” 98-100, Kobayashi, Hito wa Sabishiki, 88-93 and Sekirekishō Shujin, 102-107, as well as Nakajima, 101-102. 118 Kobayashi, Hito wa Sabishiki, 88. 119 Ibid., 89. 371 Bunko pocketbook series, Akutagawa was enthusiastic and asked if his work might be included. “Thinking back, I wonder if he had already decided to ask Iwanami to look after his affairs after he was gone,” Kobayashi writes. 120 Akutagawa’s will included the following: The copyright of my work (if there is anything to be published) is to be given to Iwanami Shigeo. (I cancel my contract with Sinchōsha). Because of my love for Natsume-sensei, I want to have the same publisher as sensei. However, the condition is that the binding should be done by Mr. Koana Ryūichi (小穴隆一). (If Iwanami does not accept, then none of my work – aside from that which has already been published as books – should be published from any other publisher). Needless to say, the period of publication and so forth is to be determined by Mr. Iwanami. 121 Understandably, the will was widely published by Iwanami, causing a lot of interest and surprise, especially at Shinchōsha, which had apparently not expected Akutagawa’s decision. Then again, considering the enormous pressure Akutagawa had been under to help advertise his work and drum up sales, it would not have been surprising if he felt bitter towards the large-scale publishers. His comments to Kobayashi about the state of the publishing industry also make sense within this context. Naturally, other Mokuyōkai members sought to have their zenshū published as well: for example, Suzuki Miekichi Zenshū (鈴木三重吉全集, 6 vols., 1938) and Terada Torahiko Zenshū, Bungaku-hen (寺田寅彦全集・文学編, 16 vols., 1936-1938). Other figures in Iwanami’s 120 Ibid., 93. 121 Kobayashi, Sekirekishō Shujin, 107. 372 network had their collected works published by Iwanami as well, such as Shigeo’s friends Shimaki Akahiko and Saitō Mokichi from the Araragi circle. Following the Sōseki Zenshū precedent, Iwanami would call in other Mokuyōkai members to help edit each others’ collected works: Komiya, for instance, was recruited to edit Terada’s works. 122 In 1936, the writer and dermatologist Kinoshita Mokutarō (木下杢太郎, 1885-1945) along with other colleagues of Mori Ōgai pushed to have Iwanami produce an Ōgai Zenshū even though other publishers had already collaboratively produced one (鴎外全集, by Ōgai Zenshū Kankōkai, 18 vols, 1923). 123 The prestige of an Iwanami edition was clearly something to be sought after to ensure lasting canonization, even for writers who already had zenshū. Iwanami agreed with Kinoshita’s proposal, and the resulting zenshū (鴎外全集, 22 vols., 1936-1939) was widely read, playing a significant role in helping establish Mori as an enduring giant of modern Japanese literature. Ōgai’s friends, in other words, were proven justified in seeking an Iwanami zenshū for Ōgai. Of course, Iwanami did not always get along with everyone in his network, and was at times hesitant to handle all of the zenshū requests that came his way as his publishing house became established as the go-to for zenshū. This could be a problem for intellectuals who 122 In fact, the current pocketbook edition of Terada’s essays, 『寺田寅彦随筆集』Terada Torahiko Zuihitsu-shū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1947-1948), 5 vols., is still the version edited by Komiya decades ago and still being reprinted. 123 谷沢永一 Tanizawa Eiichi, 『文豪たちの大喧嘩鷗外・逍遙・樗牛』Bungō-tachi no Ōgenka: Ōgai, Shōyō, Chogyū (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 2012), 343. 373 knew their colleagues’ legacies depended on, nay, demanded, a Iwanami zenshū to be properly canonized. For example, Iwanami was initially reluctant to prepare a Suzuki Miekichi zenshū, until Komiya intervened, recalled Natsume Shinroku. The reason was, From the beginning, Mr. Iwanami seemed to have been getting along with people in academia such as university professors; however, on the other hand, he did not have positive feelings for the more negligent, somewhat sloppy artistic types. So, it is hard to say that he was really getting along with those whom he often met at my house, such as Suzuki Miekichi, Morita Sōhei, and Uchida Hyakken. In fact, I hear that when Suzuki Miekichi’s zenshū was to be published after his passing, Komiya Toyotaka had a hard time convincing Iwanami to do it. Of course, it does not mean that Iwanami did not evaluate Miekichi’s work. On the contrary, it is doubtful if Iwanami had ever read anything by Miekichi, either. The reason why Iwanami did not readily accept Komiya’s request was simply that Iwanami himself could not fundamentally like Miekichi the person. 124 Although Iwanami eventually acquiesced and published the collection, Shinroku understood his feelings. He wrote that Iwanami had become successful by publishing good books, and this was due to his instincts because he viewed good books as the product of good people. 125 In other words, Shigeo’s business was an expansion of his personal relations, and he was skeptical that people he did not really like or get along with could produce what he considered high-quality works – or at least, could produce works of decent quality by a deadline. “Concerning Iwanami, Komiya Toyotaka said, “Without any doubt, he has intuition,” and I understand his comment,” Shinroku concluded. 126 124 Natsume Shinroku, Neko no Haka, 43-44. 125 Ibid., 44. 126 Ibid. 374 Komiya understood that ensuring one’s canonization via an Iwanami zenshū had become essential, and that Suzuki deserved this even if he did not really get along with Iwanami personally. What had begun as a project to secure Sōseki’s legacy had evolved into a cultural touchstone that every major intellectual needed to secure for their own future legacy. Iwanami zenshū had become a standard for Japanese literature and philosophy that would endure for the rest of the century. The intellectual landscape of early twentieth-century Japan had evolved from a system where an intellectual needed their disciples to enshrine their legacy to one where they needed to have Iwanami enshrine it in textual form (a process in which, of course, one’s disciples could still play a key role). Conclusion Iwanami Shigeo drew on his network in several ways as he developed his publishing enterprise. He counted on his friends and colleagues, especially in the Mokuyōkai, to provide him with works to publish, connect him to other writers, and help edit Iwanami projects. Intellectuals trusted him because he was a fellow intellectual who moved in the same circles as them or their colleagues, and who sought to distinguish himself from other publishing outfits by emphasizing both his intellectual credentials and his endorsement by Sōseki. Because Iwanami counted on Sōseki as his primary source of intellectual authority shoring up his business, he had a vested interest in ensuring that Sōseki was properly canonized. Thus, the Sōseki Zenshū was 375 developed to celebrate Sōseki and ensure maximum access to his body of work. The monkasei were, for the most part, happy to participate in the project because they understood their own reputations depended upon Sōseki. They therefore also had a vested interest in the continuing success of Iwanami Shoten. The debates over the editing of the zenshū near the end of the twentieth century were the result of scholars increasingly questioning not only the publisher’s editorial practices, but also the intellectual authority it had come to wield. This situation itself testifies to what extent Shigeo had been successful in drawing upon his networks. 376 Postscript Iwanami Shoten and Intellectual Authority in Modern Japan The present study has traced the origins of Iwanami Shoten and considered the vital role played by networking in its early development. The ability of founder Iwanami Shigeo to join a vibrant intellectual network in the form of the Mokuyōkai and then draw upon it effectively was fundamentally tied to his success as a publisher. The network provided him with a core group of intellectuals of various stripes, able to offer both works for publication and editing services. Being well-connected by itself was not sufficient, however. Shigeo also demonstrated acute business sense in, first, deploying his own status as an intellectual, in contrast to the negative stereotypes that were ascribed to merchants and especially publishers at the time, second, in using his knowledge of the intellectual landscape to assess what works might sell, and third, in skillfully adapting innovations from elsewhere to change how he, and ultimately publishers in general, did business. Undergirdling the whole system was a stock of cultural authority bequeathed by his mentor Natsume Sōseki, who backed Iwanami’s venture from the start in order that he might experiment with book design and gain more control over the publication of his works, most significantly with Kokoro which gained Iwanami recognition overnight. Iwanami made maximum use of this cultural authority and took steps to continually renew it through commissioning Sōseki-related publications and the ultimate project, the Sōseki Zenshū, 377 in order to canonize Sōseki under his own Iwanami Shoten banner. This ultimately enabled Iwanami Shoten to develop its own source of authority in the intellectual landscape – intellectual authority – that it then continued to build during the following decades. By the early 1920s, despite being in business for only a decade Iwanami Shoten had become a recognizable publisher, and a major player with considerable cachet in the intellectual world of modern Japan. In the following years Iwanami Shigeo continued to grow his network and make use of the skills he had developed, building on his earlier successes. Iwanami strongly supported the Kyōyōshugi self-cultivation movement, encouraging the teaching and reading of philosophical and literary works while offering up Iwanami canons and journals like Shisō to meet the new demand. The two leading Kyōyō writers, Iwanami’s old friend Abe Jirō and the critic Kurata Hyakuzō ( 倉田百三, 1891-1943), were both major figures in Iwanami’s network. Before long the movement became bound up with Iwanami Shoten itself. Shigeo also continued to tap into new intellectual circles as they developed and link them to his network throughout his life. To briefly sketch one example, he became friends with Nishida Kitarō, center of the Kyoto School and an attendant social network consisting of his colleagues and students. Unlike the Mokuyōkai, Nishida’s circle was based on a more distant master-disciple relationship, and was orientated not around the presence of the master so much as his texts and ideas. Iwanami again benefitted by ingratiating himself with a new generation of 378 intellectuals, including Miki Kiyoshi and former Mokuyōkai member and rising philosophy star Watsuji Tetsurō. Now an older and more experienced intellectual, Iwanami lent his young colleagues money to support their work, and funded scholarships for them to study abroad. He also used his personal networks to introduce young thinkers to their seniors, establishing valuable connections for them. They in turn were first in line to be recruited for Iwanami editorial duties, and trusted Iwanami with many of their works, ensuring that Shigeo’s company remained at the forefront of the intellectual culture. Iwanami Shigeo made skillful use of his network, but he also continued to utilize his own instincts, both as an intellectual who depended upon a carefully-crafted image and as a merchant, particularly one who may not have originated ideas but was able to recognize and adapt innovations both local and foreign in ways that enhanced his business. In January 1930, for example, the company began putting reply cards ( 売り上げカード, uriage kādo) inside their books to make ordering easier for retailers. Iwanami Shigeo also developed new book formats, such as the pocketbook ( 文庫本, bunkobon) and new softcovers ( 新書本, shinshobon), both of which became immensely successful, and, as with set pricing and reply cards, became standards in the Japanese publishing industry. The pocketbooks in particular fed the Kyōyō-endorsed “read everywhere” mentality that encouraged people to take their reading on the train or to the office, leading to the spectacle of “Iwanami boys” and “Iwanami girls” who carried Iwanami books as 379 accessories to showcase their sophistication. By the mid-1930s, Iwanami Shoten was no longer just a respected publisher. It had become a major force in prewar intellectual culture, and even something of a popular sensation among educated youth. It was inevitable that Iwanami would ultimately become all but synonymous with the modern intellectual world, which, as it gradually came to represent the mainstream intelligentsia, also made it a target – first among the far right, but later among the far left as well. So it was that several times Iwanami Shoten found itself in court, bringing us back to how the present study began. 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