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Yasunari Kawabata (author), Edward G. Seidensticker (translator), Snow Country, Vintage, 1996. 192 pgs.
The short review goes a little something like this:
Is it possible for one to love a person they cannot accept as an equal? In a removed hot springs town situated on the northern part of the Japanese archipelago, a “snow country” far from Tokyo, Yasunari Kawabata introduces readers to a doomed romance—a veritable “wasted effort”—unfolding over three distinct holiday visits. Shimamura, the dilettante, while removed from his wife and family, opts to delight in the town’s geisha, young consorts often frequented by the town’s male visitors. The catch? Komako, a young inexperienced geisha, falls in love with him. During each successive visit, her obsession grows deeper, eventually leading to her sad realisation that the relationship was never to be.
Yet, we know this before ever reading the book. Vintage’s 1996 reissue even announces the plot element in the blurb on the back of the book, stating: “a powerful tale of wasted love set amid the desolate beauty of western Japan”. Hence, why should a reader delve into a tale in which they know the protagonists will not end up together? The answer is found in the way Kawabata deftly handles his characters. In Shimamura, the conflict he faces in determining whether to love a childish woman, unexposed to the depth and breadth of the world, lies in the level of possessiveness she exerts. The lighter things are, the easier it is for him to go along; still, the introduction of an optional love interest ensures that he’ll never quite fall for Komako.
As for Komako herself, she represents the worst stereotypes of Japanese women in love, moving from innocuous pre-coital play to—once familiarity has set in—surprise drunken visits stolen during moments in which she is responsible to other guests, and finally to a possessiveness seemingly rooted in fantasy, desperation, or perhaps a mix of the two. Kawabata never truly represents her as a full human being; her position as geisha in a rural hot springs town seems to be all she’ll ever achieve, despite her hopes for an alternative.
Beautifully written, Snow Country chronicles the possibility of degradation through participating in an act of hope. By featuring two characters that approach opposite ends of the spectrum—those of optimism and realism—Kawabata cuts through the hopelessness that both experience, even though the desolate beauty of the region would point to the chance of something more. An incredibly well-written novel.
At the risk of making this a hyper-personal book review, I have chosen to examine elements of how Yasunari Kawabata’s portrayal of the dual protagonists, Shimamura and Komako, reflects what I consider to be the unchanged role of women in polite Japanese society. Thus, what follows is an expression of observations made over the course of seven years spent living in Japan, with connection to what Kawabata may have loosely observed in 1956, when the book was originally published. By expressing elements of my own personal experience, I hope to better combat the stereotypical perspectives of docile submissive Japanese women that lie at the forefront of most of these stereotypes.
Japan is a land of fierce gender roles. As such, Komako’s behaviour—at such a tender age—aligns with how many youths approach romantic relationships. The essentials are as follows: 1) by limiting time together, budding couples often inadvertently allow for a young woman to fall victim to hyper-romanticisation of the relationship; 2) participating in drunkenness together with a new beau allows young women to act on impulses they might otherwise never allow themselves; and, 3) a growing obsession with the object of affection affects both parties, as the danger of losing one’s individual identity into a perceived social role lingers as the obsession matures. These behaviours comprise the worst parts of the unsuccessful love relationship in Japan.
Komako partakes in all three of these behaviours; as such, Shimamura remains unable to view her as an equal, and thus, all preceding suppositions of her role, cemented by her gender, fall into a stereotypical domain allowing her dismissal to be made all the easier. Toward the end, she herself becomes aware that her behaviour has effectively destroyed all possibility of being with him. The result Kawabata consistently foreshadows becomes reality, and Shimamura returns to his life with his wife and children. Komako remains, used and spent, a naïve victim of an expectation that never had any chance of coming to pass. Wasted effort, indeed.
Similarly, although it may not be intentional, elements of “wasted effort” reverberate throughout several of the systemic norms prevalent within Japan. For example, in the interests of safety, most traffic lights are timed precisely so that vehicles will very rarely pass through a green light without having waited for at least a few moments. This slows down the process of getting from Point A to Point B and breaks the natural flow of traffic. In essence, it wastes the propulsive forward energy a vehicle has obtained, forcing it to stop again within a short distance. Imagine stopping at every stop light on the way to a chosen destination and the illustration becomes clear.
Thus, an astute reader comfortable with and aware of the social norms found within Japanese romantic relationships may have a better understanding of what Kawabata means when he determines the Shimamura-Komako relationship as wasted effort. In reality, unless defined as deeply casual from the start, intimate relationships in Japan often find parties focused solely on a desired outcome. Where is this relationship going? Will children be part of the equation? Can this partner be trusted to provide care when old age eventually arrives? The difference between a short-term intimate partner and a long-term companion is stark, and oftentimes it is beneficial to construct boundaries at the start of the relationship. This may not have been the case in the post-war years during which Kawabata formulated the core of this story; however, this kind of definition often rules the level of commitment modern couples are willing to exercise. Thus, no wasted effort; only a sense of happy times spent with a person one was never quite serious about in the first place.
Another issue Kawabata hits on is the subconscious desire for another. In Yoko, a young woman connected to both protagonists, Kawabata presents Komako’s foil, an alternative of longing for Shimamura. Indeed, the deeper the relationship with Komako seemingly becomes, the more Shimamura can hardly help himself from pining for Yoko. This matches with gender roles in modern Japan as well. Affairs are common, albeit secret. The largest barrier to success is the size of the community, and in the “snow country” of the onsen town, communal intimacy is impossible to avoid. Komako’s intimations of affection for Shimamura are public, while Shimamura’s desire for Yoko murmurs in the quiet heat of his internal libido. A truer Japanese tale of a love triangle could not be told.
Eventually, all things come to an end, as do Shimamura’s patience, Komako’s expectations, and Yoko’s relevance to the story at all. Each character is left isolated and alone, much like the stunning natural atmosphere that surrounds them. Kawabata’s fourth character, the great silence of the natural world, mirrors the other characters’ isolation, yet resonates more broadly, through the vastness of deep time, and the natural patterns and cycles that will remain long after the lovers’ tale has been told. In this sense, the contrasting theme of time and energy wasted remains a human conceit, empty and pointless in the natural ebbing of time and secluded space. Regardless of whatever future love story might unfold in the snow country, the patterns of nature itself will remain unchanged. If only the narrative’s lovers could wish the same for themselves…
How to cite: Freeman, A. B. “Love Lies Wasted: Yasunari Kawabata’s Snow Country.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 27 Nov. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/11/27/snow-country.
A. B. Freeman has been an expatriate for over twenty years, living in Japan, Malaysia, Hong Kong, the United Arab Emirates, and Portugal. A lifelong reader, he’s recently discovered his authorial voice, particularly in examining how participation in international migrancy inculcates an authenticity of individuality which may have otherwise lain dormant. He is pleased to list Cha as the home of his first literary publications. He is currently at work on his first novel, Raindrops in Porto. Visit his blog for more information. [All contributions by A. B. Freeman.]