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Schwartz's novel of the young woman, not of royal heritage, chosen to marry Japan's crown prince after WWII, is a delicate portrait of a simultaneously blessed and circumscribed existence. The book is written in the first person, making a female reader the obvious choice, and Janet Song rises to the occasion. Song's voice-hushed, placid, deeply gentle-lends a minimalist beauty to Schwartz's novel. Song thankfully skips the accents and stylized voices, choosing to emphasize a careful, vigorous reading that conveys a (perhaps stereotypically Western) sense of Japanese calm. The result is a deeply soothing reading. Simultaneous release with the Doubleday/Talese hardcover (Reviews, Oct. 22, 2007). (Jan.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Inspired by real stories of the Japanese imperial family, Schwartz's (Reservation Road; Bicycle Days) intimate and striking novel fictionalizes the life of Haruko, empress of Japan, who narrates a touching and complicated tale of breaking traditions and facing the reality of living as royalty. Raised in an upper-class family, Haruko attends private school and plays tennis at the nearby country club. In 1959, she is selected as the first nonaristocratic woman to marry into the Japanese monarchy, which she discovers to be an oppressive world of mysterious rules and regulations. The strains caused by constant breaches in protocol and betrayals by the royal family and the staff cause Haruko to suffer a nervous breakdown and lose her voice. But she soon recovers with a new view of her duties and responsibilities. Thirty years later, Haruko is now the empress, and she faces the duty of marrying her son to a young woman who is a rising star in the foreign ministry. While she persuades the modern commoner to accept her son's proposal, Haruko also tries to right the wrongs of her past, with tragic results. With a strong narrative voice and well-researched historical background, this is strongly recommended for all fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ10/1/07; this may appeal to fans of Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha.-Ed.]
Schwartz bases his finely wrought fourth novel on the life of Empress Michiko of Japan, the first commoner to marry into the Japanese imperial family. Haruko Tsuneyasu grows up in postwar rural Japan and studies at Sacred Heart University, where she excels-particularly and fatefully-at tennis, which provides her entrée to the crown prince, whom she handily beats in an exhibition match. After more meetings on and off the court, the prince asks Haruko to marry him. Persuaded by their mutual attraction and by assurances that the break with tradition will usher in a modern era, Haruko ultimately agrees, against her father's wishes, to become the first commoner turned royal. But, as her father had feared, her freedom and ambition suffer under the stifling rituals of court life. Eventually, Haruko succumbs to the inescapable judgment of the empress and her entourage, falling mute after the birth of her son, Yasuhito. Though the narrative loses some of its life after Haruko marries-perhaps mirroring Haruko's experience within the palace walls-urgency returns after Haruko chooses a wife for Yasuhito; the marriage tests Haruko's dedication to the crown. Schwartz (Reservation Road) pulls off a grand feat in giving readers a moving dramatization of a cloistered world. (Jan.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
IN THE YEARS BEFORE THE WAR, my family lived in Shibuya Ward, in a large house with a walled garden. The sake brewing company that my father, Tsuneyasu Endo, had inherited from his father grew and prospered under his guidance, making him a respected figure in the business community. My mother’s family was older and more distinguished than my father’s, a fact that she neither promoted nor attempted to hide. As for me, born in 1934, the Year of the Dog, I was an only child and wore the proper skirts that my mother laid out for me each morning. I was fond of tennis, history, and calligraphy. There was, I suppose, nothing remarkable about me as a child, save for my father's love, for it was to me that he always told his favorite stories.
Of the world beyond our garden walls, I had little awareness. I could not yet read the newspapers, and it was only in my teens that I grew to love the radio. Good girls like me, who spent hours each day following prescriptives meant to establish their unimpeachable credentials, were even more inward than they are today. One might say that my childhood insularity was a form of hereditary protection in whose shade, like a pale, delicate mushroom, I grew. The economic depression, omnipresent anxiety, and rising nationalism that had infected our nation and others weren’t things I spent time worrying about. The military was aligned under the Emperor, believing him to be a god worth dying and killing for—in his name a coup was staged and, in China, a massacre seen to its bloody end—while in his walled–and–moated palace in the center of our great capital, His Majesty remained augustly silent. On these matters, as on so many others of terrible importance, I held no opinions that I can recall, and, of course, no one ever asked me to speak my mind.
In the first days of spring, plum blossoms appeared in our garden, perfuming the air, and camellias as red as the furoshiki in which we wrapped our holiday gifts. There were birds, I remember: one in particular, small and yellow with gray–and–black wings, used to sit and sing on the stone lantern outside my window.
WHEN WAR CAME IN EARNEST from the far side of the world, the first major food staple to be rationed in Tokyo was rice. After that miso and shoyu went on the list, then fish, eggs, tofu, grains of all kinds. Soon everything was rationed, and whatever the size of one’s house or the district one happened to be living in, the only way to feed one’s family was to enter the black market and see what could be bought there for five or ten times the prewar price. This was my mother’s job, as of course it was for all the women in Tokyo. Men had suddenly become a scarce commodity, if not quite as sought after as rice. It was not uncommon to see a nearly bald soldier on a street corner begging women he didn't know to add to his thousand–stitch belt. Each new stitch, it was believed, would help prevent him from being hit by a bullet.
Monzen Nakacho, in Fukagawa District, was the most reliable source for black–market supplies. My mother and I went there twice a month. The street was always congested with lines of women waiting to buy this or that. They chatted and picked their teeth; some nursed their babies. The surface distinctions of birth, which only a year or two earlier would have been impenetrable, had by then been all but wiped away by the shortages. My mother, for example, had always been an elegant dresser, but with the war it would have been unthinkable to continue wearing formal skirts, or even traditional kimonos. Monpe, those wide–legged pants, were what women wore, and my mother was no exception. And color? There was only one: national–defense color, the color of uniforms.
Along Monzen Nakacho was a bakery famous for its kasutera. When the ovens were going at full strength, the entire neighborhood smelled like warm sponge cake. Outside the shop, the line of customers would start forming early and keep growing until day’s end. Family reunions took place in that line, and political discussions, and sometimes probably love affairs. To much of this drama, at my age, I was quite oblivious, absorbed in my dreams of kasutera, and of the buttered peanuts and deep–fried green peas that the bakery also sold. I wasn’t the only one: the old women around me, too, seemed lost in thoughts of food, not love or politics or war, raising their walking sticks and shuffling forward and planting their sticks in the ground again, all day long, like herons fishing in a river of silt.
Then there came the sad day when the bakery could no longer procure even powdered Shanghai eggs, and there was nothing with which to make the kasutera rise or to give it its deliciously soft but airy texture. The sponge cake loaves that everyone coveted were replaced by whale–ham sandwiches. And it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the sound of air–raid sirens, and even the roar of approaching enemy planes, caused but minor distress compared with the fishy, metallic taste of whale ham on the tongue. The smell of freshly baked kasutera, which had sustained us as a people, was suddenly gone from Monzen Nakacho, and from that moment forward the street gave off the faint putrid whiff of a marine graveyard. And still the lines outside the bakery did not shrink. So perhaps it wasn’t the kasutera after all that had held us together in the street, morning after morning, but the solidarity of the line. Perhaps we had come to depend on one another in ways invisible and outside anything we’d imagined or wished for.
I remember a dog in particular, a very foreign and beautiful animal, a borzoi I believe it was. We would be standing in line outside the bakeshop and sooner or later we'd see him being walked by his owner, the son of a local doctor. The dog was so handsome that seeing him was like seeing a Western movie star, Cary Grant or Montgomery Clift. By comparison, the doctor’s son was short and his eyes were set too close together. He was considerably less glamorous than his pet and he seemed to know it, which was rather charming. Everyone who waited in line in Monzen Nakacho was acquainted with the dog and looked forward to catching a glimpse of him.
There was something about him, something other than his well–bred good looks. I remember one day standing in line with my mother and seeing the doctor’s son and his beautiful dog walking not ten meters distant, when suddenly, and for no apparent reason, the animal began to howl and moan. The crying was so plaintive it silenced everyone who heard it. It made some of the women standing in line embarrassed, they knew not why, while others became instantly afraid, and others were struck as though by the death of a loved one. Briefly we forgot about the smell of fresh–baked kasutera, and also about the stench of whale ham. We forgot about deprivation, forgot about the war, forgot to grow up or grow older.
It was a few minutes after the dog first started moaning and howling that we heard the deeper, more frightening sound that seemed to emerge from the very earth around us. We ducked and cried out. The air–raid siren was so loud it obliterated the self; it sent us running from where we stood with such terror that our pasts were momentarily left behind.
This was what the dog had sensed minutes before us, and what his howling was meant to alert us to.
And then, one day, we saw the doctor’s son walking without his dog. My mother politely asked him where the dog was, and he seemed on the verge of tears. He’d been keeping the dog in a crawl space under the floor of his house, he told her, because of the howling and the moaning. But, cooped up like that, the dog barked continuously day and night. One evening an officer came by the house and complained about the noise, saying it was disrupting official military communications in the area. He ordered the doctor’s son to put an end to the noise or risk punishment. As the officer was leaving, he suggested a type of poison that he knew from experience with his own animals was most efficacious. This was the poison that the doctor’s son had given to his dog.
A week later, my family was evacuated to Gunma Prefecture for the remainder of the war. I left my friends in Tokyo and entered a new school. The day we departed, as we were driving away from our large house with its plum blossoms and red camellias, my mother suddenly burst into tears. I stroked her hand and told her not to worry, we would come back. She said it wasn't leaving the house that made her so sad, it was the dog, the memory of that dog in Monzen Nakacho; she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
“Don’t be silly,” my father told her sharply. “We’re losing the war. The country’s being destroyed. Who cares about a stupid dog?”
It was one of the few times I ever knew him to be cruel.
ON THE WALL OF MY NEW CLASSROOM was a huge map of the Greater East Asia Co–Prosperity Sphere. Little rising suns marked those areas where Japan had won great victories, or where momentous battles were then being fought. At the beginning of 1945, when I was ten, another flag went up somewhere near Taiwan. It was the last flag that would ever be pinned to that map, but we didn't know that at the time. Our teacher put it there herself, standing on a chair, after leading the class in singing the national anthem.
The classroom was always freezing, the hard stone floor sending a constant, bone–aching cold up through our thin shoes. Many students suffered from chilblains. All day long we hugged ourselves, sneaking glances out the window at the groups of sixth–grade boys in short–sleeved shirts digging “octopus holes” in the lawn—to dive into if enemy tanks ever appeared and began firing at us. The rest of the boys were off harvesting grass for the military’s horses to eat. We had all seen photographs in the newspaper of His Majesty sitting astride his tall white horse, inspecting the troops. He was a god, and you were not allowed to gaze on him directly or from above; nor could you show disrespect to his image in any way. As some old people still liked to say, “You can gaze upon the lords, but looking at the shogun will make you blind; and the Emperor cannot be seen at all.” One of our classmates had recently been punished for having her lunch wrapped in newsprint containing such a photograph.
And then, in the first week of March, the air raids began to come like clockwork, about an hour after sunrise, and the soldiers we passed on the road on the way home from school began looking like unkempt stragglers. And still we continued to practice our piano pieces and run races for the track team. As if those innocent pursuits would be enough to see us from one side of history to the other.
It was later reported by some surviving eyewitnesses of the Tokyo firebombings that at the outset of the incendiary attack on the night of March 9, 1945, with countless American warplanes still droning in the night sky and a cloud of fire already ascendant over the Sumida River, cries of polite admiration were heard from citizens standing in their gardens, watching the spectacle as if it were a holiday fireworks display. A few hours later, the same people would perish in the shelter holes they’d dug in the once–cool earth beneath their small wooden houses—for every family would have loyally obeyed the government’s order to defend their home against invasion and attack. The thick padded hoods claimed as correct air–raid clothing by the government, and religiously worn by the trusting populace, turned out, that night, to be highly flammable. Babies bundled in this material and strapped to their mothers’ backs were incinerated, often before their mothers even noticed they were on fire. The day following the bombing, the wind continued to blow, scattering perfectly formed corpses of ash, mothers and babies alike, into unrecognizable shapes, and finally into dust. In all, more than a hundred thousand men, women, and children were burned, boiled, baked, or asphyxiated.
Aerial photographs of Tokyo at that time show, through dense clouds of steam and smoke still rising from the ruins expanding outward from the bay, a blackened, leveled husk of a city, with odd unburned patches—tall stone buildings and stark towers, stubborn edifices, here and there an iron bridge, and, directly center, like an all–seeing eye, the large, walled, moated, still mostly green expanse of the Imperial Palace—his Majesty’s abode, the place from which he looked out upon his people with the care, benevolence, and wisdom that were his sacred duty.
MY COUSIN YUMI lost her father, my uncle. In May, as the rainy season was beginning, my aunt went into Tokyo to search for his body among the hills of corpses that had risen all over the city.
My mother and I were waiting with Yumi on the veranda of their house when my aunt returned. Her wooden sandals had been charred from walking through the hot ashes, and the hems of her trousers were ruined. Thumbprints of soot darkened her cheek and one of her wrists. She stopped and bowed to us, silently asking our forgiveness for her failure to find her husband's body. She touched her daughter’s hair, and then she entered the house. From the tokonoma she took down a pair of ceramic tea bowls made by her husband’s great–grandfather during the time of Emperor Meiji, and these she took with her into the back room and closed the screen behind her.
A YEAR LATER, I was allowed to accompany my father into Tokyo for the first time since the end of the war. In the intervening months, two atomic bombs had been dropped on our southern cities, killing and maiming generations of our people, and the Emperor had declared himself human. The War Crimes Tribunals had begun, with our now–human Emperor spared the ignominy of being put on trial and, if convicted, hanged until dead. Our new god, the American general Douglas MacArthur, thought it useful to keep the old god around. The general was so very tall, much taller than our emperor, as everyone soon discovered when the newspapers, at the American’s directive, published the famous photograph of the two men meeting for the first time. His Majesty, tiny beside the looming giant from the West, was dressed in morning clothes like a miniature King George, while the general had not even bothered to button the collar of his uniform.
From the Hardcover edition.
The introduction, questions, and suggestions for further reading that follow are designed to stimulate your group's discussion of John Burnham Schwartz's novel, The Commoner.
1. Because Haruko is a commoner, not a peeress, the Crown Prince chooses to break with tradition in selecting her to be his bride. Why does Haruko's father tell Dr. Watanabe that Haruko would be a “humiliation to Japan” [p. 95]? What is Dr. Watanabe's response? How is this break with tradition later echoed in the marriage of Haruko's own son?
2. Before her wedding, Haruko stares at her own face in a mirror that once belonged to her grandmother. When she light-heartedly asks her father if he will be happy when she is gone, he replies with great seriousness. Later, when Haruko returns to her parents' home for a visit, Haruko's father excuses himself from the table. Haruko finds him staring at the mirror she has left behind. Why does Haruko state, “We both understood that an evening like this was impossible and would never happen again” [p. 184]? What is the significance of the mirror Haruko chose not to include in her trousseau?
3. As Haruko prepares for her wedding, she observes, “At every turn, sometimes subtly and sometimes crudely, the same lesson was driven home: the world would greet me with abject deference not because I deserved or wished it but because of my station, which in all things would stand above me, and indeed would outlast me” [p. 141]. What is Haruko's attitude toward assuming her position in the royal family? Why do her parents ultimately urge her to accept her new life with courage?
4. How does Haruko experience the wedding ceremony inside the Kashikodokoro? How does she feel as she joins the Crown Prince in the shrine? Why does Haruko believe the crows on the roof of the shrine mock “the foolishness of men” [p. 157]?
5. What causes Haruko's “breakdown”? Why is Yasu kept from her during this time? How does Haruko's visit at her parents' home affect her?
6. When Yasu first proposes marriage to the accomplished Keiko Mori, she refuses him. Haruko meets with Keiko and tells her that if Keiko marries Yasu, Haruko will do everything she can to protect her within the royal family. Haruko relates, “Riding home alone from our secret meeting late that afternoon, some gathering sense of responsibility for this young woman's future happiness clung to me; and it felt not like triumph, but already, somehow, like remorse” [p. 282]. Describe Haruko's inner conflict over Keiko's decision. Feeling as she does about her own life, why do you suppose Haruko is willing to persuade Keiko to accept Yasu's proposal?
7. How does Miko's visit affect Haruko? Why does Miko confess that after seeing Haruko's photograph in a magazine years ago, Miko had been a coward? Why does Haruko say, “Talking with you now is like remembering how to eat again” [p. 295]?
8. As they watch their son's wedding ceremony on television from their residence, how do Shige's and Haruko's reactions differ? How does Haruko feel about her husband's indifference? Do you believe she truly loves him?
9. After the birth of her daughter, Keiko takes refuge in Karuizawa. When Yasu undertakes a trip to Europe without her, the royal family claims Keiko is suffering from an “adjustment disorder.” How does Keiko respond when Haruko visits her at Karuizawa and tells her, “You must take Reiko away from here and never come back” [p. 338]. Do you believe this is good advice? After convincing Keiko to marry Yasu in the first place, why is Haruko now suggesting Keiko flee? What does this tell you about Haruko's state of mind?
10. In the closing pages, Haruko's driver Okubo hands her an envelope marked with two cranes in flight. What does Haruko learn about where her daughter-in-law and granddaughter have gone? How does she feel about their disappearance? Describe the significance of this event for Haruko. To what degree does the book's ending resolve Haruko's own internal conflict?
Posted March 1, 2008
Ahhhh, Mr. Schwartz, I thank you with all my heart for presenting this story to us. Though it must be written as 'fiction' you were still able to get deep within the family's daily lives to give us momentary close-up views. Yet, with all that you were able to give, I wanted so much more. For instance, I was so fascinated to read the details of the marriage ceremony. Yet, I felt like I was being rushed through it. It's hard not to compare this with book with 'Memoirs of a Geisha', because it too presents a male author of a female narrator. With that in mind, it comes up short and disappointing.
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Posted September 12, 2008
I loved this book through chapter 23. The action had been a little slow-moving until then, but this was acceptable since the relationships between the protagonist and her parents were so endearing, and the transition from childhood self to adult life made for an interesting read. But even after the metamorphosis was complete, the book was far from over. Almost the entire latter half of the novel is spent describing the mundane drivel of the Empress's bleak life. Other than the rising action that finally saved the closing few chapters of the book, the most positive thing I can say about the second half is that I felt that I could emphasize with a bored main character when I myself felt jaded.
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Posted June 24, 2008
sixty pages in, and i'm bored out of my mind. i could take another story about a repressed asian woman, just not one that moves as slow as this one. i am putting it down, with some regret, but life's too short!
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Posted February 8, 2008
I enjoyed this book but would have liked more character development and a deeper sense of place. Considering the subject, though -- situations nearly unconscionable to Westerners, and telling a story that continues to play out within the Japanese Imperial family -- maybe this was difficult. I admired Mr. Schwartz's ability to identify with and 'speak for' a female narrator. Want to read his other books.
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Posted February 8, 2008
Thought the book was interesting but since the author published as a fiction thought he would go a little more into the reasons why there seems to be so many problems for the Japanese females who enter the Royal Household. A little bit of a hint of what might be going on behind the royal chambers, but not much of the interplay between the characters. Japanese mother-in-laws are notorious for their mistreatment of daughter-in-laws. The book gives a little taste of the verbal and psychological abuse that may be occuring but it would have been a more interesting book if the author put a little spin and developed that relationshop a little more in the book. The end was a little bit of a twist, but in today's society it does not seem very realistic.
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Posted February 3, 2013
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Posted June 2, 2012
This author crafted this narrative of prose as if creating a masterpiece of art. This is truly a subtle work of art with the use of words to intrigue the reader, to entice the reader to feel the characters in the book. I definitely recommend this as a must read.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 23, 2012
I was impressed that the author made me forget he was a man writing from a woman's point of view, but there were only a few sympathetic characters in the story - and the ending seemed completely improbable.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 20, 2010
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Somewhat of a compelling story however, the author spends more time describing environment than developing characters. I never really felt connected to any of the characters. They seemed as remote to me as the culture itself. The last few chapters felt as if they were put together in a hurry, as if the author needed to meet his deadline. The ending seemed rushed and unrealistic even if the story is based on actual events.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 12, 2009
Although advertised as fiction, there are too many similarities with the real people to make you wonder. You have to decide for yourself. I think it is true ... just the names were changed.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
This book kept me always wanting there to be more to it than it would ever give. It's plot was very simple and it didn't go into great detail about Japanese culture. If you are interested in Japanese Royalty and what might be expected of their Royalty, then you will love this book, however if you have read a lot about Japanese culture already then this book may leave you wishing there was more to it as it did me. Not a bad read, just don't expect to be greatly moved by it either.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted June 22, 2009
This book is great for a rainy day or to otherwise pass the time but it isn't the compelling, dramatic story I had hoped it would be. Unfortunately, it was predictable and sometimes even a bit depressing. But, it wasn't a total waste of a read either...marginally worth the money, I'd say.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 11, 2009
The Commoner is a beautifully written and well researched novel. Mr. Schwartz has given us a glimpse into the world of the Japanese royal family. He has chosen a woman, Haruko, as his narrator and does a remarkable job depicting her thoughts and feelings as she transitions from life as a commoner to that of the Empress of Japan. We are witness to her most private and painful moments. After all she has experienced, some of Haruko's actions are questionable. Although an attempt at redemption is made towards the end of the novel, there can be none.
One cannot help but feel pity for these characters whose every action is choreographed. Is life as a royal worth the price of one's freedom?
This was an enjoyable book and I recommend to those interested in historical fiction or Japanese culture.
Posted February 7, 2008
This is an extraordinary novel. Schwartz's writing is fluid, elegant, rich in emotional resonance. The narrative momentum builds quietly but with a disarming intensity. It is written with compassion, a sharp eye for detail, both historic and imagined, and the control of a literary master. Do not miss it.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 1, 2010
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Posted June 11, 2010
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Posted August 2, 2010
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Posted April 10, 2011
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