In Praise of Wandering, Part III

The time has come to bring this particular journey to its conclusion. In a way, I have been “following the brush” in this reflection on “the art of getting lost,” thereby tracing and, in my own clumsy way, performing what I see as a tradition in Japanese aesthetics – one that seems to have affected even foreign writers who have lived here, or who have otherwise come into contact with Japan, real or imagined. And as I mentioned at the end of my previous entry, I would like to pause for a moment, before concluding, to consider a few examples of wanderers who sought something in the “mirror” of another culture, only to find themselves transformed by what they found.

I immediately think of the French philosopher Roland Barthes who, in the enigmatic and lovely book inspired by his rather brief stay here in the 1960s (entitled Empire of Signs), beautifully describes Japanese hand-written maps and the manner of giving directions in a country largely devoid of street signs, or even street names. But perhaps an even better choice would be the long-time Japan resident and film critic Donald Richie who, in his own unique way, has for over 60 years now been a Manjiro- or Hearn-like figure, writing on almost every conceivable topic pertaining to contemporary Japan.

Richie’s writing is nowhere better than in those lovingly rendered passages wherein he describes his favorite Japanese author, the early-twentieth century dandy Nagai Kafu (himself a restless, wandering spirit). Nagai was a self-described “scribbler” who sojourned rather unhappily in both Europe and the United States before returning to his native Japan, where he found himself in the midst of a tumultuous era of modernization. Both Richie and Nagai are scribblers and wanderers, to be sure, whose eclectic and elegiac writings mirror their lives – but whose lives were, in turn, shaped by what they saw in the reflections of their respective mirrors. In Richie’s case it is most obviously the mirror of Japan, but also, and to a surprisingly large extent, it is also small-town, Midwestern America, a place that he admits he had always wished to escape. In Nagai’s case, it was both France and the United States, which had alternately shocked and disappointed him, as well as the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters and the remnants of a pre-modern Japan that he saw evaporating before his very eyes.

I suppose my point here would be that the type of wanderer that I have been describing throughout this reflection is precisely the kind of person I see in someone like Richie or Nagai. Like the Melvilles or Manjiros who came before them, they venture into the unknown, unafraid to lose their way and set off on a detour or digression, adapting themselves as circumstances dictate. Being open in this way, being ready to accept difference or other ways of approaching life, and having the patience and flexibility to adapt to local conditions, indeed served them well – preparing them to be able to negotiate the rapid changes that they would witness firsthand during their lifetimes.

In the end, perhaps it is true that Melville was beaten down by the world, and that he ultimately lapsed into silence; that Manjiro had suffered nearly as many tragedies as he did triumphs upon his return to his homeland; that Barthes was, after all (as he admits), inventing an imaginary country as devoid of reality as the “Japan” of any number of Hollywood films; or that Nagai and Richie, to different degrees, never quite reconciled themselves to the vast changes that they witnessed, opting instead for a kind of mournful, nostalgic tone in their work. None of that would really be false, but neither would it suffice as the final word on any of these wandering spirits, or the impact they have had on those around them.

Being open to “otherness” and to new experiences, different perspectives, and other worldviews allowed these people to travel beyond the horizons of their hometowns or of their youth, and to remain calm even when they lost sight of land, so to speak. They viewed new encounters as opportunities, as openings, that may not come along again. Being able to wander like this – without panicking, and without being judgmental – can then be seen as a philosophy of life, an approach to living, that can open up new vistas and, indeed, new “worlds” to explore.

Isn’t this, after all, what led many of us to Japan – or is leading, for those about to journey here – in the first place? So, in this way, both you (by which I mean the people reading this column, foreign or Japanese, working between or among various languages and cultures), and I are Manjiros. At the very least, we can say that we have that opportunity and potential to sail beyond the horizon, and to have the courage to get lost. And who knows where our wandering will lead us?

In my case, and as a means of attempting to conclude this reflection, I would argue that this spirit of wandering, this fine art of getting lost or going off the beaten track, is what has many times led to my greatest discoveries not only in Japan, but in life. I think back to the first time I wandered down Pontocho in Kyoto; or of any of the side-streets and back-alleys of Japanese towns and cities, where I have happened upon small shrines and temples, shops and cafes, that are not on any maps or tourist guides; or, again, of the books and articles, or the films and albums that I have chanced upon in my meandering habits that, themselves, opened up new horizons to me. I even think of my most precious discovery, of how I met my wife – again, by chance, by wandering. Without that “digression” (since it took place at a time when I was busily hurrying somewhere else), I can’t even imagine what my life would be like now.