Shadows on the mirror

Penned by one of the greatest masters of modern Japanese literature, this novel makes the reader empathise with a person who’s remarkably easy to dislike.

When an act of human-instigated violence strikes, resulting in the destruction of life and property, there’s long been a refusal to examine the reasons why that person was driven to such an unthinkable course of action. We are told, often by those governing us, to not dwell on such matters for our own good. Mourn your losses, think of a rosier future.

What turns an ordinary person into a villain? Sure, we have villain origin stories in the comics, in escapist fiction that gives these protagonists a fantastic spin. But in the real world rare is the community that dives deep to find a root cause with an eye on history and the desire to never see such acts done again.

Yukio Mishima based his 1956 novel, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, on an actual incident, the burning down of one of Japan’s most renowned temples, Kinkaku-ji, situated in Kyoto. The temple, known in English as ‘The Temple of the Golden Pavilion’ had been built in the 15th century and was part of the treasured architectural heritage of the country. In 1950, a priest set fire to it, reducing it to ashes.

Mishima, one of the great masters of modern Japanese literature, read newspaper accounts of the time and even met the arsonist in prison. He wrote the novel, which was originally published in 1956 (the first English translation followed three years later), giving a fictionalised first-person account from the point of view of the priest. In the book he’s named Mizoguchi, and he’s the son of a village priest. Coming from an impoverished background, impaired by a stutter, and convinced by society and his own psyche that he’s singularly ugly, Mizoguchi would be an easy figure for the reader to dislike.

And yet, through the pages of this remarkable novel, Mishima manages to win your sympathies over to Mizoguchi, even as his fate and that of the temple hurtle toward an irreversible end.

Why does Mizoguchi — and the real-life inspiration for the character — destroy something of such beauty and cultural significance? When Mizoguchi is taken to the temple as a boy — the Superior there is a friend of his father’s from the latter’s student days — he’s not immediately impressed by the structure. After his father’s death, he becomes an acolyte in the temple and his school and university studies are sponsored by the Superior. Over time the beauty of the temple reveals itself slowly to him and his own ugliness, both in physique and his sometimes sadistic impulses, are thrown into stark contrast.

He makes friends with two fellow students — Tsurukawa who is a seemingly bright soul from a well-to-do family and Kashiwagi who is a sullen, club-footed outsider whose treatment of women is breathtakingly cruel. The most insight into the impulses that drive Mizoguchi comes through his conversations with Kashiwagi.

Late in the book, Mizoguchi reflects on his compulsions:

“It is when one is sitting on a well-mowed lawn on a beautiful spring afternoon, vaguely watching the sun as it shines through the leaves and makes patterns on the grass — it is at such times that cruelty suddenly springs up within us.”

Of course, the pain within Mizoguchi that manifests through his destructive act wasn’t born in a vacuum — this was the result of years of enduring cruelty and indifference in a society and nation that itself was experiencing the long-lasting consequences of war. The Temple of the Golden Pavilion is not an easy read — and by this, I don’t mean it’s written in inaccessible or obscure prose. Rather, it’s immensely readable but it’s impossible to escape the mirror Mishima is holding up, the one reflecting our own — and the larger community’s — responsibility in creating the conditions that birth the Mizoguchis of the world.

The author is a writer and communications professional. When she’s not reading, writing or watching cat videos, she can be found on Instagram @saudha_k where she posts about reading, writing, and cats.

That One Book is a fortnightly column that does exactly what it says — it takes up one great classic and tells you why it is (still) great.