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Travel kaleidoscope

A blurb from Julio Cortazar on the front cover of The Ship of Fools (first published in Spanish in 1984 as La nave de los locos), by exiled Urugyan Christina Peri Rossi (1941-) asserted that “He great gift is the ability to projecton on the high plains of imagination the historical present in all its tragic reality.” There is nothing identifiable to me as the present (ca. 1984). The book is largely unmoored in time and space (many of the locations are referred to only by an initial). I also don’t see how it is a novel, even a lumpy one with lots stuffed into it. There are some characters who recur.


If I didn’t know, I’d have guessed that the novel was written by a man. The perspective is mostly male, as is the writing about women. (Also the answer to the riddle “What is the greatest thing a man can give to a woman?”). I can conceive of a man deciding to embrace his impotence.

Most of the book vignettes are set on terra firma, though I like the first of Eck’s (X’s? Equis’) journeys, on an ocean liner and another poignane one about a ship filled with crazy people that is left by its crew adrift. And I like the preternaturally wise nine-year-old Percival who enchants Morris later (I don’t see any erotic/pedophilic in the account).

The journeys alternate with descriptions of panels of the medieval (11th or 12th-century) Tapestry of Creation (from which half of the outside panels are missing) in the Girona Cathedral. That approaches ecstasy, while most of the novel is melancholic (which does not bar some comic moments and observations). Early on, Ecks tells a woman “I was not born a foreigner. It is a condition one acquires through force of circumstances.” Nowadays, it seems that many people ARE born foreigners, including those born in the US of foreign-born parents and the


[a boat, not a ship, vverdad?]

I’m not sure what it all adds up to, but found enough there there to read it through (the syntax is not convoluted in the manner of much “Boom” fiction from writers born in South America).


Since the Readers Inernational edition of her second novel that has been sitting in a to-read bookcase since they sent it to me in 1989, Peri Rossi, who has long lived in Barcelona, has published many other books, some of which have been translates into English, btw.


The malevolent dwarf, narrator of Pär Lagerkvist’s breakout novel

My attempt to revive my adolescent admiration for the novels of Pär Lagerkvist is not going well. I don’t think I read his first international success, Dvärgen, published in Swedish in 1944 (which I don’t think much was making it out of Sweden), first translated into English as The Dwarf after Lagerkvist had won the Nobel Prize in 1951. It presents the diary of a dwarf, Picoline, a bitter misanthrope. Picoline does not hate his master, a philosophical Renaissance-era Italian prince who has brought a Leonardo da Vinci (as if, there could be more than one!) called Bernardo to court. Bernardo tends not to finish things, including a fresco of the Last Supper and a portrait of the princess. He also designs military devices, some of which are built and used in a war with a neighboring principality.


Picoline has some respect for the range and intensity of Bernardo’s interests, but is mortified when Bernardo strips and draws him. Picoline wants to keep his body unseen by others, but does not try to kill Bernardo.

Besides hating human beings in general, especially laughing ones and young lovers (he considers both laughing faces and sex offensively grotesque), Picoline hates other dwarfs. During the war he hunts down and slays the dwarf of the rival prince. He recalls with relish having earlier strangled the other dwarf in his prince’s court.

At a banquet celebrating a peace treaty, Picoline poisons the other prince and some others, missing the prince’s son, who is having puppy love with his prince’s daughter. Later Picoline finds that this adolescent has snuck in and is sleeping with the daughter. He wakes his prince, who goes to his daughter’s room and decapitates her sleeping lover, rather distressing his daughter…

The promiscuous wife of the prince likes Picoline and confesses everything she does to him. He despises her as a trollop, but had nothing to do with her death (unlike those of so many others!). Bernado paints a portrait of the dead princess as a radiant Madonna (this portrait he actually finishes, and it is hung in the cathedral, where it becomes an object of popular veneration). Picoline thinks the first portrait showed the real character of the princess, but does not tell the prince that. The prince decides Picoline was responsible for his death and has him chained in the dungeon (after torture fails to produce any confession).


Picoline is too monochrome a character, devoured by his hatred of most everyone, to provide an interesting sensibility. I find his catalog of contempt for people and other dwarfs tedious. There is no flicker of guilt in him. I guess he represents evil, though not a very interesting evil and one that is, shall we say dwarfed by others active in the world when Lagerkvist was writing the book in neutral Sweden. Is he a vision of Hitler transported to servitude in Renaissance Milan? He craves war and thrives on destruction, but he is not in charge.

The prose is stripped down, consisting of simple syntax declarative sentences, as in other Lagerkvist novels, such as the more engaging The Sibyl. The character and the outrages he perpetrates or imagines seem very heavy-handed to me, though occasionally his excesses seem funny, not just abhorrent. He is SO consumed with misanthropy (he doesn’t consider that dwarfs are human, though hating them just as much or perhaps more). He does not think that dwarfs are at all like children, but in his frantic imagining and incomprehension of adults, there is something childlike about him, in addition to his diminutive stature. He hates what he cannot understand, which includes most human conduct.

©2018, Stephen O. Murray


Divine malice, or at least inscrutability

It has been said that Nobel Prize-winning (but now seemingly forgotten) Swedish writer Pär Lagerkvist’s 1956 novel, The Sibyl, is a “parable of divine love.” To me, it reads more like a parable of divine implacableness, malevolence, and wrath. The short (147-page) book has two narratives. The first and shorter one (one that Lagerkvist picked up again later) is the Wandering Jew, a Jerusalem store-owner who told Christ on his way to Calvary not to lean on his property. The enraged Messiah cursed him, forcing him to live forever. His wife takes their child away and the man outlives everyone he knew. Some centuries later, he has made his way to Delphi, where the oracle has not been able to tell him anything.


He learns that up in the hills there is a former pythia, the priestess of Apollo through whom the god spoke when she was overcome with toxic smoke (etc.) though what she raved had to be translated by priests to answer the questions posed to the god. She was highly regarded (even while being held in contempt as someone who gave herself to ecstatic possession). She began young and was a virgin until she fell in love with a neighbor who had returned from wars missing one arm. She did not give herself by half-measures either to him or to the god.


After a season of human bliss, she returned to being possessed. The god had not forsaken her, but one day seemed (to her) to rape her. She was pregnant, and when it became known that she was no longer a virgin, the people of Delphi (who depended on the revenue of those coming to consult the oracle) were outraged.

She was able to make a dash into the temple, where sanctuary was inviolate. Before the mod dispersed, she decided to leave. The sacred road also tabooed violence, though once she reached its end some who followed her threw stones at her.


(ruins of the oracle pit at Delphi and surrounding mountains)

She survived primarily by milking goats and goats protected her and licked the blood from the son to whom she gave birth. Eventually, she realized that her mute son could not have been conceived with her human lover.

While the Wandering Jew is hearing her story, the middle-aged (gray-haired) son wanders off and up a glacier. She does not provide any encouragement to her visitor, but he learns to resign himself to being a plaything of wrathful divinity, as she has.

It is Christ, the son of God, who is overtly implacable and wrathful. Whether Apolllo meant to make his priestess suffer for her infidelity to him is less certain. Possession was a diving gift, and if he impregnated her (as the Holy Ghost did the Virgin Mary) this is not obviously punishment. The ever-smiling, never-speaking son is a puzzle, his company a sort of blessing, whereas there is no upside to the fate of the Wandering Jew (though I know he will find the balm of death in Lagerkvist’s nextnovel, The Death of Ahasuerus, 1960). God or the gods is/are inscrutable, beyond human understanding and causes rather than relief of human suffering in Lagerkvist’s tale.

I found the flight from the angry mob part riveting and the accounts of possession fit with what I know about contemporary possession cults. Locating the novel in time is difficult. Delphi (and its oracle) were in eclipse by the time of Vespasian (69AD), which is not centuries after when Christ was supposedly crucified. Locating it in space is no problem; I have been to Delphi.

©2018, Stephen O. Murray


Falling in love with the traitor she seduced to kill

Insofar as there could be a Jane Austen of 1930s and 40s Shanghai, it was Eileen Chang (Zhang Ailing in pinyin, 1920-1995). That is, she wrote about love relationships — “chicklit” if you will — during very turbulent times, mostly not mentioning the macro-level disturbances. As translator Julia Lovell wrote in introducing her translation of Chang’s novella “Se, jie” as “Lust, Caution,” “Although her [politically] disengaged stance was in part dictated by Japanese censorship in Shanghai, it was also infused with an innate skepticism of the often overblown revolutionary rhetoric that many of her fellow writers had adopted…. War is no more than an incidental backdrop, helping to create exceptional situations and circumstances in which bittersweet affairs of the heart are played out.” Chang defended her focus, writing, “Though my characters are not heroes, they are the ones who bear the burden of our age.”


The world of patriotism and armed struggle more than impinges on the protagonist of “Lust, Caution,” Wang Chia-Chih, however. At the start of the story she is a houseguest in Shanghai of Mrs. Yee  who whiles away her life shopping and playing mahjong. The latter is the wife of Mr. Yee (no given name is ever mentioned), who is the head of the secret police in Wang Ching-Wei’s collaborationist/puppet government.

The story opens and closes with Mrs. Yee  playing mahjong with rich friends. The reader learns that Wang Chia-Chih was the star actress of her class of students in Hong Kong and was recruited by other students who were fervently anti-Japanese and wanted to assassinate Mr. Yee while he was in Hong Kong (before the Japanese conquered Hong Kong).

Chia-Chih’s role was to seduce Mr. Yee, so that the others could kill him, an exemplary punishment of a traitor (“quisling” has become the word in English based on the Norwegian Nazi collaborator example). The role concocted for her is that of the wife of a businessman, played by another actor. The only member of the group who can drive undertakes playing the chauffeur and the only one with any sexual experience deflowers Chia-Chih.

Mr. Yee suddenly leaves Hong Kong, but a Kuomintang agent in Shanghai, Mr. Wu, learns of the connection made and the group reassembles and the plot is de facto revived.

Chia-Chih plays her part well, and like any good concubine, she is to be rewarded with a ring by Mr. Yee, and the murder is set around Chiah-Chih and Mr. Yee going to an Indian jeweler. Having no experience of love — and only a very mechanical experience of sex to enable her to pass as a married woman — she cannot tell if she has fallen in love with the Enemy she is engaged in setting up to be killed.


Most of the story is this setup. Ang Lee’s NC-17-rated 2007 film adaptation film makes sense of the very terse backstory. About two hours of the film elaborates in flashbacks what is only a few paragraphs in Chang’s story. I don’t think I would have understood some of the implications Chang threw out in passing, so that seeing the film before reading the story seems a good course. The most riveting scene in the movie — a meeting of Chia-Chih, Kuang Yumin (the head of the conspirators), and Mr. Wu is not in the original story at all. There is also nothing about the kind of sex Chia-Chih had with Mr. Yee in the story, nor is Mr. Yee described as being skinny (so I don’t understand why Tony Leung had to take off weight for the part!).

The story is definitely shorter than the film. The film is novelistic (as Ang Lee’s film of “Brokeback Mountain” was, along with his adaptations of novels Sense and Sensibility, The Ice Storm, Riding with the Devil. (I recall that John Ford said that it was better to flesh out short stories than to distill novels, though three of the four films for which he won Oscars were adaptations of novels, two of them quite sprawling novels.)

The part of Chang’s story that seems to have interested Ang Lee — at least judging by his aferword to the publication of the story as a book — is part that he could not film: in Chinese (Lee uses pinyin), “Wei bu dzuo chung.” This Chinese conception is that the ghost of someone killed by a tiger works for the tiger, helping to lure more prey into his path.

In both story and film, Mr. Yee knows that the Japanese rule is not going to last and that without Japanese protection he will be executed for his more-than-willing collaboration. “But now that he had enjoyed the love of a beautiful woman, he could die happy—without regret…. Now, he possessed her utterly, primitively——as a hunter does his quarry, a tiger his kill. Alive, her body belonged to him, dead she was his ghost.”

Ang Lee discusses this soul possession notion in his afterword. (He also asserted that “no other writer has used the Chinese language as cruelly” as Chang, and that no other story of hers is as beautiful or as cruel as this one. If her use of language was cruel in Chinese, this has not been replicated in the translation, though I think it more likely that it is not really the language use that is cruel in Chinese either). Lee’s usual scriptwriter/producer, James Schamus, takes up the question “Why Did She Do It?”, a question that cannot be answered.

The movie runs 157 minutes; the story occupies only 54 pages (with text that is only 5 1/4″ by s 1/4″. Lee and Schamus each add three pages, Julia Lovell ten. This seems quite slight to make a book, as was the case for turning Annie Proulx’s short story “Brokeback Mountain” into a book. In that case, the story was already available in a collection of Proulx Wyoming stories, Close Range: Wyoming Stories, and there was a volume with the screenplay, the original story, and essays by those involved in adapting the story to the screen. There is a screenplay plus original story plus essays edition of “Lust, Caution” (and Chang’s story is not available in Love in a Fallen City, the collection in English of Chang’s Shanghai stories.

Re the title: Since there does not seem to be anything I would characterize as “lust” in the story (the film is another matter!), I asked two native speakers of Chinese about the translation of Chang’s title. They felt that “lust” was a reasonable translation, though “seduction” would be as good, but that the disjuncture is not in Chinese. “Forbidden lust” and “Forbidden seduction” were their suggestions as translations of the title. The liaison that is central to the story (and that bears more than a casual relationship to Chang’s marriage with a prominent collaborator) is a perilous one for both of them. Hers was, as it were, “licensed” as a patriotic duty, his was exceedingly unwise. Caution was Mr. Yee’s general m.o., but love and/or lust often involves jettisoning caution and rational calculation. Both were “playing with fire.” More than one got burned in the instrumental use of sex/love.



©2008, 2018, Stephen O. Murray



From the tropics to the Arctic

Even without the imprimatur of the New York Review Classics (a series that has revived many outstanding books), I would have been intrigued by the title An African in Greenland. Having grown up in a climate with cold winters (Minnesota, then schools in Michigan and Ontario), snow and cold have no fascination for me. I much prefer being where I can drive up to snow if I feel any inclination to re-experience it (and then drive down again) instead of living with it and living through winters. More intense Arctic ones have no attraction for me–except as an armchair traveler.


Once in a while, I read with interest about those who live in the Far North. Books about participant observation of Inuit lives that stick in my memory are Kabloona, The Last Kings of Thule, and Never in Anger, exceptionally well-written as well as insightful books written decades apart (and which I read decades apart, if fewer) of them. Togo-native Michel Kpomassie’s book first published in French in 1981 and in English in 1983 is also vividly written and has the added advantage of presenting an African perspective.

More than an African perspective, in that the book begins with dramatic and vivid accounts of his adolescent encounter high in a coconut palm tree with a python and its brood. This led to a hair-raising (at least for this reader) ceremony of being licked by a(nother) python and being pledged to the python cult. Partly, Kpomassie’s flight from his homeland (the Watyi people of the Atozta district of Togo) was impelled by his father having promised him to a python cult priestess. That was the push.

The pull, the particular destination of the frozen north, was a book titled The Eskimos from Greenland to Alaska by Dr. Robert Gessain (a book that I have never heard of and cannot find either in the Berkeley catalog or Amazon, though I can find a book by Gessain about the “”Eskimos”” of Angmagssalik) that he bought at the Evangelical bookstore (“”the shelves of their shop were laden with school textbooks and religious primers. However, from time to time, as if in error, the occasional travel book or a novel would find its way onto the shelves.”


Kpomassie was fascinated by the clothes shown in the book, encouraged by reading about the hospitality of Greenlanders. intrigued by a world of (completely exotic) snow and ice. And a place where there were no snakes also sounded wonderful to him.

Getting from Togo to Greenland was not easy. Indeed, getting from country to country in Africa was not easy. (I already knew that to fly from one African capital to another, it’s necessary to go to London or Paris and then back to the next country.) Kpomassie quickly discovered that the celebrations of African unity were solely rhetorical:

“”Freedom of entry to other African countries had not been laid down in that ambitious program [of Nkrumah, Nyere, et al.] for unity. It soon became obvious that it existed only in leaders’ speeches! Ironically, we could move across frontiers more freely in colonial times. Now, because of an absurd nationalism springing up between supposedly brotherly neighbors, each country in Africa insisted on passports and visas, inventions of the white, while denigrating the same whites to their people.”” (56)

The pan-Africanism particularly of Kwame Nkrumah did help him, however. Kpomassie worked as a translator (French-English) in Ghana’s embassy in Dakar, Senegal for two years (and another six months for the embassy of India).

Kpomassie set off for Greenland in 1959, but “”in this era of interplanetary flight, it took me six years to get out of West Africa.”” It took another two to get from Marseilles to Copenhagen (earning money in Paris, and de facto being adopted by a cultured bachelor with a luxurious apartment in the 17th arrondissement. There were more problems getting across Belgium and getting approval to sail from Copenhagen to Greenland. It took Kpomassie eight years to get from Togo to Greenland (with a lot of help supplementing the money he made from various jobs en route). He was 24 years old when he got there.

Getting out of southern Greenland to the frozen land of Inuit hunters also proved difficulty–but what would travel literature be if there were no difficulties to surmount? Reminiscent of moving across Africa, again “”local transport posed a problem: a journey from Copenhagen to any large community in Greenland is easier than a trip from one locality to the next.”” While in southern Greenland, Kpomassie learned that the hospitality he had read about (including sharing wives) was true. He was dismayed to have no private life. And that “”it is more blessed to give than to receive”” was a notion that he found troubling when it came to women. That is, he didn’t mind having a woman sent to sleep with him or choose to sleep with him, but felt possessive and unwilling to share the “”favors”” of his bedmates. He also felt that the women “”were only half-willing,”” but “”like the co-wives in my native land [his father had eight wives], they seemed resigned to an age-old tradition.”” Later, he began to form a functionalist explanation (a form of insurance for the families in case a husband was killed) for alliances “”cemented”” in wife-swapping.

None of the Greenlanders had ever seen a man with black skin before, and there was much curiosity about him (including wondering if his penis was also black). Children wanted to touch his hair and skin. He acceded, being there in considerable part because of his own curiosity about lifeways and environment very different from his homeland. Despite the psychological strains of the seemingly eternal dark of winters and the total lack of darkness in the summer, he seems to have remained genial and much less concerned than the Inuit of seeming ridiculous. (“”Although Greenlanders love to make fun of others, they fear ridicule themselves.””) He learned to drive dog sleds, hunt and fish Inuit style, and slurp down seal blood. (He was amused at the appreciation they had of seal blood and fastidious dislike to seeing (let alone consuming) even a drop of fish blood. (I think this refers to the Europeanized Greenlanders rather than the Inuit: see Jared Diamond’s Collapse.)

He eventually learned to enjoy eating seal and whale blubber, but never was able to overcome a strong aversion to eating dog. He reflected that “”Greenlanders would probably be put off if they had to eat the unclean beasts [in the Watyi view] enjoyed by some African tribes—monkey, crocodile, or snake.” He also noted that “”though tradition both in Greenland and my own country burdens women with the harshest mourning regulations, nevertheless, it is always their fault–through the violation of those regulations–when evils descend,”” usually through the same idiom–ghosts.

He also found parallels between Togo and Greenland conceptions of the spirits of animals and the need to propitiate the spirits of the animals that are hunted. This leads to an interesting discussion of attracting and imprisoning the souls of whales..

Although his hosts want him to stay and tell him “”Your place is here with us,”” and he feels that he could live happily ever after in Greenland, he decided that he needed to go back and “”help the youth of Africa open their minds to the outside world.””

The book does not go into what he did–other than write this fascinating book, which is definitely no small accomplishment–. The introduction (ca. 1980) by the distinguished French ethnologist of Arctic peoples, author of The Last Kings of Thule, Jean Malaurie (which, unfortunately, has not been included in the NYR edition) reported that , having had some anthropological training, Kpomassie planned to return to Greenland (with a wife from Burgundy and a five-year-old son. I have not been able to find any publications of later participant observation.

As Malaurie wrote, the perspective of a young African is an interesting one. The comparisons that occur to him are not those that have occurred to Europeans living with Inuits. Many have been more inhibited about telling stories, particularly involving their sexual participant observation (or inhibited about that kind of participation).

The book was translated into English by James Kirkup, who has translated many books (including Guinese novelist’s Camara Laye’s Dark Child as well as producing books in his own write (including These Horned Islands and The Tao of Water. It reads very well. The telling details had to have come from Kpomassie, but the readability in English must owe something to Kirkup (who has long lived in Japan and knows a thing or two about adjusting to alien expectations).

Compared to Jean Malaurie, who writes with great authority on the Inuit, the NYR edition has an introduction by A. Alvarez, whose qualifications for the task are mysterious to me, and who clearly is ignorant of French anthropology (believing that Claude Lévi-Strauss held sway in 1981). Because he wrote a book titled Offshore: A North Sea Journey, about the Shell Oil rigs at Brent Fields, north of Scotland? I’d have kept Malaurie and asked Jean L. Briggs (author of Never in Anger: Portrait of an Eskimo Family and Inuit Morality Play) to add a new one.

©2006, 2018, Stephen O. Murray


Rating violin concerti

I am puzzled that the composers of the two great Romantic era cello concerti (Dvorak and Elgar) wrote such mediocre violin concerti. Having to move all of my (many!) CDs, I listened to all the recordings I have of violin concerti. I am not going to explain my tastes or rationalize them, just provide my ranking:


Top tier (in order of my favor)


Prokofiev 1, 2




Mendelsohn E minor

Bach double concerto, A minor, E



Second tier (alphabetical order)

Bartók 2

Bernstein Serenade

Bloch – Baal Shem

Bruch 1, Scottish Fantasy

Lalo- 2 – Symphonie Espagnole

Mozart 3

Paganini 1

Shostakovich 1


Szymanowski 1


Third tier


Bruch 2, 3


Bartók 1

Corigliano – Red Violin Suite

Philip Glass



Haydn C, A, G





Lutoslawski partita

Mozart 1-2, 4-5


Shostakovich 2

Szymanowski 2

Vaughan Williams – Lark Ascending


Fourth tier

John Adams




Lutoslawski Chain 2

Mendelsohn D minoe


Penderecki 2

Piston 1,2


William Schuman

Shostakovich 2

Spohr 8

Martinú 1,2


Fifth tier

Penderecki 1





A rare Japanese portrayal of Japanese war crimes

“As long as we refuse to admit that inhumanity is completely human, we’ll just be telling pious lies.”  — Romain Gary

I don’t know why Shûsaku Endô’s disturbing 1957 novel (also its first part) was titled The Sea and Poison. There is no real poison and not much sea in the highly fragmented narrative. The focus of the novel is medical experimentation on downed American flyers during the last year (or so) of WWII, when it was clear to anyone not blinkered with imperialist ideology that Japan was going to be defeated. Not that future war crimes trials were envisioned by the nurses and doctors who participated in what they understood to be vivisection. None of them considered that “research” that could not be published was not going to advance medical science or practice. And there is no indication where/in whom the idea of experiments certain to end in the death of POWs first formed. (Probably Dr. Hashimoto who has just botched an important operation.)


I think the shifting perspectives make it unnecessarily difficult to read and Endô provides nothing about how knowledge of what was done reached the ears of the eventual conquerors. For me, that is more interesting than the excruciating details of the murders disguised as “experiments.”

Japanese are famously not motivated by guilt. An argument could be made that shame at questioning authority and breaking from the herd (in this instance a herd committing atrocities) accounts for the participation of Dr. Suguro, an intern at the time who balked inside the surgical theater at what was being done, though unable to speak out against what is being done or to leave. And Dr, Toda, the intern who “took up the slack” shows some signs of harboring guilt about various things that occurred during his youth, including allowing another student to be punished for a crime he committed (along with an unsatisfying adultery and hypocritical embellishments of an essay about what he did during the summer vacation).


Nurses Ueda and Oba are too preoccupied with their personal problems to notice involvement in something untoward (the vivisection atrocity), and the officers who dine on the liver of one of the fresh corpses are not characters with any characteristics other than oafish insensitivity. The lead surgeons who did the deed are not at all rounded characters, either, though Endô draws some of the micropolitics of the hospital outside Fukioka (and not bombed as the city was, heavily).

There is also some representation of Japanese mistreatment of conquered Manchurians, including unconcern about rape.

And Endô used the name Sugoro again for the autiobiographical protagonist of Scandal (1986).

The rare confrontation of Japanese war crimes won The Sea an Poison the prestigious Akutagawa Prize, which attracted a lot of attention to the author, whose Catholicism and engagement with the West (two years in Lyon exploring French Catholic writers) surely contributed to his being the most-translated and best-known in the West of the third generation of Japanese novelists.There was a 1986 screen adaptation starring Okuda Eiji, Ken Watanabe and Tamura Takahiro.

I cannot forebear mentioning that the introduction by translator Michael Gallagher is exceedingly unhelpful, barely mentioning the book being introduced while nattering about other Endô works, especially The Silence (recently filmed by Martin Scorsese).

For a Japanese account of the mistreatment of a downed American flyer (by villagers) see Oe’s Prize Stock. I have recently posted several analyses of war-justified atrocities, They Would Never Hurt a Fly and Understanding Evil.

©2017, Stephen O. Murray