Read Online Bending Adversity: Japan and the Art of Survival by David Pilling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Pilling
Ads: Link
Japan’s unique qualities destined it to beat America at its own economic game. Nearly two decades of sub-par growth since the spectacular collapse of Japan’s twin asset bubbles had seen to that. Rather, he harked back to Japan’s supposed essence, captured in notions of samurai honour and codes of practice that would have been familiar to readers of Ruth Benedict. He yearned for a time before Japan had been sullied by contact with western capitalism. His was a call, in sometimes strident nationalistic language, for a return to a prelapsarian, mythical land.
It was tempting to dismiss all this as the ravings of an eccentric. But in the months following its publication, Fujiwara’s book came up time and again in conversations with businessmen, politicians and bureaucrats. Within a short time it had sold no fewer than 2 million copies. Only the translation of the latest Harry Potter had done better. I decided I ought to hear Fujiwara out for myself. At first, he was reluctant. Somewhat defensive on the phone, he appeared to have little interest in explaining himself to a foreigner. In any case, he was busy. He could not meet in Tokyo, since he spent summers in the coolness of the mountains. In the end, he relented. If I would take the two-hour train ride to Nagano in central Japan, he would talk over lunch.
We met in a Scandinavian-style restaurant in an airy and verdantvalley a world away from the sweltering heat of Tokyo. I took a taxi from the tiny, immaculate station at Chino. Even out here, the driver wore white gloves. The GPS system blinked reassuringly. There was something of the Swiss Alps about the neatness of the surroundings. Fujiwara was waiting for me at the restaurant. In his early sixties and skinny, he appeared slightly gawky, dressed in a check shirt and casual white slacks. His greying hair sprouted hither and thither like untamed weeds. He spoke decent, if slightly strained, English, an interesting touch for someone who advocated the wholesale abandonment of English-language teaching in schools. English was so intrinsically different from Japanese, he said, that it was almost impossible for Japanese children to master. ‘Only one in 10,000 can acquire both languages,’ he said. ‘I spent so much time on English, I now repent it.’ Besides, he said dismissively, failure to communicate preserved the image among foreigners that the Japanese were thinking deep thoughts. Only when Japanese broke the language barrier did they reveal to the outside world that they had nothing to say.
The first course of our exquisitely presented set lunch was a single prawn, with a few meticulously arranged chickpeas. So precisely did his arrangement match mine that I found myself counting the chickpeas to check whether the kitchen staff had, as I suspected, given us exactly the same number. I never discovered the answer since Fujiwara was in full flow. I had asked why he thought
Dignity of the Nation
had so caught the
Zeitgeist
. Japan, he was saying, had been pursuing the chimera of wealth for sixty years. That rush to prosperity had blinded it to the foolhardiness of the capitalist model it was pursuing and, more importantly, to its own virtues. Nearly twenty years of stagnation had brought a sense of perspective. ‘Japan used to despise money, just like English gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But after the war, under American influence, we concentrated on prosperity.’ He harked back to the golden age of the Edo period (1603–1868) when
bushido
, the ethical and spiritual code of the samurai, spread from the elites to the general population via books and popular theatre like kabuki. ‘People believed in
bushido
and for 260 years there were no wars,’ he said, referring to the peace established between clansmen under the strict control of the Tokugawa shogun. ‘When
bushido
started in the twelfth century, it was a kind of swordsmanship, but since there wereno wars in the Edo era, swordsmanship became a [set of]
It was tempting to dismiss all this as the ravings of an eccentric. But in the months following its publication, Fujiwara’s book came up time and again in conversations with businessmen, politicians and bureaucrats. Within a short time it had sold no fewer than 2 million copies. Only the translation of the latest Harry Potter had done better. I decided I ought to hear Fujiwara out for myself. At first, he was reluctant. Somewhat defensive on the phone, he appeared to have little interest in explaining himself to a foreigner. In any case, he was busy. He could not meet in Tokyo, since he spent summers in the coolness of the mountains. In the end, he relented. If I would take the two-hour train ride to Nagano in central Japan, he would talk over lunch.
We met in a Scandinavian-style restaurant in an airy and verdantvalley a world away from the sweltering heat of Tokyo. I took a taxi from the tiny, immaculate station at Chino. Even out here, the driver wore white gloves. The GPS system blinked reassuringly. There was something of the Swiss Alps about the neatness of the surroundings. Fujiwara was waiting for me at the restaurant. In his early sixties and skinny, he appeared slightly gawky, dressed in a check shirt and casual white slacks. His greying hair sprouted hither and thither like untamed weeds. He spoke decent, if slightly strained, English, an interesting touch for someone who advocated the wholesale abandonment of English-language teaching in schools. English was so intrinsically different from Japanese, he said, that it was almost impossible for Japanese children to master. ‘Only one in 10,000 can acquire both languages,’ he said. ‘I spent so much time on English, I now repent it.’ Besides, he said dismissively, failure to communicate preserved the image among foreigners that the Japanese were thinking deep thoughts. Only when Japanese broke the language barrier did they reveal to the outside world that they had nothing to say.
The first course of our exquisitely presented set lunch was a single prawn, with a few meticulously arranged chickpeas. So precisely did his arrangement match mine that I found myself counting the chickpeas to check whether the kitchen staff had, as I suspected, given us exactly the same number. I never discovered the answer since Fujiwara was in full flow. I had asked why he thought
Dignity of the Nation
had so caught the
Zeitgeist
. Japan, he was saying, had been pursuing the chimera of wealth for sixty years. That rush to prosperity had blinded it to the foolhardiness of the capitalist model it was pursuing and, more importantly, to its own virtues. Nearly twenty years of stagnation had brought a sense of perspective. ‘Japan used to despise money, just like English gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But after the war, under American influence, we concentrated on prosperity.’ He harked back to the golden age of the Edo period (1603–1868) when
bushido
, the ethical and spiritual code of the samurai, spread from the elites to the general population via books and popular theatre like kabuki. ‘People believed in
bushido
and for 260 years there were no wars,’ he said, referring to the peace established between clansmen under the strict control of the Tokugawa shogun. ‘When
bushido
started in the twelfth century, it was a kind of swordsmanship, but since there wereno wars in the Edo era, swordsmanship became a [set of]
Similar Books
